get your dork on...

with this NYT article on "little Floresians" and feel utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of the world and the history thereof. These mini people lived on a mini island from 840,000 years ago to at least 13,000 years ago. For the severely mathematically challenged, that's 827,000 years. We each get about 80. Damn. All the more reason to drink beer, eat burritos, and have a lot of sex (or think a lot about with whom you would like to have a lot of sex but you can't because he lives in fucking Canada.)

Look, a cool Russian squirrel! [via Yahoo]

sheena is a punk rocker, and jesus is a marshmallow

Oh golly jeez, I just can't wait to go home and get down and dirrrty with the following Bible recipes! [via Newyorkish]

Baby Jesus Haystacks
Melt choc chips and peanut butter together for 1 min in microwave, stir and microwave for additional 1 ½ min until melted. Add chow mein noodles and stir with 2 spoons/forks as tossing a salad.

Drop onto waxed paper.

Add a marshmallow to represent baby Jesus.

He's Alive Buns
Wrap one biscuit around 1 marshmallow. Dip in butter and roll in cinnamon/sugar.
Bake as directed on the refrigerator biscuit package.
The Marshmallow will melt and the bun will be hollow inside

When Mary told the disciples the stone had been removed from the entrance, the disciples ran to the tomb. John was the first to arrive and look inside. Peter entered and saw the linen that had been wrapped around Jesus lying flat as if the body evaporated. The tomb was empty! (just like the He's Alive Buns are empty)

Resurrection Rolls
Give each child one triangle shaped section of crescent roll. This represents the tomb.
Each child takes one marshmallow which represents the body of Christ.
Dip the marshmallow in the butter and roll in cinnamon and sugar mixture. This represents the oils and spices the body was anointed with upon burial.
Lay the marshmallow on the dough and carefully wrap it around the marshmallow.
Make sure all seams are pinched together well. (Otherwise the marshmallow will "ooze" out of the seams)
Bake according to package directions.
Cool.

Break open the tomb and the body of Christ is no longer there!!
Celebrate God's love!

Now, I enjoy a good marshmallow Bible metaphor as much as the next person, but I think children can learn everything one needs to know about Jesus from the epic film "Jesus of Nazareth." In addition to taking up six hours of classtime during the Easter season every year in grade school, the film was directed by Zeffirelli (arty!), and the Jesus was kind of hot (or at least I thought so when I was 10.) Screw marshmallows and Pilsbury biscuits.

yay fashion

[via Yahoo]

support the troops

You know it's going to be a good weekend when you kick it off with a good C-List celebrity sighting. On the way to purchase Advil (it was Friday) before heading down to Soho for Perplexa's birthday dinner at Balthazar, I found myself face to face with none other than Elisabeth Hasselback Filarski, of Survivor, The Look for Less, The View, and Republican National Convention fame. This supposed style maven was wearing the exact same clunky Frye boots as I've been wearing into the ground for the last couple years, only she was sporting hers over her jeans, Ugg-style. In a few words, oh honey no.

The next morning I arose nice and early to hitch a ride to Boston with a taller, blonder, and crazier crew friend. The drinking commenced immediately upon our arrival six hours later (there were a few accidental highway exits and a pit stop at the ex-boyfriend's house (surprise, ex-bf's parents!) along the way.) Ever the competitor, I insisted on keeping up with her one Red Stripe every ten minutes pace, which resulted in a couple of puking incidents at bars later on and us getting hopelessly lost in Cambridge when stumbling home from a bar approximately two blocks from where we were staying. Where are the numbered streets that are not all crooked and full of dead ends?

Somehow I survived to see another day, which turned out to be a little on the cold and miserable side, but it wouldn't be a proper crew race any other way. I got to see my favorite light blue boys and girls race, pet tons and tons of dogs and puppies, and harrass some jackass carrying a Bush/Cheney sign whose ass TBC pretended to bite as I took a picture, and as he turned around to ask what was wrong with us. Heh. Time to drink again! We curled up on the couch at TBC's friend's apartment to watch some TV and drink some White Russians. If your cable lineup includes the Travel Channel, I suggest you watch the show Million Dollar Boats. Nothing like an overtanned, oversteroided man wearing nothing but a leather vest commanding a 150 mph speedboat called The Love Muscle to brighten your day. Drinking continued well into the night at the official regatta after party, which was a big mess of drunk sweaty athletes and a couple drunk but not as sweaty former athletes getting stuck in an elevator and climbing over a waist high pile of furniture to escape.

The ride home on Monday necessitated so much caffeine and water that we took about six pee pit stops, but the drive was lovely. I'm not a big Connecticut fan, mostly because I'm just jealous of all the rich people, but I must say the Merritt Parkway is gorgeous, especially on a sunny fall day. And now it's back to work and my head still feels a little funny, and I need another weekend to recover from my weekend.

noticing a pattern here (also noticing that not a single sentence in this post is, in fact, a sentence)

So apparently when I'm down in the proverbial dumps I have nothing at all to say. But I'm trying to think positively and will not dwell on said dumps. Because things are just great! Like the fact that the cafeteria in my building has had yummy squash two days in a row (acorn and spaghetti...crossing my fingers for some butternut.) And this morning I pulled a cute outfit out of my ass when I thought I had nothing at all to wear. And I've gotten away with wearing jeans to work every day this week. And the Cardinals (my original home team) and the Red Sox (Yankee superiority is beyond old) are in the World Series. And Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend said, without encouragement, that he really likes my thighs (which I'd always thought were disproportionately large.) And today's Dog of the Day is totally ridiculous. And this weekend I'm going on a bender in Boston with my crazy-in-a-good-way girl friend and various members of the rowing elite. So, you see, things are just peachykeen. Now if only I weren't literally bored to tears and utterly bereft of motivation to change that. And, most importantly, if it were warm enough in my office such that my fingernails would stop being a lovely shade of mauve.

"And one thing I will say for George Bush, he has disabused me of my old belief that it doesn't really matter who's President"- a blogger named Barlow

Aside from the report I had to do on Millard Filmore in third grade (when the assignment was states, I got Delaware, so, yeah,) I don't remember thinking about politics until grade five. The year was 1991, and Bill Clinton and a bunch of other guys whose names still escape me (Dukakis? Buchanan? James K. Polk?) were in the running for President of the United States. One day, the third most hated teacher in the course of my plaid, pleated skirt-wearing career wrote the names of all the candidates on the blackboard. She then proceeded to ask each student for whom he or she would vote if 10-year-olds could, in fact, vote. I calmly and confidently replied, "I don't care." Scary old Mrs. Kraus bellowed "You don't...CAAARE?" in front of the entire class, and being the stubborn bastard that I was and am (now I REALLY wasn't going to care,) thus began my legacy of political apathy, ambivalence, and plain old unawareness.

Though I was an excellent history student and even eeked out a 4 on the American Government AP exam, my interest didn't improve much over the years. I can't say I remember a damn thing about the 1996 election, and though I filled out a voter's registration form in 2000, my first eligible election, I never bothered to ensure that it was processed (it wasn't, but I was in New York and Wisconsin went Democrat, so it was not my fault, ok?). But then, by the grace of Jon Stewart, my amateur political analyst pal Perplexa, and my extreme distaste for all things fanatically religious, I have become a person who not only registered to vote after minimal (ok, a few months of) prodding by friends and family, but was able to hold my own in an hour long, albeit very drunken, debate with my boss' Bush-supporting boss.

And now, with my newfound political fervor (we're talking in relative terms, here,) I bring you a couple of articles that are so good and persuasive that 1., even I was able to complete them and 2., they are going straight to The Parents in Wisconsin who are still, for some ungodly reason, undecided. So, Mrs. Kraus (are you still alive?), I CAAAARE. Happy now?

*NYT mag's Without a Doubt: "What makes Bush's presidency so radical — even to some Republicans — is his preternatural, faith-infused certainty in uncertain times." Do take special note of the part about the Swedish army. Yeeeikes.

*John Perry Barlow's October 3rd Post, Supporting Kerry Anyway [via Gregtheboyfriend]: "Gradually, I have watched the steam go out of the Anybody-But-Bush crowd as we realized that anybody, in this instance, was the increasingly irksome John Kerry...Against this backdrop of Bush-driven national emergencies, I've been allowing John Kerry's accent to diminish my sense of commitment to his election, I can't do this any more. Neither can the rest of us who have any regard for the well-being of our descendents. Yeah, John Kerry makes a lousy candidate for Prom King. But that isn't what he's running for." Booyah. Great article, but the comments scare me.

i have a giant mayonnaise stain on my shirt

A big shout out to the parents for providing me with the nature and the nurture to grow up and not find the following email forwards clever and/or inspirational [via Perplexa's Unsolicited Advice Cousin]:

Women are like apples on trees. The best ones are at the top of the tree.

Most men don't want to reach for the good ones because they are afraid of falling and getting hurt. Instead, they just take the rotten apples from the ground that aren't as good, but easy.......

The apples at the top think something is wrong with them, when in reality, they're amazing.

They just have to wait for the right man to come along, the one who's brave enough to climb all the way to the top of the tree.

Share this with other women who are good apples, even those who have already been picked!

Now Men....

Men are like a fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the crap out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

and

Today is International Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman's Day, so please send this message to someone you think fits this description.

Please do not send it back to me as I have already received it from a Very Good Looking Damn Smart Woman! (fill in - Matt's aunt Diane)

Good motto to live by: "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOOHOO, what a ride!"

Have an amazing day!

Fortunately for my keyboard and proverbial TPS Reports, I don't throw up easily.

new york to the rescue

I'm so hungover I can barely walk, or maybe I'm just still drunk. But praise be to Jesus, this otherwise miserable, dreary day has been saved by none other than Rod Stewart, whose hair I just saw in Rockefeller Center bopping along to "Maggie May" with hundreds of overweight midwestern housewives in ill-fitting jeans. If I'd been stoned instead of drunk I think the surrealness would've made my head explode.

tressler tressler bo bressler banana fana fo fressler me my mo mressler, tressler!

If President Monkeyface wins again, I am moving to Denmark. It is home to beautiful coastline and people that make me feel small, Surreal Life 2's Brigitte Nielsen (i.e., she who lumbers around the house wearing nothing but a cook's apron and has beer for breakfast,) and my dream occupation, Baby Naming Policeperson.

At its heart, the Law on Personal Names is designed to protect Denmark's innocents - the children who are undeservedly, some would say cruelly, burdened by preposterous or silly names. It is the state's view that children should not suffer ridicule and abuse because of their parents' lapses in judgment or their misguided attempts to be hip. Denmark, like much of Scandinavia, prizes sameness, not uniqueness, just as it values usefulness, not frivolousness [ok, so maybe there are some problems with Denmark].

In some cases, Mr. Nielsen [my new mentor] says, he believes he is performing a vital public service. He advised the Ministry that Anus and Pluto be rejected, for example. He also vetoed Monkey. "That's not a personal name, " Mr. Nielsen explained. "It's an animal. I have to protect the children from ridicule."

I'm all for free speech, and I'm even for abortion, but, hypocritical or not, I think some people must be stopped in order to help the defenseless. Like this poor brood [courtesy of the Local Paper]:

A daughter, Emberley Therese, was born Oct. 9, 2004, at Saint Joseph's Hospital to Rhonda and Kenneth Hill of Marshfield. She joins siblings Makailee, 10, and Tressler, 2.

get on top. shaboogie.

Last night I consumed: unknown quantity of Grey Goose, a few glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, four giant New England oysters, asparagus with lumps of crab meat swimming in butter, two kinds of mashed potatoes, half of a filet mignon, half of a lobster, creamed spinach with about an equal cream to spinach ratio, pecan pie smothered in whipped cream, carrot cake with cream cheese icing, and a $20 glass of port wine. If heaven were Ben Benson's steak house I would break out the rosaries and start going to church again.

reason #329407 why my new job ain't so bad

As I sit in my new cubicle on the other side of the office, wearing my new favorite jeans (seriously, they are the shit, and less than $150!) and gazing out at the sparkling Hudson (in a few hours the sun will begin to set--beyootiful,) I'm realizing that things could be worse*. Sure, I have to get up for a babysitting gig at 6:30 every morning to make ends meet (and by ends, I mean money for booze and expensive clothing--thanks, z!) and I'm not any closer to finding that elusive sense of meaning and purpose in my life, but the following conversation with my boss indicates that I am in an environment more suited to my personality (at least for the one more month I'm a temp during which I'll be crossing my fingers that I get hired for real and get me some stock options, whatever those are.) So I had to make reservations for my boss and other work people, myself included, at a famous NYC steakhouse. The only time available was for 45 minutes after my boss wanted the reservation and, as she is not superduper important like Drone's boss, I had to take it. So I called her (she works about 20 feet away from me, but it's aaaall the way around the corner) and said, "So I guess we'll just hang out here until then." She replied, without hesitation, "No, we will just go there and drink." Right-o, boss.

*Yes, I went to the gym last night. Amazing what a lil' serotonin will do.

the sun'll come out, to-mor-row

Despite some meager attempts to have fun this weekend, I am suffering from a major case of the blahs. This is my own damn fault since I haven't touched anything made of spandex in two weeks (except to shake the dustbunnies and hairballs off a pair of shorts and shove them back in a drawer.) As recent medical research suggests, exercise is about as effective as Prozac at raising serotonin levels and, hence, one's mood. So tonight I'm going to spinning class, because the dry mouth and sexual side effects of the aforementioned pill are just not ok. That, and I have no health insurance and am too lazy to go to doctors. I'm also a fan of good old fashioned positive thinking when I'm feeling craptacular. For example, I'm happy that, though far from perfect (or even mediocre, for that matter,) my skin is much better than Brit Brit's. And despite my problems with the little bastards, as far as I know there are no cockroach colonies shacking up in my kitchen appliances. And if I have enough money to pay off enough of my credit card debt to max it out with a plane ticket, I'm going to visit my lil' sis in Chile--land of the really hot people.

oh shandi, you came and you gave without takin'

Leave it to dear friends and reality television to make my day. Drone and I followed through on our Shandi-stalking plan and paid a visit to the Wallgreens on 33rd and 5th. After scouring the main floor and the lower level, I was convinced it was a bust. But there, there in the last aisle we peered down was Shanthrax herself, stocking cosmetics on a shelf overhead. As I am socially inept and prone to giggle fits, I hid around the corner while Drone went up to Shandi, engaged her in conversation, and asked to take pictures. She was nothing but sweet, if not totally freaked out, and told us about signing with an agency and living in New Jersey. (Are there no Walgreenses in Jersey?) Then her manager came by and asked her to go stock something in Aisle 6.

[Note: Despite the disturbingly large difference in head sizes, I do not suffer from encephalitis.]

crap

I'm feeling depressed again. And I can't poop. And I'm seriously pissed off that some women in this office think it's okay to use those ridiculous toilet seat covers that would be unnecessary if everyone would just quit it with the sprinkle-causing hovering and then leave them on the toilet seat so that the next person has to remove them with their bare hands so that the first person's precious back-of-the-thigh skin is spared from germs that wouldn't exist if everyone would just fucking sit down in the first place. Damn, and now I have penis envy too.

my mom said "warsh" once

...as in, "Are you going to warsh the dishes?" Even though my daddy wears a tie to work and I was ordering from the J. Crew catalog as soon as I hit high school, I feel that this shred of white trash heritage and the locations of my birth (Missourah) and childhood (Wiscaansin) qualify me to make sweeping judgments and use slang terms to make fun of my redneck and Midwestern brethren. So here we go...

*Perhaps even more than cheese curds, the Green Bay Packers are Wisconsinites' greatest source of pride. Apparently they have not been playing up to par lately (hell if I'd know,) and my Dad informs me that a wave of depression has hit the state. Good thing fullback Najeh Davenport is around to restore their faith. [via Thighswideshut]

*What's wrong with this picture? And the person who took it? And the person who wrote the caption? And the person who ok-ed it for publication? The Local Paper has some serious catching up to do. [via Newyorkish]

*Suicide bombers at the Jerusalem Sbarro...fake bomb threats at the local mall. I think the Blacktable is onto something. [via FABolis]

at least i'm not married and working at blockbuster

...is my new motto. Because I'm a glass-is-half-full kinda gal. Say it, and just try not to feel better about whatever existential crisis you're having. Thanks, sis. And thanks, sis' friend who is indeed married and working at Blockbuster.

just can't get enough

It's an ANTM bonanza in this city! First, I walked past America's Last Top Model looking pale and sad just a block from my apartment. Then yesterday morning Drone and I made plans to go Shandi-hunting on Thursday evening at the Walmart on 33rd and 5th. THEN last night as I was leaving the office, I crossed paths with Xiomara (my current place of employment hosts celebrities on a daily basis, though usually of the C/D-list variety, and they usually never come up to my floor.) After we passed each other I totally turned around to check her out, and I am pleased to report that her thighs are larger than mine. Given my profound excitement over these encounters, god help me if I ever come face to face with Tyra or Janice.

invaluable impact

I just received the following email from my soul mother's alumni association:

CCW Mentoring Fall 2004 Program Launches in November
Greetings,
Columbia College Women is proud to announce another year of the CCW Mentoring Program! Your involvement in CCW's Mentoring Program will make an invaluable impact on a student's life...You will be notified during the week of November 1 whether or not you have been assigned a protégée, but we would appreciate your participation in the kick-off event even if you are not assigned to a student. To be assigned to a protégée in advance of the kick-off event, you must register by Wednesday, October 27th.

While at first I read this and laughed at the prospect of having a protegee (what a lucky one that would be,) upon further consideration I realized it might not be a bad idea. I wish someone had told me earlier on that if you go straight to school after college you will wish you hadn't and don't let your parents tell you otherwise, if you don't go straight to school you will become seriously lost, depressed, and/or confused for at least a year and remain moderately so for some time thereafter, and if you stick to vodka tonics and eat a substantial meal you will probably not puke, break too many things, or blackout and sleep with men of questionable location on the human-ape continuum. Then again, perhaps there are some things you just have to learn for yourself.

[oh, and in case you care about such things, my weekend was weird and great and CCIBWIMIRLF is awesome]

so...

Cute Canadian Internet Boyfriend Whom I Met in Real Life First is coming to visit tonight, and therefore I have spent the day smoking, running to the bathroom, and contemplating what kind of alcoholic beverage I'd like to load up on before he gets here. Here are some insanely cute, awesomely absurd [via cityrag], and fuggily fugly pictures of dogs.