November « 2007 « deeples

November 14, 2007

PROJECT RUNWAY – predictions and cattiness

Filed under: Television — denise @ 5:58 pm

I was trying VERY hard to not go into the website that Richard sent me because I have SO much work to do today….but I simply had to do it and now I simply HAVE to comment.

I’m doing that thing where you formulate opinions about people based on what they wear and how they self-describe themselves… you know, prejudging!

It’s horrible. It’s catty. It’s an unstoppable force in my body that I can not control. Sure, I could decide to not judge someone stating that patent leather ankle boots are a “fashion must”. I could also hold my breath.

Eventually, it all comes out…

Based on their pictures and bio’s :

Christian, 21

Edward Scissorhand melded with Keanu Reeves! No?

At first I thought he was wearing some sort of winged cape made out of a shower curtain, but I now realize that it’s a bolt of cloth he is carrying like some kind of new age, wispy, vested Hercules!

He’s a cutie pie and Tim Gun calls him a “prodigy”. Prodigy!!!

Victoria, 34

Meet Ms. Patent Leather Ankle Boots are a fashion “must!”. Feel free to question the horrible dress that appears to have been fashioned during a house fire, when she grabbed a sheet from the linen closet and wrapped some electical tape around her waist and wrist. Tim calls her “dogged”. Nasty!

Kevin, 31

Why, hellooooo, Mr. Fatone! He looks like every guy in every Boy Band all mashed together into one. I don’t know about you, but I take people who stick their tongue out and make “Rock Fingers” at the camera reeeeally seriously….

Jillian, 26

Erm. What are those? Buttons? She’s not going to be like that chick that made all those stupid little felt flowers and insisted on putting them on EVERYTHING, is she? *Trying to imagine button-covered formal gown* Hmmm…

Marion, 40

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Please sir, might you spare a copper whut so I can buy a crust of bread?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I can’t stop laughing at this bizarro street urchin wearing 30 pounds of pancake makeup. For reals? For reals???? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m dying! Le Mis much?!!

Kit, 26

I kind of like her…. I mean, she looks ok…. like, I could have a conversation with her. Except, really I couldn’t. I would never get past the bangs. What……what……WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR BANGS?!!! Because.. because… do you know that you look like you fell in the garbage disposal forehead first? Also, honestly…. *smirk*…. that beret… *giggle*

Ricky, 35

RICKY!!!!! RICKY!!!!! RICKY RICKY RICKY!!!!!!!!

A human chihuahua, I predict. RICKY!!!!!! RICKY RICKY RICKY!!!!!!

Latino Willy Wonka? Senior Choo-Choo? RICKY!!!!!!!

Simone, 35

Now, here is a perfect example of insta-yuck. Just looking at her picture makes me want to viciously wad up paper on my desk and try to throw it in my garbage can but miss and then stomp on the paper with my foot. Immediate dislike. She looks like super villian. A super villian with stupid… *wad, wad*… ugly…. *STOMP!* black leather half gloves… *STOMP!* that are so lame… rggg… HISS!!!!!!

Chris, 44

Oh my. I just……….. well. Oh MY. The shirt, that tie, the diamond cross and what the hell is that FABRIC HE IS CARRYING?!! It’s like a tablecloth from the Renassaince Fair! He worked with Madonna and made costumes for Cirque du Soleil… and really, which one is more fashion reputable??? This poor guy is here to be laughed at, I fear. Also, is anyone getting the used to be a goth in highschool vibe?

Carmon, 37

Tim hates Carmon! Tim hates Carmon! If Tim hates her, then I have to hate her because I loooooves Tim.

Jack, 38

Well, Jack says that his “fashion must” is a sugar daddy.

Tim “Sugar Daddy” Gun says Jack is “charismatic, funny and incredibly likable.”

Elisa, 42

Milla Jojovich. No? Something, something.. blah..blah.. wearable art… Zzzzzzzzz….

Rami, 31

Hhhaaa-lo. My nem is RAMI! Feel free to worship me.

This season’s “I’m so good these other people might as well go home” person. Good times. Good times.

Kathleen, 46

Let’s take stock of this situation.

Goes by the nick name “Sweet Pea”

Is NOT a rapper, PowerPuff Girl or CareBear.

Wears kneesocks.

IS 46 YEARS OLD!!!

That is all.

Steven, 30

He’s the sweet one. Mark my words. He’s the sweet guy who gets bulldozed by the Fatones and the Ramis and the Carmons. He better be good…

Tonight is the premier! We are going to Richard and Scottie’s!

CARRY ON!

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November 13, 2007

Hot pink sky, confoosion, too hard to validate

Filed under: Uncategorized — denise @ 10:43 pm

Hot pink sky

Anyone see the sky this morning? I woke up and thought that perhaps our house was engulfed in a Duraflame log gone wonky. Or, a large piece of bubblegum. Or that Bobby Trendy had wrapped our house in pink feathers.

I hopped up and flung open the front door to find the most amazing pink sky.

Rapid fire thoughts:

Its so beautiful!

Are we at war? What horrible chemical thing is making the sky pink? Does Al Gore know about this?

It’s….. beautiful…

I must wake my family.

So, I did. I woke them and made them go outside and look at the beautiful hot pink sky with me at 6:27am this morning. I quietly sang “Hot Pink Sky” to the tune of Black Hole Sun.

Confoosion

*while watching TV, racing through commercials via the magic of TiVo*

Me: WAIT! GO BACK! GO BACK!

Kory: WHAT? WHAT IS IT?! (frantically hitting the go back button on our remote)

Me: Foo Fighters! Foo Fighters!

*we both watch a picture of a big syringe dance across the screen*

Me: Never mind. It says “Flu Fighters”.

Kory: *hysterical laughter while I poke him and tell him to stop laughing*

Too hard to validate

Dear anyone who wants to me to sign up for anything, or enter any contest, or change anything regarding any of my bank accounts, or update anything online whatsoever, or leave any of my friends a nice comment or anything that has the ability to spammed or phished or whatfreakingever:

I can no longer do anything online that requires me to validate anything because I am physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally incapable of retyping those stupid letters and numbers that look like they have spun wildly out of an acid trip and then melted like a Dali painting all over the screen and overlapped each other like some sort of word puzzle in the newspaper that someone must do, but I don’t know who…. who does those puzzles? 80 year old men? 10 year old girls? Not me, that is all I know.

I see that validation screen and I panic. Inside my head, I am yelling over and over again, “IS IS CASE SENSITIVE?! IS IT CASE SENSITIVE?!”

I can’t tell if something is an “l” or a “1” or if an N is a Z when it’s all tippy and weird and the whole thing just bothers me. I mean, if the idea is to keep something automated from doing something — why not ask me a simple question I can answer — like :

How many pennies make a quarter?

What color are lemons?

What is a baby kangaroo called?

And if you can’t answer those questions or something similiar, then … TOO BAD… you can’t validate! But at least you get a shot at it, right? It’s not a guessing game that you’d have a better chance at if you were high on acid….

That is all.

Denise

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November 8, 2007

Metaphorical blanket

Filed under: Uncategorized — admin @ 8:08 pm

Last night, I had a poorly timed argument with my husband at 2:30am.

I knew, when he came to bed that I should not ask about the issue.

I knew that 2:30am was surely NOT the time to have that talk. I know that once riled up I am not likely to throw on the brakes and that by the time I begin the “Whatever” “Let’s drop it.” “This is stupid.” phase is just about the time that Kory is ramping up to full speed and has now thought of all the responses to all the catty slams I threw at him an hour ago. He is now reaching full-stride and the last thing he is interested in at this point is dropping ANYTHING.

I, spent, have already spewed all the bile that is my anger. I am done, but Kory wants his chips back. He’s not really to get up from the table.. and so we plod on through the argument. He, making his points. Me, alternately trying to float away in my head and allowing him to pull me back in. The blanket, as this bed-fight continues, grows smaller… and smaller.

I pull the covers over.

“Why are you taking all the covers!?”, I yell.

“I’m not!”, he yells back. “I hardly have any either!”

Yank.

Pull.

“THIS”, I snap while holding up the corner of the blanket, “IS ALL I HAVE.”

“THIS”, he says holding up his tiny corner, “IS ALL I HAVE, EITHER!”

I stomp from the room. “I’m getting my own blanket from the couch!”, I yell over my shoulder.

“How can a blanket that we’ve been successfully sharing for 3 years on our bed suddenly not fit?!!!!!”, I hear him yell from the bedroom.

I am already in the dark living room, avoiding a Diet Coke can and the baby’s toys and all of the remotes on the floor. We have 3 remotes and I can’t explain why – but one does everything but the volume and one does everything and one does nothing but they all call our living room home and you never know which one you are going to be stuck with while the other two hide.

I’ll tell you WHY… I snarl in my brain…

because you are completely unreasonable, THAT’S why the blanket doesn’t fit…

because you don’t understand what I’m saying when I try to explain important things to me and you defend everyone and everything except the things and the people that I WANT you to defend..

and you are a selfish covers stealer…

and… and…

and I go back in the bedroom, dragging my own blanket behind me and I scowl at the clock that now says 3:11am….

I’m shaking with the unfairness of it all and I’m furious that I’m up at 3:11am, fighting with my selfish blanket hog husband who doesn’t understand why I am able to get so worked up over the PRINCIPLE of things and why it infuriates me that he likes to “examine and propose all sides of an issue” when what I want him to do is just AGREE with me and stop examining everyone else’s possible motives and just rub my shoulders and say, “You’re right, honey.”

This is the desperate part of the arguement where he, too, is done retaliating and he is ready for the fight to be over– but me, now I’m wallowing.

Now, is when I say untrue things about how he doesn’t understand me and he never has and he never will and probably I’m the most misunderstood person in the whole world …

that’s when he leans over and rubs my shoulders and says,

“We just had the blanet on the wrong way, honey.”

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