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 So instead of referring to my old Nebraska (ugh, so outdated...)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.

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. :)

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.

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.

Shiver me timbers.

Does the air conditioner get turned up or down? Why is that such a strange question? Theoretically, by turning in "up," you're actually turning the dial "up" (or clockwise) to increase the temperature; however, by turning it down, you are either decreasing the intensity of the cool air, thus increasing the heat, or you're turning the dial "down" (or counterclockwise) to make the air cooler...

Just one of life's little mysteries.

I am lying in bed on a Monday afternoon in late July. Shivering. The air is cool outside and inside our house feels like an ice box. I suppose I'm expected to get used to the chilliness considering I'm moving to Colorado in a week and a half, but not during July... I'll wait until November (or October if I have to). I have no idea why it's so cold in here--I even turned to air "up..." Then again, I have no idea why my alarm clockS didn't go off this morning either. Again, some of life's less wonderful mysteries. I am thankful to say that I am still employed.

Two glasses of wine.

Me after two glasses of wine... chatty, honest, courageous.
Other people after two glasses of wine... drunk? emotional? hostile? hilarious?

Some of the best conversations are had over a glass of wine. It is a neutralizer and comforter; a calming device, if you will. Think about it: two friends sitting on the veranda, split by a bottle of Pinot Grigio. They are inclined ever so slightly toward each other, deeply engaged in conversation, each holding a slightly over-filled glass in one hand. With each sip of the luscious white grape, their shoulders relax, the chill of the wine eases slowly through their body, from the crown of their heads to each limb, fingertips to toes. The taste is more than what hits the palette. It is an indescribable experience. As the alcohol begins to set in, the conversation blooms, filling the minds and hearts of each woman. The volume rises as the two echo each other in a chorus of laughter. And at long last, this is bliss. Two friends, a bottle of wine, and a space filled with love.

Something new.

For quite some time I've been an avid anti-blogger, but I've been inspired by a friend to keep writing (that's you, Miss Baltimore Newlywed!).

I've considered focusing my posts on something specific... but what? See Me Run implies that I'll be discussing my marathon training regimen, so that's an option, but also could be a huge snorer. I could talk about trying to find what I'm going to do (running, if you will.)... but that's cliche, no? So I might just stick to writing whatever pops into my head at any given moment. I like that idea.