Huh. Apparently that study I quoted yesterday that said excessive worrying takes 16 years off your life is a bunch of bunk because I'm still alive today.Sagittal hair: The technical label for the trail of hair that leads from his abs down to his junk.According to an Australian study (seriously, how do these wackass scientists get funding for these studies??), having sagittal hair increases your chances of collecting belly button lint.The same study found that belly button lint is usually blue.OK, how many of you just looked at your belly button lint?
So, I read that excessive worrying takes 16 YEARS off your life.Crap, I'll be dead by morning.So what, we're just supposed to stop cold turkey? Come one! Worrying is my drug of choice. I CHOOSE to worry. I enjoy the drama it creates in my life. Well, not really. I just tell myself that to avoid having to change. Change = Bad karma. Worrying = Cool panic attacks.
a) Traveling the globe participating in competitive eating competitions. I won.
b) In a coma. I'm awake, it's a miracle!
c) In D.C. protesting to any politician who would listen to pass a law banning publicizing noncelebrities who are famous for doing nothing other than having money.
Hello? Anyone still there?Wow, that was quite a break, huh? I took a couple weeks off to:A) Go on a $$$ shopping spree in NYC.B) Go trek up a mountain in Washington.C) Check myself into rehab for Grey Goose overdosing.Crap, none of the above. The real story is much less interesting. I was wallowing in self-pity, unable to contemplate anything but the two stupid Asshat Corp. functions I have to host with husband that are coming up. Maybe I'll at least have stories as entertaining as the lecherous Norwegian dude experience a la the Swedish Embassy Escapade of 2007 to share. No more boob tape, though. I call for a ban on boob tape!
The Grey Goose program does not seem to be working. May have to switch to Prozac...I'll keep ya posted. Suggestions welcome.
I'll stop by and say "hi" soon. I've missed you guys!
Oh, P.S., you know I wasn't really calling you a bitch, right? That "Hello Bitches" phrase is from a hilarious Dave Chappelle episode guest starring Wayne Brady as a pimp.
The Lost Weekend
Was it just the weekend? Really, 'cause I don't recall. I felt the need to self-medicate to remove the bad Swedish aftertaste in my mouth. Must have been the Lutfisk. Oh, no wait, I'm pretty sure it was due to the skin-ripping boob tape and the drunk Norweigan. So, thank you Mr. Grey Goose for a lovely weekend.Saw an interesting license plate (prior to conversing heavily with Mr. Grey Goose) that said "Rufh Rdr." Took me a couple of minutes...I was thinking "roof raider" (hey, I had started chit chatting with Mr. Grey Goose so I was a little slow. I was not driving.) So when I figure out it's "rough rider," I looked at the driver as we went by, expecting a very buxom blonde.Instead, I see a fat, bald guy driving a Nissan Altima. Wha?????
Dude, seriously? You need to rethink that plate. I'm thinking you should go more along the lines of "Tdy Bear."
P.S. The drive home from the Swedish dooda with the boss's wife was looooong. We were in the car a whole 5 minutes before she insulted the wife of another guy that works for her husband. Gah. I can't imagine what she must say behind my back. Oh, did I mention that she has no sense of humor and is a buxom blonde personal trainer?
Sweden Part Deux: Lecherous Norweigan Dude
So, we last parted on the frizz-inducing patio overlooking the tennis court where George Bush the elder once played...Finally it was time for dinner to be served. Well, I'm just a naive idiot in not realizing I wouldn't be seated next to my husband. But, not only was I not next to him (or even within speaking distance of any of the 4 people from his company) but I was literally at one end of the table and he was at the other. WTH people? The hostess gave some speech about it being Swedish custom to mix up the seating so you get to meet people. Hmm, wasn't aware that was known as a Swedish thing necessarily...So, there were 18 of us and the dining table was just wide enough that you could not converse with the people across from you. It was kind of like chocolate behind glass--you can easily see the treat but cannot get to it. I was seated with an older gentleman from Norway on my right and air on my left. I much preferred the company of the air, and as the night dragged on, I kept trying to unobstrusively scoot my chair more to the air side.He seemed pleasant enough in the beginning, but I shortly sussed out that he was some kind of embassy-hopping gigolo. He was quick to inform me that he has now been to dinner at 5 different embassy residences (his favorite was the residence of the British ambassor because it was the most beautiful.) He is one of the owners of a steamship company and blah blah blah. I did my job and held up my end of the conversation but I didn't retain much of what he blathered on about.All the while becoming more and more alarmed as he had literally 4 glasses of wine before the main course was even served. But hey, since he also ate 8 pieces of bread (I am not kidding) I figured that was sopping up all the alcohol.The appetizer was delicious: Smoked salmon with creme fraiche (fancy sour cream) with a fried potato slice garnish. Good thing I like seafood because dinner was halibut (absolutely fabulous) with one of those cute little baby carrots that still has the top on, an artichoke heart, some unidentifible yellowish long rectangular vegetable?, and cream with a little bit of mashed potatoes added and a whole lot of garlic.Usually, I don't eat anything with garlic at these type of things so as not to offend my dinner companions. Screw it. I practically licked it off the plate in hopes of driving Mr. Norway away. As dinner progressed, so did his wine consumption: At least 2 full glasses a red wine to go with the 4 glasses of white he'd already had, plus I don't know how many cocktails beforehand. This caused him to begin placing his hand on my arm, or uh, the vicinity of my arm as he seemed to miss quite often and brush my boob or thigh. I kept looking down at my cleavage (although not as much as he did) to ensure the sticky tape was still in place.Then he proceeded to tell me how he was the president of some stag club (no women allowed!) that got together once a month to get drunk and tell dirty jokes. Fascinating dinner conversation, I was so impressed. The name was something like The Cod Club. Um, what do you say to that??Thank the Lord he would also talk occasionally with his dinner companion to his right (remember, I had air on my other side which was just fine). She was a lady from Hong Kong now living in Minnesota and she, too, seemed normal at first.Now, she said several times she was from Hong Kong, but Mr. Norway somehow missed that (or was just an idiot) and kept referring to her as Chinese. At one point, we were talking about Las Vegas (Ms. Hong Kong saying how everything including the women were fake, me commenting on how extensive the shopping options are, Mr. Norway wondering if you could just "buy," so to speak, a woman off the street), when Mr. Norway turns to my cleavage and blurts out, "You know, the Chinese are big gamblers."Seriously, the high point of the night. Ms. Hong Kong glares at him and says huffily, "I am NOT Chinese." You go, girl.Dessert sucked big time. Some pear-flavored "froth," a 1 inch square of dry, tasteless sponge cake, and 1 whole teaspoon of pear (again!) sorbet.Finally dinner was over and I could escape Mr. Norway. Then it was coffee in another room where I could actually stand next to my husband.The next morning, husband announced that if I still wanted to replace the wooden balustrades in our staircase with decorative iron ones, I could go ahead and do that. Uh huh, that's what I thought.
Sweden Part I: Boob Tape Debacle
Double-sided boob sticky tape, AWOL ambassador, and lecherous Norweigans...Oh My! (chanted to "Lions, tigers, and bears...Oh My!" in your best Dorothy from Wizard of the Oz voice)Hmm, where to start? This might be a two-parter, people.First off, when I purchased my cocktail dress for this shindig, I tried it on in two different sizes, let's just refer to them as "A" and "B" since numbers are so mentally damaging m'kay? Both sizes fit, but in the end, I decided the smaller size was a little too tight under the arms and the wrap style halter top had too little material in the boob area. I bought the larger size along with some industrial strength double-sided tape specifically intended to keep clothes attached to skin. (They don't tell you that your skin also comes off along with the tape at the end of the night, but we can save that for Part II.)Well, when I went to put on the dress last night, lo and behold, I had actually purchased the smaller size, not the larger one as I intended. F&^k and many such accompanying words ensued. Husband stood nervously by, "Uh, it looks fine to me." Really? Really a&^hole because it's so NOT! How is it that men always know the exact wrong thing to say at the exact wrong moment? Really, it must be an inbred gift or something.I had no other cocktail dresses just sitting around in my closet (imagine!) so I was stuck. I grabbed the boob tape and we got in the car. No problem, I figured, I had a good 2 1/2 hours of drive time to both swear at my husband AND strategically tape the dress to avoid serving my boobs for dinner.Ha! This tape is not that easy to use, people! Why didn't someone tell me? Like the sales lady that sold it to me with a smile while saying, "This is our most popular brand." Really? Really b*&ch because it's so not working! At least half the roll ended up in little sticky balls all over the car before I successfully removed the "Easy to remove backing" from one piece.Oh, another little tip. Even though it says "safe for all clothes" that actually does not include silk. The dress is now ruined, not that I could wear it again as it became tighter and tighter under my arms as the night dragged on and I wanted nothing more than to cut it up into little tiny pieces and burn them while doing tequila shooters.So, needless to say, I needed the full 2 1/2 hours to do the tapeage. We arrive, only to be informed that his Excellency the Ambassador was called away at the last minute to a meeting in CA with Governor Schwarzenegger. Wha?Yep. So instead our host was his second in command, the Deputy Ambassador of Sweden (not exactly sure if that's her title, I wasn't paying attention as I really needed to pee. 2 1/2 drive! Plus, had to check the tape was still holding!) And, it was a woman as Sweden is very forward in their Women's Movement she said. Cool, where's the restroom?We were herded outside for cocktails. Great, I spent a frickin' hour blow drying and curling the mane and it had just rained so the humidity was around 90%. GAH. But hey, I did get to see the tennis court that George Bush the elder played on with the former ambassador. Truly worth ruining good hair, right?
OK, this is getting long and boring...Part deux another time which will feature the lecherous Norweigan guy who was my dinner companion. ACK
Instant Gratification Please
So, should I be concerned that every time I ask the guy building our deck if he'd like some water or Coke he says, "No, but I'd sure love some beer." It's 10 a.m. ya'll! Ok, I don't really say "ya'll" but I'm trying to fit in here in my adopted country of VA. Oh, you didn't know it was a whole separate country? I didn't either until I moved I moved to the South. Miss Impatient-Pants does NOT like how everything is sooooooo slooooooooow here...Give it to me now, you guys! Yep, much more of a "you guys" and "instant gratification" kind of gal.Anyway, Mr. Coors Light building the deck has amazing bronzed muscles. The kind you get from hard, physical, sweaty labor, not pumping iron in an air conditioned gym. [drool] If I could do it without getting caught, I would so take a picture (for you all, not me, of course) 'cause we are talking F-I-N-E. But, since I am more Lucille Ball than Marilyn Monroe, I'm positive he would catch me with the camera and then what? I'd probably have to buy him a gajibillion cases of Coors Light to keep his mouth shut.Oh hey, remember yesterday when I was going to write the nice post and then said you weren't getting it just like my husband and then it all went down hill from there into spankings with wooden spoons and setting purses afire?Well, you're still not getting that post. I'm practicing my withholding strategy. OK, I'm not, but I wanted to tell you that GAH, guess who we're driving back from D.C. tonight after dinner with Ambassador Pickled Herring?Yep, the boss's wife. Can you believe that crap? I couldn't. I've already informed husband that HE can make conversation with her because I #1 Don't talk to wack jobs, and #2 Will be all conversed out after chatting up Gunnar and blondie (you know she's got to be blonde!).Apparently her husband is staying in D.C. for a meeting the following day (don't believe it) so we get to drive Mrs. Boss back. Tune in tomorrow as I'll be sure to let you know the highlights...
Well, I had a lovely post all prepared for you today (in my head but still!) but you're not getting it.My husband has heard those words a lot lately, and I'm so frickin' pissed I think I may just say them for the next, oh, 6 months, possibly 6 years, unless he makes some grand gesture (read: bright, shiny AND very expensive) worthy of some bedpost shaking.I've never threatened to withhold sex in the past; it seems rather pointless because who does it really punish? Is it supposed to be one of those "This will hurt you more than it hurts me" deals that my Mom always yelled while beating my ass with a wooden spoon? [Quick poll: How many others also got beaten with the wooden spoon? We should form a club, maybe The Wooden Spooners. Oh no wait, that sounds like geriatric porn or something. You come up with the club name and extra points if the spoon actually broke on your butt.]
Back to the rant, gah, I hate when I get distracted mid-rant. I really lose steam, quite a buzz kill. Kind of like back in high school, or maybe last night for you, and you're guzzling the Boone's Strawberry Hill crapola they have the nerve to label "wine" but you don't care 'cause hey, it's still alcoholic, and then you see a cop drive by which freaks you out so much you pour all your beautiful wine out the open car door as you drive 25 mph around town for an hour.
Or, when you're smoking some good stuff and all the sudden you realize there's too much smoke because your BFF "accidentally" set your new crochet purse with the cool wooden handles on fire. Damn.
Huh. Really got off track. Let's just go with it. What's your buzz kill (besides an annoying husband 'cause I've got that one covered)? Oh, and while we're at it, have you ever withheld sex to get what you wanted, and if so, how'd that work for ya?