So call me a cold-hearted bitch or whatever, but I really don't care that Terry Schiavo is dead. I didn't know her before she was dead, and I don't know her after. I have my own personal beliefs about how I want my body "processed" in such a given situation or post-mortem, however, I don't really feel as though the entire universe needs to know about it. If this happened to my mom, for example, I'd have yanked the feeding tube and pulled the plug 12 years ago. Even better, I would have taken her to Oregon before this shit even happened and helped her commit suicide as to avoid the whole thing. I mean, there's just no need for machines to inhibit your body. When it's over, it's over.
And so I'm really sorry to all of the people that called and text messaged me informing me of Johnny Cochran's death as well, but I guess I have to ask - why? Yeah, it's sad, but why are you calling me about it? Do you think I don't have access to getting current and up-to-date information? I'm not really sure what that was all about. It's not like I am a close personal friend of his, nor am I really a fan. Quite honestly, I didn't even really follow the O.J. trial to even tell you which side he was on. Sorry. I mean, sorry that he has passed, but everyone will eventually.
What I do care about, is the fact that yesterday, my neighbor of nearly 15 years dropped dead in a parking lot. Apparently, he had just had his heart checked out and received a clean bill of health just to suffer a major heart attack just days later. Now that is fucked up. This guy is the same age as my father, and had a son my age, a daughter my sister's age, and another daughter even younger, not to mention a wife. Now, those are the kinds of deaths that disturb me personally. I can't even imagine what the family is going through, having had no warning or preperation for his death.
To paraphrase a friend - it makes you wonder why we sweat the small things.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Friday, March 25, 2005
If You Think She's Hot Now, You Should Have Seen Her Two Years Ago!
Men already have a way of having their head up their ass when they talk, which is fine, unless you're trying to impress somebody. Throw in a little alcohol and then it's really obvious why you're going home alone. Me, I don't really care too much about being impressed, nor do I honestly think that people really try too hard to impress people anymore. I think instead, they buy $500 purses and stupid shoes made by some guy I've never heard of (but was in Sak's catalogue) or drive around some impeccably cared for (by someone else, of course) new Mercedes with plates reminding me that yes, it is in fact, a Mercedes. This takes the personal responsibility off of them to impress me, and instead I'm just supposed to, passively, be impressed by it all.
Well, I think it's stupid. Moreover, I think it's sad.
This is why I appreciate the effort, even through your alcholic facade. These are my two favorite backhanded compliments this week so far:
I ran into a guy at this bar that I really used to find interesting and attractive. Not really sure what happened with that whole thing, but we still give each other favorable looks when we hear about or happen to run into each other. I saw him as soon as I walked into the bar and made my way over to say 'hi' with a hug. He stepped back and looked me up and down.
"Wow, you really lost a lot of weight," he said, almost too increduously, "You look really good."
I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another, "Wow, I mean you really did lose a lot of weight."
Gee thanks. As if I was a total fatass before? You could have just started and stopped with, 'You look really good'. Put that in your mental bank for next time.
While I was working earlier this week, I went up to two gentlemen sitting at the bar to offer them a free shotglass and a round of beers. It was my first account, so I weakly offered up some conversation about what kind of beer they were drinking. I knew I was in trouble when I offered the man the shotglass and his friend looked down at it and told me that, "That shotglass is the only thing he has to his name right now!"
"Well good," I said, "Then you can set it right up there on the windowsill," I tried to make my exit.
"She toook everything," the other man grabbed me around the waist (which I hate). Not having the foresight to anticipate his response to my next action, I held up a free sampler CD that we were giving out.
"Would you like one of these CDs to make you feel better?" I was in a trap and didn't even know it yet.
He took it and let out a hearty, bitter laugh. Holding it up, he scowled, "The bitch took the CD player, too!"
I bit my bottom lip. I looked up at the bartender. He gave me a look that seemed to say, "I feel sorry for you, but yet, you're the one that pretty much brought this upon yourself. Please allow me to stand back and revel in the fact that it is for once, happening to you and not to me." He crossed his arms and gave me an empathetic smile.
"I'm, um, sorry to hear about all..." I was interrupted by his monologue, that seemed to begin with the phrase 'you women', which are my favorite kind.
"See, you women," he started, but surprised me when he said, "you get better as the time goes on. At least for a little while."
I shifted my weight.
"Take you for example," he looked me up and down, "you have ass and legs and that's what matters..."
I smiled, but rolled my eyes at him and started to turn away when he grabbed me around the waist again (ugh!). Once again looking at my ass, he added, "And that's the good stuff."
His friend nodded. The bartender waited.
"Take you for example, you're young," he squinted his eyes, "About 23?"
"24," I corrected.
"Okay, so 24. Give you fifteen years, and," he looked me up and down again, "And you'll be hot."
My neck inched forward as if to comprehend what he'd just said, when his friend added, "Yeah, ten or fifteen years and you'll be at your peak."
The man kept going, "But, after your peak, it will all be downhill. Your stuff up top will start dragging around and all your skin will just be drooping."
They looked at me, as if waiting for me to agree with them.
I didn't really have anything to say, so I frantically looked toward my coworkers and began to point to them but was still thinking of something to say.
The man looked back up at me, knowing my plan, and told me that in fifteen years he was planning to be in Arizona and that if, when I was 39, I wanted to look him up, I could.
Right.
Well, I think it's stupid. Moreover, I think it's sad.
This is why I appreciate the effort, even through your alcholic facade. These are my two favorite backhanded compliments this week so far:
I ran into a guy at this bar that I really used to find interesting and attractive. Not really sure what happened with that whole thing, but we still give each other favorable looks when we hear about or happen to run into each other. I saw him as soon as I walked into the bar and made my way over to say 'hi' with a hug. He stepped back and looked me up and down.
"Wow, you really lost a lot of weight," he said, almost too increduously, "You look really good."
I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another, "Wow, I mean you really did lose a lot of weight."
Gee thanks. As if I was a total fatass before? You could have just started and stopped with, 'You look really good'. Put that in your mental bank for next time.
While I was working earlier this week, I went up to two gentlemen sitting at the bar to offer them a free shotglass and a round of beers. It was my first account, so I weakly offered up some conversation about what kind of beer they were drinking. I knew I was in trouble when I offered the man the shotglass and his friend looked down at it and told me that, "That shotglass is the only thing he has to his name right now!"
"Well good," I said, "Then you can set it right up there on the windowsill," I tried to make my exit.
"She toook everything," the other man grabbed me around the waist (which I hate). Not having the foresight to anticipate his response to my next action, I held up a free sampler CD that we were giving out.
"Would you like one of these CDs to make you feel better?" I was in a trap and didn't even know it yet.
He took it and let out a hearty, bitter laugh. Holding it up, he scowled, "The bitch took the CD player, too!"
I bit my bottom lip. I looked up at the bartender. He gave me a look that seemed to say, "I feel sorry for you, but yet, you're the one that pretty much brought this upon yourself. Please allow me to stand back and revel in the fact that it is for once, happening to you and not to me." He crossed his arms and gave me an empathetic smile.
"I'm, um, sorry to hear about all..." I was interrupted by his monologue, that seemed to begin with the phrase 'you women', which are my favorite kind.
"See, you women," he started, but surprised me when he said, "you get better as the time goes on. At least for a little while."
I shifted my weight.
"Take you for example," he looked me up and down, "you have ass and legs and that's what matters..."
I smiled, but rolled my eyes at him and started to turn away when he grabbed me around the waist again (ugh!). Once again looking at my ass, he added, "And that's the good stuff."
His friend nodded. The bartender waited.
"Take you for example, you're young," he squinted his eyes, "About 23?"
"24," I corrected.
"Okay, so 24. Give you fifteen years, and," he looked me up and down again, "And you'll be hot."
My neck inched forward as if to comprehend what he'd just said, when his friend added, "Yeah, ten or fifteen years and you'll be at your peak."
The man kept going, "But, after your peak, it will all be downhill. Your stuff up top will start dragging around and all your skin will just be drooping."
They looked at me, as if waiting for me to agree with them.
I didn't really have anything to say, so I frantically looked toward my coworkers and began to point to them but was still thinking of something to say.
The man looked back up at me, knowing my plan, and told me that in fifteen years he was planning to be in Arizona and that if, when I was 39, I wanted to look him up, I could.
Right.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
It's Hard Being a Model
I mean, it's so hard to talk to men and buy them beer on the company tab and look cute.
I hope you catch the sarcasm, because I'm laying it on pretty thick.
But seriously, that's my job. I lost a bunch of weight, sold out, and now I wear little tank tops to the same bars every week and represent for the company for which I promote.
Life is so hard.
Last week, we visited all of our accounts to make sure that people had enough beads and green derby hats and blinkies to blind themselves. We walked into one bar (the one most frequented by a guy appropriately named 'Critter')(seriously) and I noticed a white Jeep Cherokee running in the parking lot outside. Since I am not the type to be the girl that runs upstairs when someone breaks in my house, I thought best to get away from said running vehicle.
When I came out of the bar an hour and half later I see the same Jeep still running in the parking lot. I decide to walk next to it, just to check out the situation and I nearly threw up when I saw about three perfectly round piles of puke outside the driver's side door. My lip curled back and I cupped my hand over my lips as I turned my head to look inside. Then, I about shit my pants as I was greeted with the face of a man pressed up against the drivers side window with puke drooling out of his mouth, apparently passed out. I don't know which bothered me more; the fact that this guy could be dead, or the fact that this guy was apparently planning to drive.
I moved on...
...to the next bar in which a bunch of people from a conference which ended at 3pm were still out post-conference drinking at around 11pm. They were taking turns dancing (like Pee Wee Herman a la Pee Wee's Big Top) with one guy sitting out to hold up their female coworker so she wouldn't fall over from extreme intoxication. Classy. They were all apparently famous homebuilders. They offered me shots. I was working. I declined.
A bus driver confided in me how great it was to be drunk during the week and have a designated driver. The driver was her 16-year-old son.
A 75-year old man tried to make out with me. I quickly turned my head and he ended up sticking his tongue into my ear. I think he was just glad to be still alive.
This is only Week One of the next twelve weeks.
I hope you catch the sarcasm, because I'm laying it on pretty thick.
But seriously, that's my job. I lost a bunch of weight, sold out, and now I wear little tank tops to the same bars every week and represent for the company for which I promote.
Life is so hard.
Last week, we visited all of our accounts to make sure that people had enough beads and green derby hats and blinkies to blind themselves. We walked into one bar (the one most frequented by a guy appropriately named 'Critter')(seriously) and I noticed a white Jeep Cherokee running in the parking lot outside. Since I am not the type to be the girl that runs upstairs when someone breaks in my house, I thought best to get away from said running vehicle.
When I came out of the bar an hour and half later I see the same Jeep still running in the parking lot. I decide to walk next to it, just to check out the situation and I nearly threw up when I saw about three perfectly round piles of puke outside the driver's side door. My lip curled back and I cupped my hand over my lips as I turned my head to look inside. Then, I about shit my pants as I was greeted with the face of a man pressed up against the drivers side window with puke drooling out of his mouth, apparently passed out. I don't know which bothered me more; the fact that this guy could be dead, or the fact that this guy was apparently planning to drive.
I moved on...
...to the next bar in which a bunch of people from a conference which ended at 3pm were still out post-conference drinking at around 11pm. They were taking turns dancing (like Pee Wee Herman a la Pee Wee's Big Top) with one guy sitting out to hold up their female coworker so she wouldn't fall over from extreme intoxication. Classy. They were all apparently famous homebuilders. They offered me shots. I was working. I declined.
A bus driver confided in me how great it was to be drunk during the week and have a designated driver. The driver was her 16-year-old son.
A 75-year old man tried to make out with me. I quickly turned my head and he ended up sticking his tongue into my ear. I think he was just glad to be still alive.
This is only Week One of the next twelve weeks.
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