Everyone has a badge of honor.  Or maybe more accurate, they have badges of honor.  As I listen to a conversation in the elevator, down the hall, another elevator, to the mailboxes and back the same path (these ladies, and I, were getting mail, and thusly on the same journey, although I was not associated with them) I hearing the physical and vain badges of honor some women carry around.  One girl rambled about how she’s always been a size two, and doesn’t think she’ll ever not be a size two.  In fact, if she ever couldn’t fit into her (size two) pants, she’d start dieting.  But that hasn’t happened yet.  One of the others could budge from size six.  She’s dropped down to a size six (from what, I don’t know), but she weighs 120 pounds, so it’s not terrible.  Still, she’s not moving AND she lost two cups sizes so it’s a double negative.  She wishes she was a size two.  And had her boobs back.

Size two, size six.  Paint it on their foreheads.  They established their measure of worth as a pant size.  Sometimes it’s breast cup size, weight, waist measurement.  Superficial stuff like salary and bling and how many Gucci bags they own.  It’s beyond a healthy sense of pride.  It’s a macabre interpretation of Girl Scout patches and badges.  I never did participate in Girl Scouts, but I did envy those that wore a sash of accomplishment.  I wanted one, I just knew, I KNEW I could sew like a champ and be a safety queen and although I wasn’t too pretty, I would sell more cookies than anyone else ‘cause I was a natural born sales woman, and natural born saleswomen didn’t rely on looks.  They made sales and got badges. 

On the way back to my office I use the bathroom.  Right there, between my thighs is my number.  Size eight regular.  Once I was a size fifteen.  Two weeks ago I said a little prayer I zipped myself into these very same pants because they were tight.  Today I can fit both hands inside the waist band.  Is size eight my badge?  What about my actual scale number, 138.2?  Two months ago it ready almost 160, should it now constitute as one of my badges of honor? 

I want a sash full of my honor badges.  But I want good honors, unique honors, not vain honors.  I hold my job as a badge, the career badge.  You can’t be any ‘ol size two and get this job done.  Homemade dinner, at least four times a week – domestic badge.  Not yelling, screaming and holding a grudge against the dog when he takes a nice big steaming diarrhea poo on the carpet (and eats it) is definitely a tolerance badge.  I now hold my nerdiness as an honor; the Man really appreciates that I handle his taxes and I still get really excited about taxes – intellect badge.  I can bench press 30 pounds, definite fitness badge, as with my swimming champ-ness.  I can spell damn near anything and have am slightly obsessed with punctuation: grammar badge.  I have no hand/eye coordination and I can't play volleyball (or anything else with 'ball' in it) so that's my un-graceful (and proud) badge.  My size eight isn’t a badge.  And if I ever fandangle my way to a size two, that’s not going to be a badge either.  But, if I lose two cups sizes, that WILL be a badge.  The no-neck-pain badge.  The I-can-wear-a-halter-top badge.

Two 18-year old girls bitched, whined and moaned that they were 'targeted' on a Soutwest flight because they were too pretty to fly when they were kicked off.  In actually, they were vulgar and threatening because someone was using a bathroom too long.  They were even self absorbed enough to create a youtube video.  Story here: http://aviationblog.dallasnews.com/archives/2008/02/too-pretty-to-fly-southwest-sa.html

Here's a nice quote from one of the girls, who I like to think will be future elementary school cafeteria ladies: "I think they were just discriminating against us because we were young, decent-looking girls. I mean, nobody else really on the plane looked like us except us." 

Sometimes I think all teens should be equiped with electronic collars so I can shock the shit out them when they act like complete selfish idiots.  They are to pretty to fly, they are just unfit to be socialize with the rest of humanity.  Give them hysterectomies so they can't reproduce and send them Alaska!

I read an interesting article about how external stimulus, experiences and interactions shape your brain and therefore your personality, how you think, react and approach situations.  It similar to the whole “it takes a village to raise a child” theory, only more focused on the village’s practices than the maturing of a child. 

I may not (just barely) be a child anymore, but I do believe everything, person, is in constant evolution.  Like the Buddhist understanding of ‘impermanence.’  This is difficult for some people to grasp because for a lot, like myself, the one constant in my life is myself.  But it not necessarily the idea that I am not a permanent staple, it’s more the understanding that who I am is in constant flux and change.  Using myself as an example, I’ve always grasped that I am an endlessly adapting human being, as is everyone.  But recently I’m realizing just how much of a role circumstances and experiences outside of ‘me’ affect me.  How I act, talk, think and interpret the world is the culmination of external stimulus. 

I’ve been trying to pinpoint and identify outside stimulus or things I experience that affect my thinking or perception.  Some stuff affects me in positive ways, some stuff affects me negatively.  I consider some of this stuff to be mental junk-food.  It does absolutely nothing for me except waste my time, fill me with useless and misguided information and is potentially to be detrimental to my emotional and mental health.  Like eating empty calories in the form of Ruffle’s sour cream and onion chips, its temporary satiety of information and stimulus.  Sure, I’m not hungry anymore, but now I have saddle bag thighs and in 20 minutes I’m gonna be looking for more food. 

I’ve known for years that reading ‘women’s’ magazines really negatively affected my body image and warped my perception of the female role.  Cosmo, Allure and Shape taught me that how good you look (then taught you ‘how’ to do it) mattered more than how well you performed your job, that sexually pleasing your man was the most important bedroom (and other room/park/car/elevator) activity and endless hours at the gym are required.  It was unacceptable to be un-pretty, un-fit, un-fashionable and a non- nymphomaniac; as a woman your duty to be physically attractive.  I eventually and slowly learned, as I purged these magazines from my life, that I owe it to no one to be pretty, thin or a sex-aholic. 

That being said, I never truly considered that which eats up my evening and distracts me while I exercise in the morning, the television.  I always wake up and watch the Tyra show.  That’s right, I admit I watch Tyra.  Why?  ‘Cause it’s the only thing on at 6:00 in the morning, besides the news, and I watch the news in the form of the Today show at 7:00a.  I’m daft, I admit that also, so it only just hit me this morning (the show was about the Bad Girl’s Club, some reality show) that the Tyra show sucks (I knew this) and was a horrible form of mental junk-food.  Duh.  (So is the Today show, but it’s similar ice cream labeled ‘low-fat;’ it gives you justification to inhale the whole gallon despite the fact that it’s all refined sugar and chemicals.  They call it news, but is it?)

Reality tv is mental junk-food, gossip is mental junk-food, shows and books about some diva’s life in rich-ville are mental junk-foods, infomercials, advertisements, shock-jocks are all guilty pleasures that are mental junk-food.  I feel like all these things that occupy our time and attention contribute to a widespread lack of personality, the inability to think for yourself and a general negative attitude.  A warped perception of life.  At the very least it doesn’t encourage personal development.  And while that doesn’t mean that I’m going to immediately replace my hour of “The Girls Next Door” with Maya Angelou poetry books and walks around the neighborhood, it does mean that I’ve finally realized how clogged people’s ( and my) brains have become with junk.  A preoccupation with vapid, shallow, narrow-minded fluff.  It stimulates us, but instead of stimulating mental growth, it stimulates mental shrinkage, encourages narrow-mindedness. 

But, you can eliminate junk food from your house, you can start a healthy eating diet.  Is it possible these days to go on a mental junk-food diet?

I had a ladies night last Saturday with two female friends that absolutely kill me.  We got all decked out like Christmas trees and hit the town for a little sushi, pre-gaming at neighborhood Irish bar, some full-on karaoke and then a return to the Irish bar.  Just in case you wanted to know, I sang “Boot Skootin’ Boogie,” my friend sang Reba’s “Fancy” and my other friend sang “Hey Jude” and “Fresh Prince of Bell Air,” which was funny ‘cause she didn’t want to sing at all.  Just goes to show that we got her a little liquored up.  I took over the stage and started the Electric Boogie during someone’s song, but I’d do that sober if given the chance.

Anyway, gussied up like a couple of $50 dollar street-walkers (not really, we looked damn sexy), we weren’t necessarily the most lady like Ladies Night ladies out on the town.  In fact, I made the Irish bartender make us all rootbeer drinks just so we could get some burping going on.  And one of my lady friends laughs loud enough to temporarily deafen you, which is so funny that I start laughing extremely loud so we reverberate throughout the bar and draw stares.  She also snorts while laughing, so funny.  And my other friend impersonates us but looks like she’s a partially paralyzed stroke victim – one side droops like she’s drooling, the other is laughing - which makes me laugh despite having had a partially paralyzed stroke victim grandfather. 

During sushi, I had to teaching the ladies on honor and the sushi restaurant.  I learned the sushi-honor-code from the Man, he learned it from his sister.  It involves: eating all the sushi you order and eating the entire roll in one bite.  The Man may have made up the last one just for shits-and-giggles, but I follow it.   

This is me schooling my girlfriends.  They made me lean into the table ‘cause it was an up-light and the bar was too dark for the picture.  I had to hold my flattering pose while my friends laughed uproariously at me and strangers stared for about 30 seconds.  How big are my eyes!?!?!  Serious, nothing is sexier than a woman with wasabi soy and fish-eggs roe dribbling down her chin.  At least my family honor is upheld.

I’m a burper.  I just really like to burp, it feels good and I get a wee-bit of pride from just letting one rip.  I could never burp when I was younger no matter how many burping contests I attempted with the lil’ bro, or lessons he tried to give me, I was belching-retarded.  So, now it makes me happy.  Like a little girl. 

I recently took up drinking root beer floats at home.  Really, it’s diet A&W with heavy cream thrown in.  Delicious!  It really helps with my post dinner sweet tooth.  It gives me incredible belches though, big loud root beer-scented mouth exhaust.  Nothing makes me burp like root beer.  Not even real beer.  So, for the past week or so I’ve been just lettin’ em loose.  Even milking them for optimal volume and length.  The Man expressed to me that a burping girlfriend is not the most appealing thing in the world, so I’ve been trying to contain my gassy mouth explosions.  By buying a 12-pack of diet Barq’s, stashing it in the fridge at work and drinking one every afternoon.  Again, mock-float style (I swear the heavy cream consumption has not added to my waist line, I drink it in my multiple cups of coffee too).  I would never dare let it rip while at work.  The office is so quiet, the attorneys would be appalled.  Appalled I tell you!

If there ever happened to be a root beer alcohol drink served at bars, the place would be in trouble.  I’d be ordering, guzzling and fogging the joint up like no tomorrow.  And happy hour around here is so quiet that people would truly be appalled.  I might even just decide to carry an extra bottle of diet A&W (I never drink the real stuff) in my purse and just purchasing shots of vodka to mix in it.  Or rum.  A rum and root beer.  A hard root beer float.  That would be a post-work piece of heaven.  There’d be no containing me, I’d have to release the gut gas.  Oh boy, how red would the Man’s face be then!

I’m considering this a Valentine’s Day gift to the Man.  A lady-like lady.  I make my efforts. 

I’m alarmed at the ambiguity of men in the area I live.  At least once a day I see a man, or multiple men wearing, doing or saying something that men just should not wear, do or say.  Seattle is like the real line incarnate of the Replacements song “Androgynous” – “Here comes Dick, he wearing a skirt.  Here comes Jane, you know she’s sportin’ a chain.  Same hair, revolution, same build, evolution…”  The ladies don’t get to me ‘cause I just don’t notice them.  I am a heterosexual.

Yesterday I saw a man wearing lavender, magenta, purple and baby pink striped socks.  He wasn’t homeless, and he was walking with a girl – although, his arm was strung through her arm, which I find a gender-role reversal.  So just how did I know this walking man was wearing little girl socks?  Oh, uh, he cut his pants a good 3 inches above his shoe line; there was visible fraying so no mistake could be made on whether or not this was a home tailoring job.  It’s was so odd, I had to snap a picture.  The 'male' is on the left, and his lady-friend was on the right.  Unfortunately, they were walking so it’s not exactly clear, but you can tell, those are LADY colored socks.

And this morning I climb into an elevator with two other women and two other men.  Someone’s wearing perfume that smells really good.  Like womanly-good, as in I might consider buying this bottled smelly-good stuff.  Me being a woman.  I offer a compliment: “Someone smells good.  I like the perfume.”  Metrosexual dude in front of me accepts the compliment.  I stopped myself before saying “you smell like a girl.  I bet all the guys like you.”

I’m glad this Valentine’s Day I am not a single female scoping the Seattle Single’s Scene.  I would have to resort to hitting on college freshman in hopes that they too have not swallowed (no pun intended, wait, pun intended) the androgynous fad of Seattle.  I think if you wanna dress and smell and talk with a lisp and wave your hands around and squeal like a little girl, just commit to it and become a girl.  Likewise, if ladies feel the need to shave their heads and grab their crotch and cat call and wear boots and talk in a false tenor tone, I say testosterone injections are necessary.  I’m tired of being confused.

I’ve never been to keen on committing.  I’m very non-committal about everything, from girl’s night out to dates, to vacation to shoes.  I don’t know if I’m saving myself for a pair of shoes that are better, a Saturday night that will be more fun or what not, I just feel more comfortable leaving things hanging, if you will. 

I get comfort from my lack of commitment.  Knowing I owe nothing to nobody makes me feels secure.  I don’t even like to sign leases because a year seems so long.  My gym membership is month-to-moth ‘cause I never know when I’ll just decide never to return.  I’m not a part of any clubs because can’t say for sure I’ll show up.  I don’t go to the doctor because if I don’t forget my appointment, I’ll just end up cancelling it.  Hell, I even lack commitment to myself.  I can’t commit to losing this excess 30 pounds, I can’t even commit to a hairstyle.  But non-commitment means that if I fail, fail to show up for an appointment, lady’s night, cutting my hair, losing weight, then I’m really not hurting anyone. 

I was primping for work this morning, horsing around with the pup, when I started thinking about how I’m going to have him for at least (if all goes well) 10 years.  By that time, I’ll be gearing up for turning 35, the same age my best friend John turned on SuperBowl Sunday.  That just seems so far away, that’s over half of how long I expect to live.  So many things could come up in 10 years time.  I could lose a leg, my life, my sanity.  I could win the lotto, become a hippy or a bleeding heart and join the PeaceCorp or *gasp* a Conservative Republican.  I could give birth, be a mother, get cancer.  But no matter what happens, I’m responsible to that dog.  And the decision to get this dog was a decision to co-raise it, so it was like a commitment to the Man for the life of the dog.  It’s was like a double extended commitment in the form of a teeny, barking poop machine that attacks my sneakers.

My commitment to my dog has given me a different sense of security.  I like knowing that he’ll be here for the next decade and tonight when I go home.  This helps me understand the allure of marriage.  It’s not just companionship, it’s a little bit of security.  Of comfort.  It’s a singular unchanging item in your life indefinitely.  You sign your names on the dotted lines, eat some cake and throw a bouquet and then look forward to each other’s abidingness.  Of course, your dog will always love you, where as your spouse could decide you’re fat and have chronic halitosis then decide to become a transgender drag queen.  I get the marriage thing now.  I still don't understand the wedding chaos.

SuperBowl at the Ross hyphen Lawson homestead is intense.  But, WE, the Giants won.  With seconds on the clock.  This is our Giants family photo.  2008 pre-SuperBowl photo, all of us decked out in Giants gear.

The obligatory shrimp cocktail was eaten.  Without it, the G-men would have lost.  We ate shrimp cocktail during every playoff game and you can see how it worked out.  For the SuperBowl, we went with a full pound of shrimp, instead of a half pound.  We obviously couldn't eat it all, this is a post shot.  This is a THE GIANTS ARE CHAMPS shot.  We made a dent though, the bowl started full.

My sister texted me.  I received a screaming voice message.  Even my Gramma called me, which sealed the Giants-Won-The-SuperBowl deal.  She heard me screaming all the way in Dillsbug, Pennsylvania from Seattle, Washington.  I'm drinking a celebratory gin and tonic and wishing I could call in sick tomorrow to work.  But they all know I'm a Giants fan and would see through my thinly-veiled happiness. 

Big Blue won because of our little 3-month old French bulldog Jimi in his Giants jersey.  He slept majority of the game, but I assure you it was out of exhaustion from SuperBowl tension. 

Or maybe it was the 5 sacks on T. Brady.  Either way, THE GIANTS ARE SUPERBOWL CHAMPIONS! 

Now I can wash my Big Blue Wrecking crew shirt.  After almost 2 months of wear and no wash, it's strating to reek.

Nothing says ‘It’s Friday!!!’ like a stinking drunk homeless bum singing Blue Oyster Cult’s Burning For You at the top of his lungs in the middle of a lunch time crowd of working professionals hustling back to the office. 

I imagined it was my man singing to me and smiled all the way back to work.

It’s the little things in life that make it worth living. 

I finally, finally can retire my old BlackBerry, un-affectionately known as the Calculator.  I hated that thing and in the last week of it’s usage, it had started freezing and pausing in the middle of activities: text messages, phone calls, info retrieval.  Thing was good for one thing: calculating.  It was undetermined whether it even did that function accurately. 

So the upgrade was the Verizon Voyager.  Ever since I saw the very first ad, I knew I had to have it.  I used to have the LG-V, which was the first model of the EnV. I loved that phone.  I loved the clamshell style, the speakers surrounding the internal display, the full keyboard.  It was the most fabulous phone, before it was stolen.  The Voyager is the same style as the EnV, except it has the touch screen.  And it’s thinner and just looks damn sexay!  I’ve snapped some pictures of it and although I have at it for all of, um 18 hours, I’m in love.  With an inanimate object, but it’s love nonetheless.  I have a gross addiction to my cell phone’s text messaging capabilities, which is the only thing I truly use it for.  I prefer to have a phone that can’t even receive phone calls ‘cause majority of the time I don’t answer.  The touch screen is surprisingly responsive and the graphics look good on it.  It has a 2.0 megapixel camera, but it lacks a flash, and seriously, I think camera phones have been 2.0 megapixels since the onset.  It’s time for a little upgrade.  But, it does have a little recording that says “Say Cheese!” when I go to snap a picture, and that is a simple pleasure for my simple mind. 

Also, the doggie got a GIANTS jersey last night, and he looks so damn mean and angry in it, just like the Giants.  Actually, he’s adorable.  He wouldn't sit still in it.

As Valentine’s Day draws closer, I am reminded of the elevated expectations members of my gender have.  I can see in their eyes hope for a memorable experience: dozens of perfumed roses, a sappy card documenting undying love, dinner reservations at the candlelit and overpriced Chez Chez Poo Poo, a reason to wear a dress and gussy one’s self up, poetic confessions of love and adoration, something sparkly and expensive slid across the table in a velvet box, being hand fed rich chocolates from a heart shaped box and repetitive “I love you”s whispered into her ear while hand holding.  Every time I think of a girl wishfully envisioning her perfectly romantic evening, I think of the let down.  The day after Valentine’s Day is always full of ladies’ recounts of evenings that failed to meet their expectations.  A movie and a pizza or just flowers or nothing at all.  Dashed dreams. 

It’s sad that so many women are such hopeless romantics, swept away in t.v. drama love stories and holding on to a dream man that fulfills their lovey-dovey visions.  I don’t understand this idyllic fixation, it’s as if women have yet to open their eyes and look at the world of men around them.  It’s hard to hope for roses and love poems and love struck gazes and genuine interest in you when you realize guys are like domestic pets, they want to sleep, eat, poo and get naughty. 

And for men it has to be the same (albeit more vain and shallow) way.  Instead of t.v. drama love stories, they are ambushed by silicone women of Barbie doll like proportions.  Completely unnatural, and yet you would not know that by the way men act.  The expectation of a woman that is part porn star, part Betty Crocker and missing vocal cords is widely accepted.  But if they’d step outside, they’d see that most women are short and chubby and speak and think and generally don’t like sports.  Expectations are so high.

I propose a general lowering of the expectations.  If women expect to watch a basketball game for Valentine’s Day, they will be so happy if they receive flowers and doubly happy if he grants no-basketball consideration.  If men expect a flat-chested pygmy whose specialty is roasted mealworms, they will be happy with normal girl and doubly so if she can make macaroni and cheese. 

If ladies want a fantastic Valentine’s Day, they should put together one themselves.  An all ladies night of cocktails and a fancy dinner with the gal pals is more realistic than relying on your man to supply and fulfill your amorous dreams.  That’s probably what I’ll be planning.

I was reading a frugal living blog (I like to think that I make a healthy attempt to be frugal) and the topic was water conservation and bathroom remodels to accommodate this.  One tip was to hang a clock in your bathroom.  Ok, I have a clock in the bathroom, although I never thought of it as a necessity.  In fact, the time on it is horribly wrong so it serves little purpose but to freak me out when I forget that it’s drastically off.  So, just what is the reason for putting a clock in the bathroom?  To limit your shower to 5 minutes. 

Uh   wahappon?  Oh, nononono no.  Is that even feasible?  I’d like to see an instructional video on just how to squeeze in all the necessary female cleansing and pre-work primping that goes on in just 5 minutes.  I can’t even get all the shampoo out of my hair in 5 minutes, let alone my need to let conditioner steep for 3 minutes.  Can you shave two legs in 5 minutes?  As in without horribly gouging them?  I prefer not to look like a self-mutilation case when I wear a skirt to work.  Should I even consider shaving my arm pits?  Am I supposed to go granola and just let the hair grow out?  Because seriously, the man’s not going want to get close to me on the couch if I’ve got grizzly bear like stubble on my legs (no hunney, I’m not wearing tights, that’s natural).  I like a nice body brushing too, and that takes a couple of minutes, or what about exfoliation?  What if someone spoils me with cocoa scented scrub and I feel the need to scrub my whole body to baby-skin like smoothness?  I can’t do that outside of a shower.  Is five minutes even enough to fill a bathtub with an adequate amount of water to take a bath?  Or will I be stuck with 2” of water that goes cold in 3 minutes, akin to the baths my grandmother used to make me take so I wouldn’t drown.  The man doesn’t even take 5 minute showers, and he’s a man. 

That’s just insanity. 

SuperBowl is almost here.  I wanted to have a SB party, but I can’t.  The boyfriend made an executive decision and put the big ka-bosh on my SuperBowl fiesta plans.  I wish I could have friends over for SuperBowl, but unfortunately I know some Eli-haters.  Actually, I know people that do not have Giant’s worship in their blood, and we can’t have anyone who is not a true believer in the homestead during New York Football Giants SuperBowl.  No Eli hating in the House the Giant’s Built.  Religious sayings could be thrown out.  In Eli I Trust.  Lord Jesus Eli Manning.  Eli Almighty.  And other type things.  Eli-hate would affect our mojo and the Giant’s might lose.  Then I’d be in boiling hot “I should break up with you for inviting them” water with the boyfriend.  And that ain’t good.  We can’t have little Jimi the Savage living without both his parents.  It’s just not fair to the pup.  Also, we need complete concentration for when we are either a) praying, b) being arm chair coach, c) calling the plays that should be called, d) crying, e) throwing things, f) yelling (insert applicable failure)’s name in vain, g) pounding the couch/thighs/pillows in frustration, h) high-five, i) clap loudly j) celebrating a great sack/pass/completion(insert applicable).  And, my boyfriend’s not very cheerful or friendly when he’s curled into a small ball wrapped around a pillow, burrowing his face because he’s stressed out.  When I’m white-knuckling and rocking back and forth softly chanting Eli’s name, I wish not to be disturbed.  The SuperBowl is definitely not conversation time.  Intense. 

And another thing: I have to wear my Big Blue Wrecking Crew shirt for the game and I haven’t washed it since the 16th of December and I’ve worn it every single weekend since – with the exception of the Patriots game, I wore my other Giant’s shirt.  And we all know the outcome of that.  It smells bad and I don’t want to ruin my impeccable image m friends hold of me.  It’s all the adrenaline and stress, makes ya sweat.  BUT!  Every time I wear it, the Giants win.  See a pattern?

Next Sunday I put my boyfriend’s happiness in the throwing arm of Eli Manning.

The sacrifices we make for NY Football Giants.

We’ve (my significant other and I) have committed to getting a dog.  I sent off my deposit for our soon-to-be-puppy and we’ll get him on Thursday of this coming week.  He’s a red/fawn and white pied French Bulldog, born October 31st, 2007.  We’ve name him Jimi; I’m adding ‘the Savage’ at the end for street cred.  I’m very excited.  He’s such a cutie!  This is Jimi the Savage.

I’m spending the long weekend puppy-proofing our home.  There will be a trip to PetSmart to gather necessary item and I’ll be deep cleaning the homestead in anticipation.  I forgot how much effort a puppy is.  My mind has been full of preparations: gates, dog bowls, harness, shampoo, neuter, vets, poop bags and poop picking up devices.  I’ve scouted out NY Giants dog collars and know where to buy a NY Giants jersey for him.  I’ve been doing breed specific research so I know what to expect of a 12-week old pup, when he should be shipped to us, what’s appropriate behaviors, etc.  the ladies at my work copied an article about pet insurance, so I spent the past hour looking at coverages and rates.  I think we need to get him insured ASAP because they do not cover pre-existing issues and bulldogs are prone to short lives and ailments.  Some of them even cover vaccinations and neutering, which is highly applicable to us.  If $40 a month will cut down on a possible $5000 vet bill in a few years, so be it. 

I’m so excited to have a little dog companion again. 

Damn you iPod!

The damn iPod that I’ve been carrying around and appreciating for the past, I don’t know how long, was formatted on a Mac.  Assholes!  I hook it up to my WINDOWS and it has to reformat and REMOVE all my music I already have on here.  motherfuckers.  I don’t feel ready to remove and replace all the great music!  I just rediscover Murder City Devils and wanted to do some at-work jamming to them, which prompted me to hook the damn thing up to my PC in the first place.  But noooo.  It’s must be formatted.  That’s like replacing the things brain.  It will never be the same music companion after it’s been formatted.  I only have, like 2 cds anymore and one of them is Frank Sinatra’s Christmas album.  That ain’t no good.

Damn you she-bum!

AND some homeless she-bum, crack-whore hassled me for some money.  When I said, no, she asked if I had some spare food.  As in the food I had in my hand that I just purchased for my own consumption.  I said no.  She got lippy.  Said she could see I had food, I didn’t need the food and I was too selfish to give it to her.  I had to tell her that a homeless she-bum crack-whore panhandling for money should re-consider being lippy.  Rude and condescending comments issued from the toothless mouth of her does not incite sympathy from working professionals and I was not giving her my lunch.  That I bought with money that I had to work for. 

I have no patience for ornery she-bums or dumb-Mac formatted devices.

If I could be a pair of shoes, these would be them. 

These are Nine West's Mauven3 and they are the perfect shoe.  A 4.5 inch heel coupled with a high strap to keep you strapped in.  It's a gorgeously seductive deep red patent leather and the platform round toe is tapered with a hint of a point. 

A little flashy, dangerously high, slightly impractical, but sturdy, go-to heels with an not-so-subtle undertone of "admire how damn goodlooking I am."

And I got them for $18 dollars, down from $99.  Last pair, my size, I call it drop dead gorgeous fate.

I’ve got that great lack-of-grace thing going on today.  The type of klutziness that appears when there’s an audience to gawk at you and wonder what kind of drugs your mother took while you were in utero.  I think it’s because I have “Ridin’ Dirty” stuck in my head, thanks to Rob and Big, of the Rob and Big show.  ‘Ridin’ Dirty’ isn’t exactly Fleur theme music.  I think it throwing me off.  And I’m not a naturally graceful person as it is.  So now I’m trippin over pant hems, pieces of lint on the carpet, my scarf tried to strangle me and as I let out a banshee yell while violently ripping off my head, uncovering my eyes, I see that the investment banker boys from next door have paused in the hallway to watch the half-retarded girl try to work her way out of a fluorescent pink scarf. 

Try to catch me ridin’ dirty.

The Christmas spirit has left me, not that I had too much to begin with.  I’ve become jaded with Christmas already and am ready to tear down my mini 3-ft tree.  Wrap up the lights; wind-up the beads, take Petie, my Christmas bird, off the top of the tree.  Fold up the stockings, re-package the ornaments.  Put everything into a box labeled “X-MAS” that I’m sure I’ll lose between now and next year. 

I haven’t gone to any holiday parties, or taken part in any holiday festivities.  The closest I’ve gotten was hurrying through crowds as I bought a candy thermometer yesterday.  I was going to make toffee and peppermint bark, maybe whip up some Christmas cookies.  But I didn’t and don’t have the staples necessary.  Throw it in the box, I’m not gonna even think about using it until next November when I get the annual Christmas hair up my ass to be festive.

Why are Christmas expectations so high and unattainable?  Where are the merry Christmas people that go the Nutcracker, and watch the tree-lighting ceremony and stroll through holiday crowds drinking apple cider and throw fancy holiday parties and host gift wrapping get-togethers?  I think they don’t exist and if they did, they’d just succeed in pissing me off with their never ending perkiness the rest of the year through so that by the time Christmas was around the corner, just the thought of them would make me want to barf.  I’m feeling Grinchy. 

I never even drank hot buttered rum this year.  LAME

This morning I was complimented twice on the 7.5 minute walk to work.  A rare occurrence, I got a ‘Good morning beautiful’ from a duo and a ‘Sup pretty lady, how you doing?’ from a random dude.  It really made me think about beauty.  I’m not dashingly gorgeous, instead I’m rather average.  I’d believe men would be more inclined to find me ‘cute’ rather than ‘stunning.’  I have a unique face, and of the few men that manage to get past the boobs and see my actual face, I think I strike a select minority (and an even smaller amount once I open my mouth and talk).  Cloaked in a wool black coat, hot pink pashima scarf and light pink beanie, what made those guys notice me?  What did they find in the small area of my exposed face that made me pretty?  Was it something perceived?  Did the black pointed shoes peeking from beneath black jeans hint at naughtiness?  Or were they overcome by my rosy red cheeks?  Or maybe it was just eye contact.

Beauty is so visual, what do the blind find beautiful?  A sound?  The scent of a loved one?  The feel of a rose petal?  Would they consider a taste beautiful, like a toffee candy or a chunk of bread?  I’ve always wanted to be beautiful for my brain; would a blind person find me attractive? Without vision getting in their way, would they find intellects beautiful?  Would stimulating thoughts and viewpoints enthrall someone who’s blind or do they, like those who are not vision impaired, find vapid things beautiful like maybe a lilting voice or maybe warm smooth hands.  Would my voice throw them off, my particular smell?  Do they have particular qualities they want in a partner?  My boyfriend like brunettes, would a blind man prefer a woman who sings well?  What kind of a body would a blind man enjoy?  A skinny supermodel’s body, with jutting bones and hard angles, or would he prefer something softer, full breasts, a round belly?  What about a blind woman?  Would she like six-pack abs or maybe want something softer?  Would she enjoy running her fingers through her lover’s chest hair, or does she prefer smooth skin?

Dumbest thing I heard in a while:

While discussing with one of the women I work with, what movie I’m gonna see with my significant other on our ‘date night,’ her daughter (my age) walks in and gives her two cents:

“Go see August Rush.  It’s the best movie, really good.  Go see it.”

Mentally, my rebuke is this: Oh no.  I date a man.  Like, a real one.  With a penis.  Who watches football and has an opinion.  He wears pants and thinks and talks.  You’re not dating a guy, you’re dating a girl.  I don’t date vagina-having sissy boys.  

Instead I said:  No.  He’d shoot me in the head, then leave my life-less body in the theater while he goes out to restore his masculinity.  With beer and boobs.

I don’t think what I said was any better than what I thought.  Hopefully my boyfriend thanks me for not even entertaining the thought of seeing some horribly romantized chick flick.  I'd rather see a reality-based movie, like Walk Hard.