u s e y o u r h a n d s

Wednesday Morn Update:

So I’m taking a break from my coffee-induced writing flow (which is probably not the best idea, but I have a short attention span and think it’s best to get this over with) to tell you about this stupid thing I’m doing now. It’s sort of cute, but mainly dumb.

I’m listening to Blur…again. And there’s part of one song, a refrain, that makes me stop what I’m doing, look in my monitor’s rearview mirror, and lip-synch. I AM MY OWN BRIT POP STAR! I am this year’s hot xmas gift.

When I feel heavy metal/
And I’m pins and I’m needles/

I’ve decided to take January to make a bunch of slightly retro clothes that actually fit me. How lovely, how divine. I need some twinsets and petticoats.

I spent last night by myself for the first time in a long time. I nearly tossed up my beret a la Mary Tyler Moore. And why? I had bags full of groceries and my own little apartment. I was not sobbing. This is different from the last time I lived alone. I like it better this way.

The office Christmas party is today. Potluck, no booze. I will not be attending. And why? During my absence, I’ll remember all the times I had way too much fun at the office work party.

Ryan and Trista’s Godawful Vagina-Pink Wedding

Yes, I think I’m finally ready to talk about the travesty ABC inflicted upon the American public last Wednesday. Deep breath.

Bachelorette Trista and her fireman cum shitty-ass poet fiance Ryan wed in a posh Southern California resort. Yeah, yeah. But oh, the ceremony!

I hope that when I get married, I can find a reverend who also sounds like a bullhorn. He will herald my nuptials like he’s calling to ships lost at sea. If it was good enough for Trista and Ryan, it’s good enough for me.

Ok! I guess reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning really took it out of them, so the Rev’ stopped the ceremony for a little craft time. He took turns with the dismal duo pouring different colors of sand into a glass cylinder. The sand poured into the glass and kicked up a very cute cloud of shit that spelled wedding! The result looked like something you’d see at a county fair between a stand that airbrushes comedy and tragedy masks on t-shirts and a stand pushing elephant ears.

Oh, shit. Back the fuck up there, buddy. So, the guest’s chairs were covered with pink fabric. Fine. But the colors were graduated from pale pink to deep fuchsia. It appeared (to me, at least) that Trista wasn’t so much walking down the aisle as she was emerging from a huge vagina. Live with that visual.

And they spent $15,000 on a cake. Now I understand jihad.