My coworker smells like Electric Youth

My coworker smells like Electric Youth

And I don't necessarily mean that in a good way.

When I was a tweeny-bopper (oh lordy I hope it was back in my pre-teen/tween years and before high school...) my parents bought me Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth perfume. It was an awesome gift.

I was a big fan of Debbie Gibson. (Still love her actually. Her greatest hits CD is full of electric and youthful win.) I listened to that Electric Youth cassette tape every night, singing along, imaginging I was the one singing on stage, or in a music video/beach movie type scenario, until the cassette died from exhaustion due to excessive rewinding after favorite songs.

The bottle of perfume looked bitchin', what with the neon pink spiral tube spiraling through the pink tinted liquid.

I was never cooler than when I spritzed on my Debbie Gibson Electric Youth perfume.

That was then, back when my nose never thought to distinguish the difference between wal-mart perfume and holy-shit-this-tiny-bottle-costs-how-much perfume. Like I would have cared back then anyhow.

I was wearing Debbie Fucking Gibson's Electric Youth perfume, yo!

But now? Yeah... the smell of that pink neon mist has not aged well.

And I keep getting a whiff of it, or its evil sad red-headed stepchild counterpart every time I walk anywhere in Ms Coworkers wafting zone. Now, I'm not saying "Wear the Good Stuff or GTFO" because lord knows I rarely bother to get spritzed up myself. I'm trying not to be a perfume snob or anything. But there are alternatives! Ones that won't make me want to gag! Skip the $2.00 perfume aisle and go look for the smelly lotion aisle. Even non-fancy smelly lotion smells a hell of a lot better than the crap perfume does.

Save that crap perfume for home. For date night. For grocery shopping night when cute clerk boy is working his shift. For going out and checking the mail.

Maybe you can find some good smelling cheap stuff. Good for you! No, really, that's awesome. Tell me where you bought it!

But if you buy something and it smells icky?

DON'T DOSE YOURSELF IN IT BEFORE WORKING IN MY OFFICE.

Thanks,
Management

Today's Happiness Is Brought To You By The Letters S, H, I, N, and Y

I'm wearing a new blouse today. And I'm in a really good mood because of it.

Sure, I got a little snappish at Former-Mr-Desk-Neighbor (former because he was relocated to a desk in the big, posh, all-in-one office fish bowl at the front of the building). But he got annoyed when I told him to shoo so I could get back to work so he totally deserved it.

And still, my good mood radiates through my poors!

*sniff sniff*

Yeah, its just my good mood. Sniff check confirmed.

I haven't bought new clothes in months. Almost a year actually come to think of it. Wow. And if you don't count the dress I bought for that waste-of-time reunion then I haven't bought normal, every-day clothes in an even longer time.

1) shopping for clothes depresses my fat ass sometimes

2) other times I fall in love with too many cute/funky things and spend too much

3) credit card debt sucks

Not that I've gone into debt because of my clothes spending. I just feel guilty buying stuff when I have evil credit debt looming over my shoulder like an evil devil monkey. Evil debt devil monkeys suck ass.

But some time last year I got caught up and paid off every thing I owed. I still have some student loans looming on the horizon, waiting to pounce after I graduate - which is finally happening in the summer. Halle-fucking-luiah. The only real credit debt I have is school related, but its manageable. I do have a new car payment I have to work into my budget, but that'll be manageable too.

So I felt okay on the money front. I still felt like a fat ass, but my fat ass was in the mood for a treat, so I bought some new tops. Yay me!

But where to put them?!

I've needed to clean out my closet for the longest time. There are so many clothes I've kept for years that I don't wear anymore, that don't fit anymore, that I might wear again, one day. I've come to the conclusion that that's just silly. When I can fit into them again, and I will be able to, eventually, I'm still not going to want to wear them. I have dresses hanging in my closet from the last century for crying out loud. Seriously. When I can wear them again I'm going to need to upgrade the fashion a few decades.

So I bought 5 new tops. The plan was to replace 5 old tops that are currently in my What To Wear rotation that are stained (my boobs are food magnets) or worn or just plain ready to go to Clothes Heaven.

Last night, instead of pulling out 5 of those tops I started grabbing shit I haven't worn in years. Those keepers I've held on to for supposed inspiration. Turns out they weren't really inspiring at all, I just wanted them to be.

I filled a trash bag of shirts and blouses to donate to goodwill. I've got a couple more trash bags of clothes to go before I'm done.

I'm a packrat. I keep junk and knickknacks and whatnot for those you-never-know moments. I didn't realize until last night I've been doing the same with my clothes. I'll go through the pants and skirts another time. There are some things I'll keep forever, like the t-shirts from my swimming competition days. Those I need to turn into a quilt sometime so I can get use out of them again. I used to live in nothing but those t-shirts for years, I miss them sometime. But I've really got to keep working on de-cluttering the rest of my closet.

And then... my dresser drawers! Gasp!

For now though, I shall bask in the shininess of my new top! Its shiny and soft and an obscenely bright lime green. It truly is a hideous color, but I like it anyway.

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.

Note To Self:

Don't try and find matching socks from a pile of recently laundered clothes in the middle of a dark room.

It will not end well for you. Me. Whatever.

I guess if I'd put my laundry away a week ago I wouldn't have had to hunt down a pair this morning before I left for work. But what's the fun in that, right? Right?!

Sigh.

I'll be sporting one blue sock and one black sock for the whole friggin long ass 17hr day. :(

I would have sworn they looked that same in the light that filtered in from the kitchen! They even felt the same. Damn socks.

Open Letters

I have a couple of things I'd like to say to people I do not know (or know well) and thought of the awesomeness that is McSweeney's Open Letters. These won't necessarily be as funny or amusing as the stuff posted there, but they need to be said nonetheless.

Dear Male Teenage Movie/Television Stars of the 90's,

I had a dream about one of you a couple of weeks ago and for the life of me I can't remember your name. I can picture you... doing something... some kind of acting somewhere... just not what you're doing or who you're with. I can't remember if I saw you in movies or tv shows or both. I'm not even sure I have the right decade! I did however go to a website featuring 80's movies and clicked on every single damn link and couldn't find you. Thinking about it since then I'm pretty sure you're a 90's Almost Star. From the little I can picture of you, I see you with a sort of 90's 'do.

You're like a cross between Zack from Saved By the Bell and the oldest son from the tv show Home Improvement with Tim Allen. You have the face of the latter and the cool hot blonde high school boy attitude of the former. Around Tiger Beat cover age.

All those that fit the above description, please leave a comment with your name and a site I can google to find an image of yourself. This would be greatly appreciated.

Because seriously, its driving me insane that I can't remember where I've seen you before!

xoxo,
Your Not So Biggest Fan

Dear Sidewalk-Standing Sign-Holding Guy,

Boy do you rock out with those headphones on. Don't you ever get tired? I don't know if you're listening to hip hop or techno music, or maybe you're just really passionate about Barry Manilow remixes. Whatever it is, keep listening! And keep groving! Close those eyes and hold up that sign and pretend like no one can see you. Pretend like you're on a crowded dance floor and all you can do is dance until it hurts.

You make me smile every time I see you, even after long, crappy days of SUCK.

Rock on,
Girl Who Watches You Shake Your Ass Every Day

Dear Radio Station I Love To Listen To But Want To Slap,

Stop playing the same damn Offspring song over and over and over again. If you don't know which one I'm talking about, then that means you're playing too many god damn Offspring songs! They're okay, but when you play a song to death it makes we wish death upon you all!

(Okay that's harsh. Maybe I just wish a very nasty rash that doesn't go away. Or just flares up to cause intense pain every time you play that song.)

That song is 'you're gonna go far kid.'

I was indifferent to that song when it first came out. It was catchy, and grew on me a little (Ew! Get it off! Get it off!) but now I loathe the very sound of the singers voice with the passion of a thousand angry grasshoppers. When I'm in the car I can turn to another station, but at work I'm streaming you guys over the internet. I can turn the volume down of course. but then I have to play the "Is the song done yet? No. How 'bout now? Shit not yet. Now? Gah! Die song DIE!" game. I played that with that stupid paper planes song and its annoying. The song and needing to avoid it.

Yours Truly,
Long Time Listener, First Time Letter Writer

Dear Internet Google Sleuther(s),

If you found this site from the email address I gave you or you acquired through other means...

/welcome

Now go away. Do it.

No really. Don't read any of this stuff. Pretend you were never here. And I'll do the same. :)

These are not the droids you are looking for.

I have found posts/comments made by people from email addys before. It's a thrill to peek in on another internet hemisphere that person lurks in. I get it, so I'm sure I'm not the only one that does it. And I'm sure any one of you might get an inkling to do the same. Some more than others but... Hmmm... I guess what I'm trying to say is this:

Don't tell anyone else?! K? Secret Keeping Powers Activate!

Gee, I don't sound paranoid or anything do I?

Sincerely,
Ms. Loon

Okay. I can't think straight anymore so no more letters for now. The morning radio show I'm listening to is playing "highlights" from last night's American Idol show and the screeching is making me cringe.

Can't. Focus. Fingernails. Chalkboard. Brain. Death.

In case you thought I was joking...

In case you thought I was joking...

...I'm not. This post will indeed be about nipples. Well, some of it anyway.

One of my nipples is currently at NipCon 2 while the other is chillin' at NipCon 5. The lopsidedness is really bothering me. At least it is whenever I got to the bathroom and see myself in the mirror. Its freakish looking! I can't decide if its worse than a lazy nipple pointing in an entirely different direction than the other. It's like I lost one in a tragic accident or something.

Quick! Get me a prosthetic nipple! Stat!

You know, I've thought of how I may feel if my family ever stumbles upon this blog. I haven't written anything bad about anyone, so no worries there. At least I'm pretty sure I haven't... But I have written stuff like the above. If they find it, and read it, fine, but I just had a thought... what if my dad reads that? That'd just be... oh I don't know. Weird is the best word I can think of at the moment.

So Dad, I'm sorry if you read that. That was probably really weird, right? Yeah. Okay. Let's forget that ever happened? Right on!

I just got skype the other day and added a couple of video game friends to it. I added the HB too, who talks on it in the other room while he plays so we don't get weird feedback. Yesterday it was just the two of us left on the call for about five minutes and I felt like such a dork as I asked him something instead of yelling into the next room. :)

Over the holiday break while I visited my parents I found out my dad had downloaded skype to talk to his sister who lives on the other side of the planet. This will be perfect for them! I emailed my dad my contact info and asked for his so I could add him. When he got home yesterday he sent me an 'invite' and then tried to call me. I was on a call already, so I ended up just chatting with him so I could explain why I'd hung up on him. :)

We type chatted a little then he left to go eat dinner. It felt surreal for a few minutes after he logged out. Not in a bad way, just in a Keanu Reeves "woah" kind of way.

Chatting online was something I did a lot of years ago when my family first got internet at home. Back when my brother and I were only allowed on for an hour a day, and it took almost an hour to load the x-files message board I liked to visit. Chatting online was something I did, and my brother did. But not my parents. I mean, they've just recently discovered chain letter email spam for crying out loud. And now they've figured out how to chat online!

It feels like a boundary has been crossed. It's a boundary I don't mind being crossed though. I like that I can chat with them, and I like that I can call them with this new fangled technology called the interwebs. It just seemed like for the longest time that the internet was something I played in and it was too mysterious for them to get into.

Well, they're into it. And it might not be long before they find this.

And on that semi-unsettling note (I kid! I kid! No, really, I kid! ...Maybe) I'm going to stop contemplating stuff and get back to work.