The friend in your pants will be dancing like at a party.

I <3 spam. Both the meat-in-a-can and the email-in-the-trashcan varieties. Email spam, when done right, just tickles me so.

The subject of today's work spam was very mundane:

Perform like a star as long as you want

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. You, my friend, are like so many other spam emails that go unnoticed in my spam box. If you're going to break through the filter, you need to break through with a POP! Where's the pizazz? Where's the pow? Where's the other 'p' words that escape my vocabulary at the moment?

I'd like to perform like a lounge singing super star for hours on end but I'm sure this email will offer nothing of the sort.

I give it a D+.

If there was a way to delete it without seeing its contents I never would have found the gem inside:

The friend in your pants will be dancing like at a party.

This is it. This. The erupting spring of joy in the early hours of my day. The power source for the twinkle in my heart. The secret of all that is warm and fluffy and happy and awesome and magical.

What the fuck does it mean? Let's take a look, shall we?

First of all, there's a friend in my pants! And he/she is dancing! First thing I pictured was The Boyfriend miniaturized, the size of a sprite, snuggled down in the front of my pants, doing a little booty shake. This image brought forth a few giggles.

But maybe we're not sharing the pants. How silly of me. A friend is wearing my pants! Ugh. That's worse. That would be like one of those weight loss commercials where the skinny people hop into their old pants and go "look at me! i used to be this fat!" Ugh.

Okay, back to Sprite Boyfriend image. And he's dancing. But, more specifically, dancing like at a party. Good thing there was that clarification. I almost pictured him dancing like at a bar mitzvah.

To end the email Mr. Emailer linked, of course, a totally unrelated website that has nothing to do with being a lounge star or dancing in pants.

Hmmm... I just pictured a bunch of half nekkid hunky men dancing behind me in nothing but pants during one of my lounge singing numbers. I'll have to file away that thought for later.

Two Things

Thing One:

I bought a new car last weekend.

I was hoping my granny smurf-mobile would last a couple of months longer than it did, long enough for me to graduate and stop driving to school and back every day, long enough to pay off credit debt and school loans and save oodles of money. But alas! 'Twas not to be.

The old car had been on the brink of crapping out for months, but got to the breaking point during the week. Instead of paying 2k for a new transmission I did some online price shopping, looked for some cheap ass, used, non-granny car that I could pick up for reasonably cheap. Cheap being the key word here.

Then the HB said, "Wait a minute. If you could have any car, what would you get?"

"A cheap one."

The HB gave me that look. That look of divine patience and fortitude. "No, really," he said. "Don't think about what it would cost or whether its got the highest MPG." (because that was something I was looking at as well). "What car Do. You. Want?"

What car do I want? What car makes me cream every time I see it?

"A mustang."

"Okay then. We're getting you a mustang."

"Wheeeeee!"

He is such a bad influence.

I'm not a car person. Whenever the HB mentions one of the many cars he's considering getting next (his car is in desperate need of a trade in as well) I have no idea what he's talking about. He has to point them out on the street when we pass them. Then? A day later when he talks about that car again? I still have no idea what he's talking about. An escalade? That's a truck, right?

I'm not a car person. I'm definitely not a sporty car person. Yet I am now the owner of a Mustang.

Holy shit.

Midlife crisis? I'll be 30 in a couple months. (Holy shit x2.) Shouldn't I get a grown-up car? Like a mini-van or some shit? Meh, I already had the granny car. DID NOT WANT AGAIN.

I'm driving a mustang!

My fat ass barely fits in the seat, but it fits. And it has a cd player! And some thingamajig for a mp3 player! My granny smurf-mobile had a cassette player for 10 years! And speaking of smurfs, the inside of the mustang is not blue. No more blue interior! Its grey. And there's a mustang on my steering wheel!

I'm driving a mustang!

I still don't think its sunk in yet. This all probably seems silly to everyone else. But a new car is a big deal for me. It's the first car I bought on my own (not counting the HB's invaluable assistance and reassuring presense). And it's a mustang! That feels like such an extravagance. But its totally in my budget, so why the fuck not?

*tee hee*

Thing Two:

While we stood outside and waited for the car people to finish up the paperwork the HB made a discovery.

"Hey look, you have a white hair."

He fished it out from the tangle of other very dark hairs and held it out in front of my face for inspection.

"Whaaaaaaaaat?"

"Look!"

"Gah!"

"Oh! Here's another one!"

And that's when I stabbed him.*

Those are just blonde hairs dear. BLONDE. Sheeeeesh.


*just kidding! No really! I even let that blind bastard drive my new shiny car. It's all good.