The Curse of Classmates.com

You what is like, the PERFECT thing to get right before your birthday?  You know, just when the realization that another year has flown by and you're officially closer to 30 than 20 is just REALLY starting to sink in? 

How about an email from a long-lost high school friend who is now married to another long-lost high school friend and guess what!  They already have a baby.  Who's already a year old.  Isn't that JUST PEACHY?

No, it really is.  I'm so glad to hear from him and can't wait to write back and find out more.  But...but...

But I'm a brat and it's all about me and me feeling old and me freaking out about my fertility problems and waaaaahhhhh....

Oh well, at least I have my mini-lip-gloss-on-a-keychain to cheer me up.  And Max!  Max will make everything better!  Hey you, furry-child-subsitute!  Get over here and cuddle with Mama!

Joyous Acquisition of Goods

Very good day today. Got such the nice haul from Jason's parents this morning, and when you add all the fantabulous stuff my girlfriends gave me last night (jewelry! awesome house do-dahs! food! Coach Signature Crusher hat! I love these people!), I'm feeling a bit drunk on the "getting" part of the holiday season.

Jason ruined the joy of the "giving" side of the equation again, as he has done many, many times before. We got his dad this really cool vintage-type Ski Whistler Blackcomb tee from Urban Outfitters (NASDAQ: URBN)...so cool that Jason was going to buy one for himself and I had to order him not to because I planned to buy it. So while his dad was oohing and ahing over the tee Jason mentioned how much he wanted one but how I'd stopped him.

Being the fantastic actress that I am, I pulled a very convincing "oh shit" face and acted like I'd totally forgotten to get him the shirt. Jase was sooo disappointed and I was sooo looking forward to surprising him on Christmas now.

But Jason refuses to be disappointed over anything for more than like, an hour, so the next thing I know we're down in Georgetown with the 'rents and Jason is bound and determined to stop at Urban Outfitters to buy the damn shirt. I tried the whole "Oh why don't you wait until after Christmas...it might go on sale" but no luck.

So for what feels like the bazillionth Christmas or birthday in a row, I had to ruin any chance of surprising him and tell him exactly what was under the tree for him because the man cannot NOT BUY HIMSELF EVERYTHING HE WANTS THE MINUTE HE WANTS IT REGARDLESS OF UPCOMING HOLIDAYS. (And yes, there are quite a few other unspoiled surprises for him this year, but it's just the PRINCIPAL of the thing. Grumble whine bitch, etc.)

Anyway, in retaliation, I pouted and proceeded to buy myself a few extra presents. Jason kept trying to be all "Oh but what if I got you that? What if you're ruining MY surprises?" But since I somehow doubt that a mini-lip-gloss-on-a-keychain from Sephora or a big book on mummies and tombs were real high up on his shopping list, I felt perfectly okay shooting him a You Absolutely Ruined Christmas look until he encouraged me to just go ahead and buy the Sephora silver train case too. Heh. He's gonna have a really nice Christmas though, and he deserves it, cuz he's great.

Ugh

'Nuff said.

Went out last night and most of the early morning for my birthday with my girls (whoo, ghetto!) to kickoff the Amy Birthday Extravaganza Week.  It will be interrupted momentarily by Christmas on Thursday, but then it's all about me again.  26 years old. I am slowly dealing with the fact that I will never appear on The Real World.  Mourn with me, people.

Anyway, we went to Meze for a Turkish tapas, Felix, and finally Home.  Felix had been invaded by some company holiday party (yeah, well, ours was at the Pooks Hill Marriott! That's cool too!) so the crowd was...eh, not so much the usual scene.  Boooooring.

So off to Home in Chinatown.  To recap the night: Dancing in stilettos (ow), getting people to buy me drinks (thank god it was my birthday 'cuz I forgot my ATM card at home and ran out of money after one tapa at Meze), fending off the men with our patented "hair flip signal of get-the-hell-over-here-and-get-me-away-from-this guy," and shanking my groove thang for all it was worth. (Outfit Verdict: Awesome. Lowrise pinstriped pants and a jagged neckline shirt from Guess, punked-out hair and Enzo stilettos that really look like Manolos.)

The high point--I got picked up by a prince!  No, really!  The prince of Dubai! I mean, he wouldn't have lied about that right?  And he had a bodyguard/advisor/wingman and the whole Coming to America schtick DOWN!  And who knew that the United Arab Emirates did the whole European kiss-kiss thing nowadays?  It's classy!

WhatEVER.  I kept calling him Eddie.

Anyway, in-laws are here for the day, which means presents!  Let's see how I well I function on less than 4 hours sleep and really really sore feet. 

Tomorrow: LOTR!  The king returns!  The battle continues!  Frodo gets really, really dirty!

Blogger Navel Gazing

Or, Operation Bump the Creepy Joyce Pic Off the Homepage, Part I

The Guardian has an interesting article about the whole blog categorizing/defining/intellectualizing debate, but what really caught my eye was this chart by the fantastic Hugh MacLeod that pretty much nails the entire blogging community:

And speaking of Hugh, if anyone still doesn't know what to get me for Christmas or my birthday...please please please click here and buy me some blog cards.  We must haves them, we neeeeeds them, the precioussssssss.

Stop me if you've heard this one...

Way busy today.  And since every blog seems to be legally obligated to make at least one reference to the now-classic Worst Album Covers Ever...I think it's time I hopped on this played-out bandwagon.

Heh. Heh heh. Joyce. Heh.

Update: I just opened my page a few minutes after posting this and must say, while hilarious, that picture is waaaay too disconcerting for the home page.  Stop staring at me Joyce!  Put the rose down!  I repeat: Put the rose down!

At least this will compel me to post a lot of updates so Joyce will be banished to the archives as soon as possible.

(I mean it Joyce, quit it. You're really creeping me out.)

What Happens When I Lose the TiVo Remote

At the risk of getting all "did ya ever notice" on you, but seriously, have you seen these new(ish) AOL commercials? 

First, Snoop Dogg??  The hell?  And while the big fish made of the AOL discs is a funny visual, it just doesn't work to go: "Oh, we know we annoyed the hell out of you and created tons of non-biodegradable waste with those discs, but seriously, the latest one is cool!  And oh look!  Here's Snoop Dogg!"...and expect us to listen.

(Oh, and putting the discs in DVD packaging ain't fooling nobody.)

But then again, if AOL subscribers are as dumb as we all think they are...maybe version 9.0 Optimized & All Pimped Out will be a hit. 

At this point, even AOL knows how stupid its customers are.  Have you seen the one with the couple debating over who can help them fix their computer while their toddler whacks at the mouse with a squeaky hammer?  The wife asks, "Didn't you buy that book...Computers for Idiots?" "I didn't understand it," the husband replies.  Meanwhile, the toddler has miraculously triggered some fantastic AOL fix-all scannie dealie and taDA!  The child has fixed the problem that was probably caused by AOL in the first place!

Gah. Anyway, so if AOL is now allowed to make fun of its own fuckwit customers, can Wal-Mart commercials full of total white trash hicks be far behind?

Oh. Right. Never mind.

 

Nothing Good Will Come of This

A Krispy Kreme has opened near my office.  And not just a little kiosk or Dunkin' Donuts-type storefront. Nay, this Krispy Kreme is a mammoth, freestanding structure...it eclipses both the bank and the Starbucks nearby.  And this Starbucks has a freaking solarium. The Krispy Kreme has an antique truck parked out front, representing the donut trucks of olde, I guess...and a drive-thru in the back.  Yes, that's right.  Drive-thru donuts. 

My friend Christine and I, after completely pigging out at Chipotle for lunch, decided a little sweet something was in order to quench the hot salsa aftermath, and went to the drive-thru.  After getting the hard sell on the dozen donuts...complete with a mini-economics lesson on how the dozen is cheaper if you try to buy more than 5 individual donuts...we opted for classic glazed and maple iced and two skim milks. 

We drove around to the window and got a glimpse of Donut Nirvana inside...a freaking conveyor belt covered in about 500 classic Krispy Kreme glazed donuts.  Christine remarked on what a nice place Krispy Kreme must be to work at, except for the persistent acne one probably gets from the air inside the store, which is pungent with hot bubbling donut fat.  The very chipper drive-thru people gave us our donuts in the happy green and white polka-dotted box and two humungous milks.

We totally pigged out in the office parking garage on the freshest donuts I have ever tasted, and I drank more milk in one sitting than I have in a year. I can feel my bones getting denser by the minute.

Anyway, it was quite the outing.  But now I want more. A lot more. I want a crack at that conveyor full of donuts.  I am Homer Simpson.  And I forgot to deposit my paycheck so I have to go back to the bank which is next to the Krispy Kreme and I don't think I can handle it.  There's heroin in them there donuts, stay away!

Also, it's snowing again, which means another delightful commute.

I better stock up on donuts.

The Secret Lives of Storches

On the agenda for tonight:

First up, a Peapod delivery. Food, blessed food. And toilet paper. Sheesh. Grown-ups?  Yeah, not yet apparently. 

Our fridge is bare except for condiments and some funky Thanksgiving leftovers that neither of us wants to deal with so we're having a bit of a stand-off.  As long as they remain securely tinfoiled we are protected from the presumably bad smell and the soaking and the scraping and the oy-good-glavin of the petrified food.  Although, I have nothing against soaking dishes. I'll soak a dish for a week if I have to, and periodically re-run the water and dish soap over it to camoflage how long I've been letting it soak.  But when it comes right down to it, I'd rather throw the damn dish out than dig out the steel wool and scrub the grodiness away.

But I don't. I mean, I'm not Jessica Simpson or anything.  I'll do laundry and fold clothes and scrub dishes...but I will take my own sweet time about it. And yes, I get my groceries delivered.  Shut up.  We live on the top floor with no elevator and it's haaarrrddd.

Besides Peapod, we have a whole night of TiVoriffic programming tonight.  Tuesday is a busy night, what with Gilmore Girls, 24 and Queer Eye on top of our usual round-up of Simpsons reruns and these hilarious old Buck Rogers episodes Jason's been taping that are just So Terribly Bad.  I love a good Terribly Bad show.  Then tonight there's also something called What's That Sound: The Making of the Queer Eye Music Video that could be Terribly Bad, Terribly Hilarious, or just Terribly Jump the Shark.  But you know what?  Who cares.

And one of these nights I WILL watch HBO's Angels in America.  I know I will love it. I know it's good for me to watch it.  But some nights?  Buck Rogers in the 25th Century just sounds much easier to take than Tony Kushner and all his infuriating brilliance.

But we may not watch that much TiVo tonight, as we have a Project.  I want to move our bedroom from the first floor to the loft upstairs in time for Christmas.  We had the bedroom upstairs when we first moved in, then changed our minds and moved it to the smaller room downstairs. Now we have changed our minds again.  Why?  Oh, I don't know, we're weird, we're bored, and the loft is the nicest room in the whole place and is currently being used as a dumping ground for stuff we don't know what to do with.  Plus, it's semi-open to the downstairs with just a railing and it wouldn't be very safe to use for a baby's room now would it?

 

 

 

What?

 

No, not yet, calm down.

An Open Letter to The UPS Store

Dear UPS Store,

I love you.  So much.  Be my boyfriend, UPS Store.

You were made for people like me.  I do not have my shit together. Buying gifts is the extent of my togetherness.  I do not have boxes and packing tape and peanuts.  And I do not do the Post Office. 

So much love for the UPS Store.  I dashed there after work with nephew gifts in tow (no need to rush!  extra-late holiday hours!) and within 10 minutes, they were boxed, taped, labeled and whoosh...grabbed by a UPS guy and were on the truck outside by the time I signed my credit card receipt.

Mmmm, warm buttery efficiency.

So my little guys will have their (kickass) Christmas gifts within a couple days, I'm the awesome aunt and am two errands away from being completely DONE with the whole Christmas shopping brouhaha.

And I owe it all to you, UPS Store. 

Well, not really.  But I love you enough to let you think that.

-Amalah

TiVo Hermits

So we've been so busy catching up on the dozens of hours of TiVo-recommended entertainment all freaking day that we completely missed the Big News. 

I finally staggered away from hour 43 or something of Battlestar Galactica to check my email and whoop, there it is.  We caught him.  He looks like shit, and he knows he's totally fucked. Huzzah and much rejoicing.

Think we'll ever catch Osama? 

Oh yeah, almost forgot about him, didn't you?