if anyone happens to be on jet blue flight 534
Perhaps you can tell me whether that smell is gangrenous feet or rotting cabbage.
Also if you could help me find the noise canceling earphones I just purchased since I forgot mine at home with my phone charger, that would be appreciated since I also forgot my Bible (used as a conversation deterrent when traveling).
If you’re trying to guess where I’m headed, here’s a hint: the woman next to me just had a phone conversation during which every other word was “friggin” and “horrible” (pronounced WHORE-able). Rhymes with Rookie.
is it wrong
To assume that the 45-year-old man sporting the mullet, hoop earrings and plaid lumberjack shirt shopping at Justice is either:
– A sex offender
– An assassin hired by my husband to run me over with his cargo van in the mall parking lot
add this to the long list
Of reasons I’m going to hell.
I’m more than a little annoyed that a funeral procession is preventing me from making a left turn into the “Happy Aniversy” Starbucks drive-thru as I head to the airport.
Pray for me.
why can I never get away
From Target’s “Morning Huddle”?
It seems my yet-to-be caffeinated, cranky morning self is always forced to duck under this red Chuppah of employees cheering and clapping because store #345 had 10% less go backs this month.
A word of advice: when the Chuppah disbands — go far, far away. Otherwise you’ll be dodging a Blitzkrieg of “may I help yous” whether you are in the tampon aisle or not.
black swan: the movie (not your cousin)
Forget that I'm clearly schizophrenic. My plastic surgery will give you nightmares.
For those of you excited about my review of Darren Aronofsky’s critically acclaimed, award winning “Black Swan,” need I remind you that writing something of value and helpfulness would go against the whole spirit of this blog. Plus, it might imply that I possess a skill with the potential for gainful employment. And really. None of us want that.
So I’ll just point out a couple observations in case you’re one of the three people left who hasn’t yet seen this thriller or is waiting for it to come out on NetFlix:
- I was shocked by the casting of Mickey Rourke as Natalie Portman’s mother. Her performance, I mean blepharoplasty, was chilling.
- If you’re having a hard time convincing a man to accompany you because he heard the word “ballet,” you need only mention an explicit girl-on-girl scene between Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis.
- Try not to see the film at Muvico Baywalk. In addition to the Biggie Smalls lookalike three rows back narrating the masturbation scene with “Oh yeah” and “Touch it,” you’re at risk for having to wake up the homeless man in the front row because he was snoring.
- If you do wake up the man smelling of pickle jars in the front row, please do not touch him unless you want him to threaten to call the police because you’re “assaulting him.” Also, it’s probably in your best interest to ignore that his pants are down.
Baby millipede on board. Amazingly, I'm not gay.
- If you mistakenly thought Natalie Portman’s baby daddy was some bearded hippie musician from the Village named Devendra or something equally absurd, you’re so 2008. The guy who knocked her up in real life is Benjamin Millepied. He portrayed her Swan Lake co-star and is a principal dancer at New York City Ballet. Despite his last name suggesting that he is a thousand-legged arthropod, this guy is yummy.
- It is confounding that Portman could ovulate without eating so much as a Saltine the entire length of filming. But even more confusing? That a principal dancer at New York City Ballet is sleeping with a woman. Go figure.
They did not procreate. There is a God.
apparently…
Barbie finally agrees to anal sex with Ken. WTF Mattel? This new product launch is a bit inappropriate for your target audience of 4 to 8 year olds.
throwbacks and sour milk
- i’m going to need a coaster and an amnestic agent
I never met Banana Flowers, my friend Singamajig’s recent fling. But as someone who wants to ensure she never sees Banana again (unless I need book fodder), I did look into him on paper. To protect his and her anonymity, I will not get into the shaved nuts and bolts. But suffice it to say, Singa can do better if she put on 50 pounds, ignored her roots for a month and developed a severe case of incurable foot odor.
Singa is making her way out of a marriage and venturing into a world of throwbacks. Used, discarded return items taking up shelf space waiting to convince a newly detached (can you tell I despise the word “single”) woman to disregard what he looks like on paper because he remembers her favorite song or holds her hand during sex. At what point do we toss out the paper?
My friend Patty Melt looks like she hails from Pixie Hollow. She’s beautiful and delicate like a fairy, and reminds me of a Cadbury egg. Outfitted with a hard shell that warns you she’ll scratch your eyes out if you cross her, but all soft and gooey inside. Two children and five years of marriage to an arrogant, unfaithful re-introducer (you know – the guy who introduces himself to you even though you’ve met him 12 times before because he wants you to feel irrelevant) later, Patty Melt has moved on to someone I hope will make up for the lost years of love and light in her life. My concern is that her new love is not new, but rather “recycled.” An old boyfriend whose timing just wasn’t right. Is he her soulmate or sour milk?
Enter Lucas Lightning. Way cheaper than my therapist, although somewhat less qualified. His theory of spoilt milk maintains that if you take the milk out of the refrigerator and it smells sour, you don’t put it back. If I want to discredit him, I will point out another couple I know who seemed to wait long enough to reinvent and let their spoilt milk turn into delicious cottage cheese. Their relationship was less milk carton and more chrysalis. But when you recycle, how do you know whether your head is going to snap back if you take a whiff? I guess some of us take the chance and get sick. Some get a delicious side to their salad. And others? Maybe they put the milk back and wait for garbage day because they know they need to throw it out, but don’t want their trash to stink.
Lucky for me, I don’t drink milk unless Starbucks froths it into my latte.
When Patty Melt and I attended the Bucs Throwback game this season, we tore our closets apart looking for retro jerseys or Tees to no avail. I can only hope that was symbolic. I usually don’t consider myself a throwback. I was the one who said “uncle.” And even though I struggle with whether trading in the monogrammed family Christmas footies was strong or weak, I’m not sure I could know that answer for many years to come.
It seems though that for now, if I start feeling like a throwback, sitting in a Target return bin next to wrong-sized screwdrivers and broken dollhouses, I hope that I’ll still have the confidence not to BananaFlower. Or recycle. I think I can still order the Christmas footies too. I’ll just have to monogram: Copper Monkey. Patty Melt. Lucas Lightning. Scrabble. Penelope. Singa…
i only wear white when it rains 