Aside from the fact that this is arguably the greatest city on Earth and everybody (and their dog... literally, because you're truly not a Denverite without a dog. I'm still trying to get accepted based on my little cat weakness...) should move here, I only have one complaint, then I'll move on. Yesterday, April 23, 2010, it SNOWED. Uh huh, not just like a little flake here and there like a semi-normal springtime flurry, but it was full-on white-out business. Double U tee eff. I know I know, I moved to the mountains and am supposed to just expect this BS, but really? They say April showerzzz for a reason... to be cute about rainstorms, not snowstorms. With that being said, it took about 30 minutes for the sun to retaliate and Denver was back on track with perfection. Thank you, baby Jesus. My office actually closed yesterday at 2:00, but being the staunch over achiever that occasionally I am (that was a little oxymoronic, but you get my point), I stayed until 5:30 like a good little HR/Risk Coordinator would/should. I talked to a few of the VPs throughout that time who told me to go home, but I feel like I earned some real street cred when I told them that I had to stay to get some top secret things done for my superimportant job. Clearly I should have just said, "You're more than welcome to go home, Sir, I'll gladly assume your duties. As you should know, I was born to sit behind a mahogany desk surrounded by statues and original works of art." Because let's be real here, as the HR Ball Girl, I'm just riding the fence (or ball) between admin and exec. I just need the wind to start blowing the right direction. Somebody get this girl a secretary.
So today I woke up with a nice little hangover (thank you, Wash Park Tavern and new friends who drink as fast as I do) and reluctantly drove down to the 24 Hr Fitness on Alameda to burn off the BL Limes (mmmbeer). I've been told before that this is the 24 Hr that is typically thought of as the gateway gym to other 24 Hrs... i.e. people don't stay there for a reason. Wellwellwell, I do all that I can to avoid this gym in particular for a few reasons, but decided to go anyway because I didn't feel like running outside in case I had to hurl in a few bushes. Anyway, my reasons are:
1. When you walk in, you literally have to swim through a moist (hate that word) cloud of human sweat, body heat and bad breath... even on the hottest day of the year I guarantee their windows will still be dripping with sweaty condensation. Delicious...
2. I've never heard so many grunts and arrrrggggghhhhhs and panting in my life. This actually is incentive for me to go there because I get a week's worth of giggling in. Truly I don't think there's any other way to react to a grunter than to look him in the eye, then turn my head and laugh. If anyone else has a better strategy, I'm all ears...
3. Short shorts. No no we're not talking about Nair Short Shorts... I'm talking about shortmanshorts. They're typically paired with a nice tiny tank to show off their bulging biceps, triceps, abs (or more often, beer bellies), delts and lats, which all go hand-in-hand with a raunchy display of manthighs, bird legs, or thunderous calves. I was on the rowing machine a few weeks ago and a man sat down on the machine next to me who was wearing the world's shortest shorts and a baby tee. This guy was just begging for a slapintheface, but clearly would have preferred a nice little booty love tap if you know what I mean. I would have erred with the former in his case. Next thing I know, he's mounting the machine, putting his feet in the stirrups and it's off to the races... I'll let your imagination chew on that one (he actually strongly resembled the villain in Charlie's Angels who pulls Lucy Liu's hair out and smells it... ew). I think I nearly bit a hole through my lip trying not to smile. I only lasted about 3 more minutes before I had to switch machines. I'd be a terrible poker player.
4. I've been told some, uh, "men's locker room stories" that I'd rather have remained naive about. That's all I feel comfortable saying about that.
5. I guarantee only 20% of the people in there have washed their hands. And Laaawwwd only knows where those hands have been (refer to #4 if you're at a loss for ideas on that one).
6. It's the most stereotypical mating ground I've ever stepped foot into. Some days I intentionally look like hell to see what kind of looks I will (or won't) get. This game is clearly the little psychologist in me, but it's super fun and I highly recommend it. What I just luuurrrv is seeing people walk in who you know just spent at least an hour in preps to look their best (both men and women). Call me crazy, but when I go to a gym the two last things I'm interested in doing are hitting on someone or being hit on, mostly because I'm a Stage 14 sweater. Throw this girl on a freaking ab machine and I'll be dripping after 30 seconds... don't even get me started on treadmillz and ellipticalz. Maybe I should start requesting my own private workout facility. Wow, Melissa, this is really attractive...
Moving on... After my workout, I ran home to shower and change, then headed off to my new (and favorite) hair salon for an appointment with Tiffany. Tiff and I quickly became besties and let me tell you... girlfriend knows how to do some hurr. Right now I feel like a real life rockstar, which anyone who knows me even a little bit can tell you that that's my secret life goal. I still have time... maybe I'll do karaoke tonight and will get discovered... omigod tomorrow I could be the next Joan Jett. Too bad I verrrrry rarely allow myself to do karaoke.
And now I'm sitting in Peet's Coffee Shop in Cherry Creek, freezing my tail feathers off under an air vent as I'm looking outside and wondering why I'm not soaking up some Vitamin D right now. Even though it snowed yesterday, the sun decided to get its sh*t together today and is gracing us with its presence. Once again, thank you baby Jesus.
The things people talk about in coffee shops are way too funny for real life. Sure, sir, I'd love to hear about your recent weight gain and prostate health. Oh, and yeah girl, you totally should not have slept with him and that other girl really izzz such a ho. And ohhhh maaaahhhhh gaaawwwwddd congratulations you two! Let me see the raaang! Girrrrl thas a goood lookin' rock! Mmmhmm yo man's got some coin. (From one white girl to another, it's only appropriate to talk like that in certain situations because as we all know, white girls are expected to be uptight/proper/well-spoken... well, we didn't all get that memo, did we?)
Tonight I'm going to Fort Collins and for the record, good behavior is not allowed. Bring. It. On.
4/24/10
4/22/10
twistaz.
When I started at my job, I really had absolutely no idea what I was getting myself into other than the fact that A. I fiiiinally had a sweet job that I wasn't ashamed to admit to, and B. The people who hired me seemed toolegittoquit. But surprisingly, those are only two small aspects of why I love what I do. What really makes my job cooler than being cool is the fact that I'm one of the CEOs. Uh huh... See. Ee. Oh. Also known as Chief Evacuation Officer. For everyone who's known me, well, for at least 10 minutes, you probably know that not only do I think a fart is about the funniest thing in the whole world (unless it comes out of my brother... then I just start throwing punches because no one should have to suffer that biz), but a majority of my humor lies in the gutter. So it should be no big surprise that I thought the irony of this little title was too hilarious for its own good. One of these days I'll grow up.
Back to my CEO responsibilities... In my overhead bin (is that what you call it? a bin? whatever.) is a hat embroidered with the title Floor Warden that I'm supposed to wear during an emergency evacuation (wasn't so thrilled when I found out about that one), a neon green flash light, an emergency evacuation kit AND AND AND a megaphone. You don't understand how many times I want to use that megaphone during the day. Think of every possible time during the day that you want/need to yell, laugh, scream obscenities, annoy someone, tell someone off, find a coworker, find a piece of chocolate, tell someone a random fact, tell a story, or explain a procedure... multiply that number by 10 and you are getting close to the amount of times I'm tempted to megasize my voice. Some day maybe I'll get the guts to do it, but until then, I'll bite my tongue. I'm not sure the realdeal CEO and Prez would think it's as cute as I would.
So TODAY I actually got to put into motion my CEO responsibilities. A wall of dark gray clouds rolled in across the great citayy of Menver and what did it bring with it? Rain? Hail? No no no... TORNADOES! And I freaking hate tornadoes. They make me all sorts of nervous. So once I saw Fred get into the zone, I knew I had to follow his lead. So I grabbed my radio and started listening to his commands to each floor. I felt like I was in a theatrical real-life production of a James Bond movie where Fred was James and I was the sultry Bond girl... only, I was wearing way too many clothes and not enough make-up to be a Bond girl (but you get the idea). I waited for my instruction, which ended up only being to call a few Floor Captains and make sure every employee was away from windows and to the center of their floor (our building is practically made of glass, so if something would actually hit us, we'd be pretty screwed). I'll be honest, my palms got a little sweaty and I'm sure I started to blush like a beet, but to say it was exhilarating would be... um, an overstatement... but secretly exciting? Totally.
Thankfully the warning turned into a watch after about 15 minutes of moderate panic. But until then, thoughts like "Where's my phone? What kind of loss does my insurance cover? Did I bring anything valuable to work today? and Damn, I have Sarah and Courtney's bday presents on my desk and rrreally need to send those today" came to mind. And so ended my first experience as the CEO of my company. What. A. Trip.
Back to my CEO responsibilities... In my overhead bin (is that what you call it? a bin? whatever.) is a hat embroidered with the title Floor Warden that I'm supposed to wear during an emergency evacuation (wasn't so thrilled when I found out about that one), a neon green flash light, an emergency evacuation kit AND AND AND a megaphone. You don't understand how many times I want to use that megaphone during the day. Think of every possible time during the day that you want/need to yell, laugh, scream obscenities, annoy someone, tell someone off, find a coworker, find a piece of chocolate, tell someone a random fact, tell a story, or explain a procedure... multiply that number by 10 and you are getting close to the amount of times I'm tempted to megasize my voice. Some day maybe I'll get the guts to do it, but until then, I'll bite my tongue. I'm not sure the realdeal CEO and Prez would think it's as cute as I would.
So TODAY I actually got to put into motion my CEO responsibilities. A wall of dark gray clouds rolled in across the great citayy of Menver and what did it bring with it? Rain? Hail? No no no... TORNADOES! And I freaking hate tornadoes. They make me all sorts of nervous. So once I saw Fred get into the zone, I knew I had to follow his lead. So I grabbed my radio and started listening to his commands to each floor. I felt like I was in a theatrical real-life production of a James Bond movie where Fred was James and I was the sultry Bond girl... only, I was wearing way too many clothes and not enough make-up to be a Bond girl (but you get the idea). I waited for my instruction, which ended up only being to call a few Floor Captains and make sure every employee was away from windows and to the center of their floor (our building is practically made of glass, so if something would actually hit us, we'd be pretty screwed). I'll be honest, my palms got a little sweaty and I'm sure I started to blush like a beet, but to say it was exhilarating would be... um, an overstatement... but secretly exciting? Totally.
Thankfully the warning turned into a watch after about 15 minutes of moderate panic. But until then, thoughts like "Where's my phone? What kind of loss does my insurance cover? Did I bring anything valuable to work today? and Damn, I have Sarah and Courtney's bday presents on my desk and rrreally need to send those today" came to mind. And so ended my first experience as the CEO of my company. What. A. Trip.
4/21/10
bif. tail. cross.
If I could name three of my most favorite things in the world, I'd probably be lying when I told you what they were because let's be honest, things change. BUT a few things I do lovemesomeof: killer dance moves, new running shoes, cats (get over it), vajazzelling, fart jokes/stories (or just the word fart in general because I laugh every time I hear it), showing off yoga poses that I don't really know how to do but am always willing to try for a laugh, BBQ sauce, loud belly laughs, conversations with the under-6 crowd, putting Zs on the end of words to pretend like I'm coolz, and finally, a good bif, some lobster tails (the inedible kind... to be explained later) and the femme man cross.
The last three bring me a great deal of joy and I'll tell you why: for the most part, you really can't explain why they exist, but when you see them, there's notadamnthing you can do to peel your eyes away.
Bif.
Definition: Butt in front. Uh huh, yeah, gross? No no no. Fascinating? Yes. I had an instructor at one point in my life who I'll just refer to as Mr. Bif. Mr. Bif would be the King of Bif Island if it existed (and let me tell you... I would vaca there annually, preferably with Mike Stafford). Here's what was so great about Mr. Bif: not only could you only distinguish his waist via his belt line--which just so happened to act as the hemisphere of his body, separating his boobies from his bif--but on the off-chance that said bif had somehow engulfed the man's biz, there really is no way on God's Green Earth that this man actually had a trace of man-biz. Honestly, my friends and I would spend dayzzz searching for any sign of life below the hemisphere, but to no avail... which leads me to my next point: THE LOBSTER TAIL.
Lobster Tail.
Definition: Tuck and cover. Now, don't befuddle lobster tails with mangina's, as the two are completely separate, but equally amazing, "cousins" of the sort. The lobster tail simply explains what it looks like when someone has their biz hidden (most likely by a bif). It only seemed natural to coin this expression after things like bifs, fupas, camel toes, and other more graphic expressions that will remain to your imagination were created. Besides, who the eff on Earth will ever know what you're talking about when you compliment their lobster tail? If you're lucky, they'll be a chef and the compliment will double in value. Super.
Femme man cross.
Definition: Men crossing their legs as only a woman should. This happens waaaayyyyy too much and I'm left in awe every single time. As I was explaining to Ben earlier today, I think having bird legs helps a man's femme-man-crossing efforts tremendously, but with that being said, ummm it still doesn't make sense to me on any level HOW in the WORLD that could be a cozy sitting position for a guy? I see men do it all the time and secretly giggle to myself every single time. I'm still trying to think of a casual way to suggest to a guilty femme-man-crosser that it would be in everyone's best interest if he could go back to the newspaper-reading-Dad-cross (ankle-over-knee). Call me immature, but I'm simply looking out for their testicular health, especially considering the gov suggests that everything short of sneezing will give you cancer these days. Now, to add an even more disturbing proponent to the femme man cross, I guess you could combine all three (bif, tail, cross) for a truly stomach-turning, yet heart-warming sight, but I don't even want to go there. I just giggle-vomited a little thinking about it.
So there you have it. Some of life's greatest treasures. But in all honesty, these should be used with caution and in moderation, despite how much I truly love catching one (or more) in action.
The last three bring me a great deal of joy and I'll tell you why: for the most part, you really can't explain why they exist, but when you see them, there's notadamnthing you can do to peel your eyes away.
Bif.
Definition: Butt in front. Uh huh, yeah, gross? No no no. Fascinating? Yes. I had an instructor at one point in my life who I'll just refer to as Mr. Bif. Mr. Bif would be the King of Bif Island if it existed (and let me tell you... I would vaca there annually, preferably with Mike Stafford). Here's what was so great about Mr. Bif: not only could you only distinguish his waist via his belt line--which just so happened to act as the hemisphere of his body, separating his boobies from his bif--but on the off-chance that said bif had somehow engulfed the man's biz, there really is no way on God's Green Earth that this man actually had a trace of man-biz. Honestly, my friends and I would spend dayzzz searching for any sign of life below the hemisphere, but to no avail... which leads me to my next point: THE LOBSTER TAIL.
Lobster Tail.
Definition: Tuck and cover. Now, don't befuddle lobster tails with mangina's, as the two are completely separate, but equally amazing, "cousins" of the sort. The lobster tail simply explains what it looks like when someone has their biz hidden (most likely by a bif). It only seemed natural to coin this expression after things like bifs, fupas, camel toes, and other more graphic expressions that will remain to your imagination were created. Besides, who the eff on Earth will ever know what you're talking about when you compliment their lobster tail? If you're lucky, they'll be a chef and the compliment will double in value. Super.
Femme man cross.
Definition: Men crossing their legs as only a woman should. This happens waaaayyyyy too much and I'm left in awe every single time. As I was explaining to Ben earlier today, I think having bird legs helps a man's femme-man-crossing efforts tremendously, but with that being said, ummm it still doesn't make sense to me on any level HOW in the WORLD that could be a cozy sitting position for a guy? I see men do it all the time and secretly giggle to myself every single time. I'm still trying to think of a casual way to suggest to a guilty femme-man-crosser that it would be in everyone's best interest if he could go back to the newspaper-reading-Dad-cross (ankle-over-knee). Call me immature, but I'm simply looking out for their testicular health, especially considering the gov suggests that everything short of sneezing will give you cancer these days. Now, to add an even more disturbing proponent to the femme man cross, I guess you could combine all three (bif, tail, cross) for a truly stomach-turning, yet heart-warming sight, but I don't even want to go there. I just giggle-vomited a little thinking about it.
So there you have it. Some of life's greatest treasures. But in all honesty, these should be used with caution and in moderation, despite how much I truly love catching one (or more) in action.
4/15/10
Jude Hobbs. 2008-2010
For as long as I can remember, I've been enamored of, or rather, obsessed with, cats. Yeah, I'm the weird cat lady, but don't you worry because I'm damn proud of it. So finally for my 21st birthday, what's the only thing I want? (Other than a mixer that my boyfriend at the time "mysteriously" got me, then had to return because he had no money... I wasn't born yesterday, dumbass...) A CAT, OF COURSE! Sooo a few days after I got back from Australia, Mama Lori and I mosied on over to Berrrrrtrand, Neeeebraski on a mission to find me a furry little feline companion. Well well well, we pulled up to this crazydazy run-down farmhouse and I'm thinking "for crying out loud, did we just drive to Arkansas for a f*cking cat?" but instead of voicing my opinion, I made a bee-line for the farmhouse. I was greeted by two young children (who later greatly influenced my decision) who yanked me into the barn to check out their lot. We milled around for awhile, scouting out possible fur balls, but I couldn't seem to convince myself that this little goofy-looking calico (who had markings that strongly resembled Hitler's moustache) could be my new baby.
But then I saw it.
This adorable, fuzzy little creature was having breakfast and, leave it to me to be graceful about it, I literally pulled it from its mother's (for lack of better terms, but gross...) teet. It was love at first sight. I was sold. So the five-year-old girl did a gender check, which roughly translated into her lifting its leg and saying, "Yep, it's a girl!!" and relunctantly passed my little princess off to me. I felt a little like I was stealing candy from a baby, but baby's aren't even supposed to have candy, so I got over it in about .2 seconds. Sorry, kid.
So from the on, little "June" and I were attached at the hip, actually at the collarbone, where she preferred to sleep. A few months later, the aggressive little tigre went in to get its mama tubes tied and what do you think they found? No, not ovaries, no no no. After digging through her tum, they flipped her over and found a pair of what could only be described as caviar eggs that slightly resembled my cat's berries. After my slight breakdown and own personal identity crisis (my cat had been wearing a pink sparkly collar for God's sake), I decided to rename June to Jude and moved on with my life.
We spent one glorious (Sarah, Liz, Heidi and the 934 boys might tell you differently) year together until I moved to Denver and had to sacrifice my baby boy for my dream. Naturally, my intention was to get him back after sending him to live with my 94-year-old step-grandma (I've never seen someone--and by "someone" naturally I mean Jude--so angry with me in my life), but they got used to each other... until about a week ago.
Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to the gym to burn off the mini Snickers that seemed to have snuck into my desk during the day (I don't know where this crap comes from. One minute I'm innocently bouncing around on my ball, working on spreadsheets and the next, I having to dodge mini chocolate bars, yogurt covered raisins, and Paradise cookies being hurled at me right and left. I reeeeeaaaaally hate it...) when I got a phone call from my mom. I'm thinking she just wants to chat until I hear "the tone." "Oh hell" is all that runs through my head when she says, "There's something I want to talk to you about." Ok, I'm a "grown" woman of 22, but when she pulls that line on me, I still break out into a cold sweat and start racking my brain to think of what I possibly could have done wrong. "I had to put Jude down today..." Uhhhh. What? He's two. "For the past 10 (wtf?) days, he's been acting really aggressively toward Margaret and even attacked Lucille (I secretly laughed at that part. Goooood kitty.) and when I went over to Margaret's house this morning (this is where Lori sets the overly dramatic scene), I walked into her kitchen and found (found...) her sitting at the kitchen table with a chunk taken out of her arm..." Chunk. My God, let me just say, that is THE most disgusting word in the English language, closely followed by p*ssy (not with an I), which I absolutely refuse to say. "We had to get Margaret on antibiotics to clear any infection Jude's bite may have left." Uh huh... so all the rest of the conversation was "Blah blah blah, Margaret was afraid he was going to bite her face, blah blah blah, the vet said this, blah blah blah, he really was a good kitty, blah blah blah, kitty Heaven..." Sweet Jesus Mexico they killed my cat.
But then I saw it.
This adorable, fuzzy little creature was having breakfast and, leave it to me to be graceful about it, I literally pulled it from its mother's (for lack of better terms, but gross...) teet. It was love at first sight. I was sold. So the five-year-old girl did a gender check, which roughly translated into her lifting its leg and saying, "Yep, it's a girl!!" and relunctantly passed my little princess off to me. I felt a little like I was stealing candy from a baby, but baby's aren't even supposed to have candy, so I got over it in about .2 seconds. Sorry, kid.
So from the on, little "June" and I were attached at the hip, actually at the collarbone, where she preferred to sleep. A few months later, the aggressive little tigre went in to get its mama tubes tied and what do you think they found? No, not ovaries, no no no. After digging through her tum, they flipped her over and found a pair of what could only be described as caviar eggs that slightly resembled my cat's berries. After my slight breakdown and own personal identity crisis (my cat had been wearing a pink sparkly collar for God's sake), I decided to rename June to Jude and moved on with my life.
We spent one glorious (Sarah, Liz, Heidi and the 934 boys might tell you differently) year together until I moved to Denver and had to sacrifice my baby boy for my dream. Naturally, my intention was to get him back after sending him to live with my 94-year-old step-grandma (I've never seen someone--and by "someone" naturally I mean Jude--so angry with me in my life), but they got used to each other... until about a week ago.
Fast forward to yesterday. I was on my way to the gym to burn off the mini Snickers that seemed to have snuck into my desk during the day (I don't know where this crap comes from. One minute I'm innocently bouncing around on my ball, working on spreadsheets and the next, I having to dodge mini chocolate bars, yogurt covered raisins, and Paradise cookies being hurled at me right and left. I reeeeeaaaaally hate it...) when I got a phone call from my mom. I'm thinking she just wants to chat until I hear "the tone." "Oh hell" is all that runs through my head when she says, "There's something I want to talk to you about." Ok, I'm a "grown" woman of 22, but when she pulls that line on me, I still break out into a cold sweat and start racking my brain to think of what I possibly could have done wrong. "I had to put Jude down today..." Uhhhh. What? He's two. "For the past 10 (wtf?) days, he's been acting really aggressively toward Margaret and even attacked Lucille (I secretly laughed at that part. Goooood kitty.) and when I went over to Margaret's house this morning (this is where Lori sets the overly dramatic scene), I walked into her kitchen and found (found...) her sitting at the kitchen table with a chunk taken out of her arm..." Chunk. My God, let me just say, that is THE most disgusting word in the English language, closely followed by p*ssy (not with an I), which I absolutely refuse to say. "We had to get Margaret on antibiotics to clear any infection Jude's bite may have left." Uh huh... so all the rest of the conversation was "Blah blah blah, Margaret was afraid he was going to bite her face, blah blah blah, the vet said this, blah blah blah, he really was a good kitty, blah blah blah, kitty Heaven..." Sweet Jesus Mexico they killed my cat.
4/14/10
diddy dirty money.
As I was driving to work this morning, bouncing around in the driver's seat to In Da Club (God love ya, 50 Cent), I had a few realizations.
Well, first thing's first: I want to get this one off my chest, then I'll move on. I'm secretly a blonde... and I'll tell you why. Last week-ish (my weeks run together now that I'm a "professional/pretend grown-up") I got my Colorado Driver's License and plates. I must have been so excited not only to have my new plates to pin to Lois, but because I actually knew how unscrew the bolt things (screws?) that hold my plates intact. So I put on my gorgeous new green and white plates, then got out those damn sticker things and stared at them for a good... 5 minutes... trying to figure out where they go. I wish I were kidding. So instead of referring to my old Nebraska (ugh, so outdated...) plates OROROR anyone else's car in the parking lot, I made a little guesstimate as to where the stickers should go. Well, I guessed wrong. Go effing figure. Sure Melissa, it's natural to think that the stickers go in the top center of your plates, because they're prettier together than apart. A couple days (yes, I said days) later, the light bulb went off. I was driving to God-knows-where-but-it-had-to-be-awesome-because-everywhere-in-Denver-is and started frantically looking around at all the cars to see where their stickers were. Well, someone obviously forgot to give this poor small-town-Neb'er the memo that the stickers go in the bottom corners of everyone's plates. And by everyone, I mean everyone... but me. So now every time I get in my car and look ahead, those God-forsaken stickers on every car ahead of me are staring back at me, laughing if they could, and reminding me that, yes, in fact I am a moron. Why don't people tell me these things? Oh that's right, because people are just supposed to know shit like that. The good news is, I was in front of una policia this morning (kind of cut him off actually... woopsies) and he didn't pull me over to cite me for sticker retardation. Point: Melissa.
OK, now that that's out in the open, I can move on with my life. So as I was bouncing down Tamarac this morning on my way to the DTC, I was thinking about none other than Diddy Dirty Money (I'm confused, is HE "Diddy-Dirty Money" or are they two different people?), the artist formerly known as Diddy, and before that P. Diddy, and before that Puff Daddy, and before that Sean "Puffy" Combs, and before that "Oops, baby mama, I didn't mean to get you pregnant." Yeah, I went there. Question number one: Who, in God's name, decided that the Dids should be "King of Hip Hop?" Ohhhh, that's right. HE did. I think he pulled the whole "you cut me this record or imma shoot you" thing for awhile and now he just works at demoralizing poor young (and moderately talented) women and pretending like he knows how to put on a good stage show. Are you effing kidding me? DID ANYONE SEE HIS PERFORMANCE ON AMERICAN IDOL TWO WEEKS AGO? (I don't even want to start on Usher and his little "Oh My Gosh" embarrassment... bless his poor cheating heart.) Well, if you didn't, check this bad boy out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmHair4h_W0. Then will someone please explain to me who pays this guy? Sweet lyrics, Dids. I'm glad you're banking off of telling someone "Hello and Good Mo'nin'." Um, I say that everyday and never once has it occurred to me to wear a white suit, sunglasses and bop around saying it. Well, maybe once. But really, you know it's bad when I prefer Kanye to this d-bag. Aside from his lyrics, baditude, narcissism, chauvenism and poor taste in eyewear, the thing that bugs me the most is his dancing. Oh sweet Jesus, boy canNOT move to save his life. Yet, he insists on giving people with arguable talent (something he's always lacked) orders on HOW to move, WHERE to move, WHY to move and WHEN to move. News flash, Dids, my two-year-old niece has more skillz than you.
And I'll leave you with this:
Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello,Turn me up a little bit more, I don’t think they can hear me
Check this out
Bad Boy b-tch
lets workcome on
lets work
non stop lets rock lets work
make you feel good too
dont stop I see you lets work
It’s that dirty money
Uh, How fly is he
your baby momma cry for me like Jodeci
so how you not notice me
pull up to the club in the coldest V
ugh. literally though little did he know how that n-gga Diddy flow
how that n-gga Diddy go so hard like a crowbar still getting dough
woah, woah, woah
yeah I like this, can you feel it
nothing can save ya
its that Dirty money
Just brilliant. Someone write that guy a check.
Well, first thing's first: I want to get this one off my chest, then I'll move on. I'm secretly a blonde... and I'll tell you why. Last week-ish (my weeks run together now that I'm a "professional/pretend grown-up") I got my Colorado Driver's License and plates. I must have been so excited not only to have my new plates to pin to Lois, but because I actually knew how unscrew the bolt things (screws?) that hold my plates intact. So I put on my gorgeous new green and white plates, then got out those damn sticker things and stared at them for a good... 5 minutes... trying to figure out where they go. I wish I were kidding. So instead of referring to my old Nebraska (ugh, so outdated...) plates OROROR anyone else's car in the parking lot, I made a little guesstimate as to where the stickers should go. Well, I guessed wrong. Go effing figure. Sure Melissa, it's natural to think that the stickers go in the top center of your plates, because they're prettier together than apart. A couple days (yes, I said days) later, the light bulb went off. I was driving to God-knows-where-but-it-had-to-be-awesome-because-everywhere-in-Denver-is and started frantically looking around at all the cars to see where their stickers were. Well, someone obviously forgot to give this poor small-town-Neb'er the memo that the stickers go in the bottom corners of everyone's plates. And by everyone, I mean everyone... but me. So now every time I get in my car and look ahead, those God-forsaken stickers on every car ahead of me are staring back at me, laughing if they could, and reminding me that, yes, in fact I am a moron. Why don't people tell me these things? Oh that's right, because people are just supposed to know shit like that. The good news is, I was in front of una policia this morning (kind of cut him off actually... woopsies) and he didn't pull me over to cite me for sticker retardation. Point: Melissa.
OK, now that that's out in the open, I can move on with my life. So as I was bouncing down Tamarac this morning on my way to the DTC, I was thinking about none other than Diddy Dirty Money (I'm confused, is HE "Diddy-Dirty Money" or are they two different people?), the artist formerly known as Diddy, and before that P. Diddy, and before that Puff Daddy, and before that Sean "Puffy" Combs, and before that "Oops, baby mama, I didn't mean to get you pregnant." Yeah, I went there. Question number one: Who, in God's name, decided that the Dids should be "King of Hip Hop?" Ohhhh, that's right. HE did. I think he pulled the whole "you cut me this record or imma shoot you" thing for awhile and now he just works at demoralizing poor young (and moderately talented) women and pretending like he knows how to put on a good stage show. Are you effing kidding me? DID ANYONE SEE HIS PERFORMANCE ON AMERICAN IDOL TWO WEEKS AGO? (I don't even want to start on Usher and his little "Oh My Gosh" embarrassment... bless his poor cheating heart.) Well, if you didn't, check this bad boy out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmHair4h_W0. Then will someone please explain to me who pays this guy? Sweet lyrics, Dids. I'm glad you're banking off of telling someone "Hello and Good Mo'nin'." Um, I say that everyday and never once has it occurred to me to wear a white suit, sunglasses and bop around saying it. Well, maybe once. But really, you know it's bad when I prefer Kanye to this d-bag. Aside from his lyrics, baditude, narcissism, chauvenism and poor taste in eyewear, the thing that bugs me the most is his dancing. Oh sweet Jesus, boy canNOT move to save his life. Yet, he insists on giving people with arguable talent (something he's always lacked) orders on HOW to move, WHERE to move, WHY to move and WHEN to move. News flash, Dids, my two-year-old niece has more skillz than you.
And I'll leave you with this:
Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello, Good morning
lets go, lets work,
Hello,Turn me up a little bit more, I don’t think they can hear me
Check this out
Bad Boy b-tch
lets workcome on
lets work
non stop lets rock lets work
make you feel good too
dont stop I see you lets work
It’s that dirty money
Uh, How fly is he
your baby momma cry for me like Jodeci
so how you not notice me
pull up to the club in the coldest V
ugh. literally though little did he know how that n-gga Diddy flow
how that n-gga Diddy go so hard like a crowbar still getting dough
woah, woah, woah
yeah I like this, can you feel it
nothing can save ya
its that Dirty money
Just brilliant. Someone write that guy a check.
4/13/10
balls.
I sit on a balance ball at work and won't miss an opportunity to talk about it. I realize, after being in the workforce for a solid three months, that it's not exactly the coolest thing to do, but I don't mind being a little taboo. Besides, who's gonna be laughing when my core and posture are as solid as Edward Cullen 40 years down the road and theirs is like jello, huh? God that's exactly what people expect the office ball-sitter to say...
Holy hell, could this afternoon possible drag on ANY longer? Nope, don't think so. I'm even sitting in a regular "Big kid chair" today because secretly I get more done in a chair than on a ball, but uhhh it's not making time go by any faster. Maybe blogging will help...
So what is it about some words that make people so, for lack of better terms because I'm tired right now, squeamish? I think it's funny. I never realized how weird saying "balls" instead of "damn, shoot, ugh..." sounds until I hear other people saying it. Not that I mind other people saying it, but I actually think it's super funny, especially when Liz says it. Speaking of that, I actually banned the occupants of 208 from saying "marshmallow" for a short amount of time because I just couldn't stand it anymore. After 20ish hours of some seriously awkward what-do-we-say-now? and omigod-I-think-Melissa's-really-mad time, I took back what I said. I felt bad about it, really. But in all honesty, it was getting hard to hear the word marshmallow used at least every 5 minutes of every day. I blame myself for this. The good news is that now when we say marshmeeeaaalllllow, it's still funny. Well, let's be honest, my friends and I think everything we say is funny (that's why I love them)... but really, we're funny. Get over it.
Ok, switching back to the ball now. I can't be away from it for a whole day. That would just be ridiculous. Hey weekend, hurry the eff up, thanks. :)
Holy hell, could this afternoon possible drag on ANY longer? Nope, don't think so. I'm even sitting in a regular "Big kid chair" today because secretly I get more done in a chair than on a ball, but uhhh it's not making time go by any faster. Maybe blogging will help...
So what is it about some words that make people so, for lack of better terms because I'm tired right now, squeamish? I think it's funny. I never realized how weird saying "balls" instead of "damn, shoot, ugh..." sounds until I hear other people saying it. Not that I mind other people saying it, but I actually think it's super funny, especially when Liz says it. Speaking of that, I actually banned the occupants of 208 from saying "marshmallow" for a short amount of time because I just couldn't stand it anymore. After 20ish hours of some seriously awkward what-do-we-say-now? and omigod-I-think-Melissa's-really-mad time, I took back what I said. I felt bad about it, really. But in all honesty, it was getting hard to hear the word marshmallow used at least every 5 minutes of every day. I blame myself for this. The good news is that now when we say marshmeeeaaalllllow, it's still funny. Well, let's be honest, my friends and I think everything we say is funny (that's why I love them)... but really, we're funny. Get over it.
Ok, switching back to the ball now. I can't be away from it for a whole day. That would just be ridiculous. Hey weekend, hurry the eff up, thanks. :)
4/12/10
john/world - kate = genius.
Really, what's the deal with this whole faux Kate Gosselin craze? Liiiike is she really so diluted to think that she's famous? And if so... famous for good reasons? Nonononononono. She's a joke. I hate to say it, but I can't really sit here and lie about it. I also wish I could make the sorryass excuse that she's a good mother, has worked really hard for what she has, and is truly a good and solid woman to the core. But I'm no fool; she's an idiot. I wonder what her kids are doing right now... talk about messing up a bunch of poor kids early on. I wonder if she even knows what they're doing right now. I bet she's getting her weave did right now. And I'm not talking about divorce. Shit happens. No no, I'm talking about the fact that these 8 kids' mom used to slightly resemble Roseann, but now can be mistaken for a wax museum doll of Pammy Anderson.
Don't even get me started on Dancing with the Stars. I already think that show is crap and now that she's on it... holy hell. It's really too bad that some producer had a light bulb go off in his head the night he was thinking, "How do I save my career?... OHHHHH I SHOULD PUT A BUNCH OF WASHED UP 'CELEBS' ON A BALLROOM DANCING 'REALITY' COMPETITION." Of course. Jake Pavelka? Are you effing kidding me? Niecy Nash? Good God. At least it's not as bad as Celebrity Rehab that features the perfect example of what happens when your brain is on crack (not to be confused with the egg-smashing J.L. Hewitt commercials that were just pure artistry): Jeff Conway (better known as Kenickie). My favorite part of that show was the "unbeknownst" showdown between he and one of those Baldwin douche bags. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I beg you to google it and prepare to have your world rocked by a bunch of crusty old crackheads. Thank you, Hollywood, for producing such brilliance. I guess none of it is as bad as Date My Mom...
The best (and by best, I of course mean worst) part about faux fame (Katie G) is when these "celebs" come out with their autobiographies... I wish I could say that everyone in this world is smart enough to avoid reading that crap, but we're not so lucky. Not even close. I love that these people are presumptuous enough to think that people reallyreallyreally are sooo interested in their sordid lives that those books will be just flying off the shelves of Barnes and Noble. I know that their publishers are just thinking, "Sweet Jesus, please let the public think these people are dumb enough so that they actually want to read about their lives. If anything, to feel a little bit better about themselves." It's obvious that's it's all about money. At least they're not cutting records anymore (ahem, Lindsay Lohan, Heidi Montag, Eddie Murphy...). It really makes me sleep a little better each night.
Don't even get me started on Dancing with the Stars. I already think that show is crap and now that she's on it... holy hell. It's really too bad that some producer had a light bulb go off in his head the night he was thinking, "How do I save my career?... OHHHHH I SHOULD PUT A BUNCH OF WASHED UP 'CELEBS' ON A BALLROOM DANCING 'REALITY' COMPETITION." Of course. Jake Pavelka? Are you effing kidding me? Niecy Nash? Good God. At least it's not as bad as Celebrity Rehab that features the perfect example of what happens when your brain is on crack (not to be confused with the egg-smashing J.L. Hewitt commercials that were just pure artistry): Jeff Conway (better known as Kenickie). My favorite part of that show was the "unbeknownst" showdown between he and one of those Baldwin douche bags. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I beg you to google it and prepare to have your world rocked by a bunch of crusty old crackheads. Thank you, Hollywood, for producing such brilliance. I guess none of it is as bad as Date My Mom...
The best (and by best, I of course mean worst) part about faux fame (Katie G) is when these "celebs" come out with their autobiographies... I wish I could say that everyone in this world is smart enough to avoid reading that crap, but we're not so lucky. Not even close. I love that these people are presumptuous enough to think that people reallyreallyreally are sooo interested in their sordid lives that those books will be just flying off the shelves of Barnes and Noble. I know that their publishers are just thinking, "Sweet Jesus, please let the public think these people are dumb enough so that they actually want to read about their lives. If anything, to feel a little bit better about themselves." It's obvious that's it's all about money. At least they're not cutting records anymore (ahem, Lindsay Lohan, Heidi Montag, Eddie Murphy...). It really makes me sleep a little better each night.
4/11/10
shake.
Ok, so it's really no surprise that music makes me lose control. Literally, figuratively, whatever. Give me a little "Your Body is a Wonderland" and I turn into a different person. Don't judge. This past weekend I was at a friend's wedding and although I was sooo tempted to bitch slap the DJ for wearing white gloves and a creepy zoot suit hat, I decided that since he was controlling the tunes, I'd give him a break. Lucky bastard.
Anyway, back to the point. So we walked in there and what do you think was playing? Frank Sinatra? No. Norah Jones? Nope, uh uh. Ludacris? If only I were that lucky. No no, of course it was Michael Buble, because nothing says "I'm mingling around at a wedding reception" like a little crooning from MB. I vow not to play one single MB song at my wedding. If anything, it'll be just for the sake of not subjecting people to "For Once in My Life" yet again while they munch on the goods provided at the hors d'oeuvres table before the booze line opens up again. (I'd like to see what people's reactions would be if they walked into my reception as "The Whisper Song" was playing... I can picture it now: "Yes, Grandma, he did just say 'What till you see my d*ck.'" So not classy, yet secretly fun. Don't deny it.) THEN then THEN, once all of that mingling/Buble/smooth jazz crap is out of the way, the real stuff can happen. You give this lady a little T.Pain, Lil Wayne, Ying Yang Twins, etc. and I'm one happy camper. Uh huh, this white girl loves to get low. Not only that, but any chance I get to do the J*r**s dance, I'll do it. I'm not even embarrassed about the fact that even though I've done that dance about seventy million times in the middle of the "white kid circle" (to be discussed later), I still get the same rush of excitement as the first time I pulled that move freshman year of college. And my dear friends, bless their hearts, encourage this ridiculous display of what one can only assume is slow motion double-ass-slapping. Warms my heart.
So back to this "white kid circle" business. WHAT IS IT WITH WHITE KIDS AND DANCE CIRCLES? If this little ritual isn't in "Stuff White People Like" by now, the author should lose all rights to his books/blog. I don't get it. It's like, OK, we already look awkward enough trying to imitate Beyonce and Chris Brown (pre-punchfest... what a loser), but then we have to go and form a circle to see who's ballsy enough to jump in the middle and show off their best (and probably only) skillz. Things to look out for in the white kid dance circle: catching and reeling in the fish, running man, sprinkler, off-beat butt-shaking, awkward show choir dance moves (hello sperm dance), aaaand if you're lucky enough, the guy with the least rhythm, but most soul, jumps in there and whatever happens is, well, indescribable. I know you're picturing who of your friends is this guy/girl right now and it's impossible not to be happy about it. But back to my point: seriously guys, close the effing gap. I don't care if you need to grind all up in someone's biz, pull a grandparent up onto the dance floor, or whatever else your creative mind can think up, just pleasePLEASEplease, no more circles.
And last, of course, is the dance face. Everyone has one. They're all embarrassingly entertaining, despite what anyone might tell you. The best thing about them is that whether or not they're intentional, you know exactly what the dancer is thinking. Let me elaborate... Picture a cute little sorority girl at her first frat party. Ok, once you're done laughing, we'll move on... while she's busting her sexiest I-practice-in-the-mirror-when-my-roommate-is-at-class moves, the look on her face is so intent--lips pursed, furrowed brow, eyes trying to be seductive, but actually just glazed and droopy from the jungle juice--on A. being sexy, and B. not doing anything too unsexy, that it's impossible not to laugh a little and secretly be embarrassed for her. So there's that, but then there's also the I'm-doing-my-sweetest-dance-move-I-know look, which basically is a look of mock disinterest while you wiggle around until you end with a booty-drop. Other people just sing the words (or make them up if they don't know them) to avoid awkward facial expressions. I've tried all three and let's be honest, they're all great in their own special way. So to circle back, I do love me a good dance party and will take an offer anytime, anywhere, and with anyone, to cut a rug. AND I'm of the strong opinion that everyone should share my same interest in dancing, just as long as it doesn't turn into a circle. Seriously. Oh, and if you ever need to hear a good beat, just listen to "Shake" by the Ying Yang Twins. I DARE you not to shake even a little bit. You'd have to duct tape me to a chair before I stopped shaking to that song.
Anyway, back to the point. So we walked in there and what do you think was playing? Frank Sinatra? No. Norah Jones? Nope, uh uh. Ludacris? If only I were that lucky. No no, of course it was Michael Buble, because nothing says "I'm mingling around at a wedding reception" like a little crooning from MB. I vow not to play one single MB song at my wedding. If anything, it'll be just for the sake of not subjecting people to "For Once in My Life" yet again while they munch on the goods provided at the hors d'oeuvres table before the booze line opens up again. (I'd like to see what people's reactions would be if they walked into my reception as "The Whisper Song" was playing... I can picture it now: "Yes, Grandma, he did just say 'What till you see my d*ck.'" So not classy, yet secretly fun. Don't deny it.) THEN then THEN, once all of that mingling/Buble/smooth jazz crap is out of the way, the real stuff can happen. You give this lady a little T.Pain, Lil Wayne, Ying Yang Twins, etc. and I'm one happy camper. Uh huh, this white girl loves to get low. Not only that, but any chance I get to do the J*r**s dance, I'll do it. I'm not even embarrassed about the fact that even though I've done that dance about seventy million times in the middle of the "white kid circle" (to be discussed later), I still get the same rush of excitement as the first time I pulled that move freshman year of college. And my dear friends, bless their hearts, encourage this ridiculous display of what one can only assume is slow motion double-ass-slapping. Warms my heart.
So back to this "white kid circle" business. WHAT IS IT WITH WHITE KIDS AND DANCE CIRCLES? If this little ritual isn't in "Stuff White People Like" by now, the author should lose all rights to his books/blog. I don't get it. It's like, OK, we already look awkward enough trying to imitate Beyonce and Chris Brown (pre-punchfest... what a loser), but then we have to go and form a circle to see who's ballsy enough to jump in the middle and show off their best (and probably only) skillz. Things to look out for in the white kid dance circle: catching and reeling in the fish, running man, sprinkler, off-beat butt-shaking, awkward show choir dance moves (hello sperm dance), aaaand if you're lucky enough, the guy with the least rhythm, but most soul, jumps in there and whatever happens is, well, indescribable. I know you're picturing who of your friends is this guy/girl right now and it's impossible not to be happy about it. But back to my point: seriously guys, close the effing gap. I don't care if you need to grind all up in someone's biz, pull a grandparent up onto the dance floor, or whatever else your creative mind can think up, just pleasePLEASEplease, no more circles.
And last, of course, is the dance face. Everyone has one. They're all embarrassingly entertaining, despite what anyone might tell you. The best thing about them is that whether or not they're intentional, you know exactly what the dancer is thinking. Let me elaborate... Picture a cute little sorority girl at her first frat party. Ok, once you're done laughing, we'll move on... while she's busting her sexiest I-practice-in-the-mirror-when-my-roommate-is-at-class moves, the look on her face is so intent--lips pursed, furrowed brow, eyes trying to be seductive, but actually just glazed and droopy from the jungle juice--on A. being sexy, and B. not doing anything too unsexy, that it's impossible not to laugh a little and secretly be embarrassed for her. So there's that, but then there's also the I'm-doing-my-sweetest-dance-move-I-know look, which basically is a look of mock disinterest while you wiggle around until you end with a booty-drop. Other people just sing the words (or make them up if they don't know them) to avoid awkward facial expressions. I've tried all three and let's be honest, they're all great in their own special way. So to circle back, I do love me a good dance party and will take an offer anytime, anywhere, and with anyone, to cut a rug. AND I'm of the strong opinion that everyone should share my same interest in dancing, just as long as it doesn't turn into a circle. Seriously. Oh, and if you ever need to hear a good beat, just listen to "Shake" by the Ying Yang Twins. I DARE you not to shake even a little bit. You'd have to duct tape me to a chair before I stopped shaking to that song.
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