fashion plate

"You are dressed... in the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen you wearing," he said.

I don't know what the big deal is about walking around in a Nike workout top with a built in sports bra and no pants. If I ran things, we'd all dress this way, every day.

Fuck pants.

girls are not funny

Of course, I don't believe this at all, but a lot of people do. Why? Part of it is because we've been told that the things that are hilarious about being a woman are gross, or out of bounds. This is the humor equivalent of telling T Pain that he can no longer use autotune, and it has to stop. It's not fair.

Menstruating, for example, can be absolutely hysterical, especially self-deprecating references to violent premenstrual mood swings. Once, when I was in high school and on a hormone roller coaster, I sat down to dinner and began sobbing when I discovered that we were eating liver and onions. Sobbing. The rest of my family watched me, silently confused and a little afraid, as my tears turned to hysterical laughter within the course of ten seconds. "Are you on drugs?" my mother asked. I began crying again. I ended up being sent to my room without dinner. Also, play with the idea of menstruation. Isn't part of humor making people slightly uncomfortable so that they laugh to break the tension? Experiment with adjectives used in conjunction with the act of shedding one's uterine lining to deliberately make people uncomfortable. Starting point: "projectile menstruation." Jokes about the Twilight vampires and how the reason that the hundreds of years old vampires still attend high school is that they love the smell of menstruating adolescents.

Another hilarious part of being a woman is the presence of breasts. They're fucking hysterical, just chillin there on your pecs like a fatty built in entourage. And don't even get me started on the hilarity of embarrassing nipples-hard-in-inappropriate-circumstances moments. I battled this all summer, as I work in an office type setting in a fancy downtown building, where the air conditioning is set to an optimal temperature for men in suits rather than women in sundresses covered by button down sweaters. One thing that men don't understand is that an erect nipple doesn't mean the same thing as an erect penis. In fact, usually erect nipples mean absolutely nothing or something terribly boring-- "it's cold in here," my erect nipples may be saying, or "I'm uncomfortable right now," or, they may just be saying, "Hello, people that the person to whom I'm attached is speaking. I just wanted to make you aware that she has nipples." Unfortunately, many men seem to think that nipples visible through clothing are an indicator of obvious sexual arousal. No. It's not. Also, how about trying to exercise with breasts attached to the front of your body, huh? It's like having two warm jello molds buried in your torso. Breasts: sometimes sexy, usually hilarious.

I understand that men may find humor about the monstrous female body stomach churning. Believe me, I understand. But I'm tired of living in a world where I have to listen to dudes wax philosophical about the hilarity of the penis (true fact: penises are hilarious) and borderline offensive Tucker Max-style odes to buttsex gone awry yet I can't contribute something uniquely gross to the conversation. In conclusion: periods, boobs, vaginas.

majestic thin crust

My musical taste fluctuates wildly. About three weeks ago, I was on a Rachmaninov kick. Then, I got really into Florence & The Machine. Then, old skool Janet Jackson. Then Ella Fitzgerald. Now I'm on a Gustav Holst's The Planets kick, and today, I listened to "Jupiter" as I majestically marched home ("majestic marching" is the only acceptable way of walking while listening to very dramatic classical themes). I turned the corner onto my street, visions of giant planets and space flights and elementary school slide shows about the solar system dancing in my head and violins and excessive percussion dancing in my ears, and I smelled frozen pizza, the kind of pizza that populated softball team pizza parties back in the days before DiGiorno rising crust, and in the context of the symphonic piece playing on my iPod, even the pizza smelled dramatic and ageless and majestic.

I returned home and took off my coat, and Boyfriend decided that a good idea would be for him to put my coat on. It's a brightly colored textured coat with retro styling, and sort of looks like something that Jackie O would wear. He looked like someone who was trying to dress like Andre 3000, but failing.

This is my Friday.

barfing with my eyes

My mother sent me a link to my brother's wedding picture proofs. The bride and groom look great, which is awesome because it means that people will not be looking at me in the pictures.

I sent the link to a friend with the intent of showing him how progressively ridiculous my posing grew as the session wore on, and he was kind enough to put together a nice compilation that summarizes my lack of enthusiasm (face somewhat obscured so that none of you freaks reading this recognize me on the street... all four of you):



Being a bridesmaid (or, in my case, groomsmaid) sometimes feels like you are part of a human picture frame.

Darth MorningGloria

My company has a specific expense code for the following items:

Use of corporate plane fleet
Maintenance/upkeep of corporate aircraft
Fuel for corporate aircraft
Armored sentry services
Armored air delivery
Fuel for armored car (ATM delivery)

My company does not have expense codes for the following items:
Care and maintenance of office plants
Pest control
Birthday cake

I think that I work for the Death Star.

hairless

My cat, Eleanor Roosevelt, has been licking herself like crazy of late. So much so that she licked a spot bald on her back.

She's dumb.

Anyway, I took her to the vet today, and the vet thinks that she just has a mild infection or allergy on her skin and gave her some steroids (to help her go up a weight class and really blast her pecs up to that next level, I'm assuming) and antibiotics. The pills came with a nice printed label, with her name on them, except with my last name tacked on the end.

"ELEANOR XXXX"

When I found Eleanor at the animal shelter a few years ago, the tag on her cage said that she was named "Diamond," which leads me to believe that her previous owner was either a topless dancer or a seven year old. Whoever it was, by the time the shelter got her, she had a tail that needed to be amputated and a front fang that needed to be extracted. As I was filling out the paperwork, the shelter volunteer asked if I wanted to keep the name "Diamond," and of course I didn't because it felt a little dirty, like dating someone for awhile and finding out after several months that his ex girlfriend had the same first name as you, or looked exactly like you, and also the ex girlfriend was a total C U Next Tuesday. So I changed her name to "Eleanor Roosevelt," because I think that naming pets after long-dead celebrities is hilarious. I didn't name her "Eleanor (My last name)." That just wouldn't make sense.

What a primeval society we live in that vets assume that cats automatically take their owners' last names.

i'm l vi ' t

The McDonald's at Washington and Dearborn has a sign outside that is designed to fit the aesthetic of the theater district. Except tonight the cab that I was riding in drove past it and I noticed that the light up "MCDO" in the marquee style sign is out, so the sign reads "NALDS."

I don't know what they would sell at a restaurant advertised with a neon sign that says "NALDS," but I don't think that I want to eat there.

This is sort of like that time that I went to Wal Mart with my mother when I was 12 or 13 and spent hours cracking up over the fact that the bulbs in the L and MA were burnt out, and so we did our shopping in a store that advertised itself as "WA RT."