I've decided I just can't do the sequin-covered shoes this season. Okay, I realize Marc Jacobs is a genius
for the spangled ballet flats and blessed be for Old Navy knockoffs and yadda, yadda, yadda it's the the the shoe for spring.
Whatever. I just can't do it.
And I've got the constitution of a crow. Seriously, on my good days, I'm distracted by my wedding rings. Ooh, shiny!
So, picture if you will, me in a pair of shiny, sequin-covered shoes. Productivity levels would tank. Putting out the paper? Screw it, I have shiny shoes. Working on the new book? Shiny! Feeding myself? Bathroom breaks? Shiny! Shiny, shiny, shiny!
God forbid I get behind the wheel in a pair of shiny shoes. I'd have three serious accidents before I left the vicinity of the garage.
Since the introduction of the shiny shoes, I've found myself addressing the feet of co-workers who made the choice to rock the shiny. I'm a foot-talker. It's mortifying.
and we shall call it...this land
"This is gonna get pretty interesting!"
"'Oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die?'"
All of my geek molecules are bouncing off each other in abject joy: The "Serenity" movie trailer's now up!
For the uninitiated, "Serenity" is the movie spinoff of "Firefly,"
a Joss Whedon show that ran on Fox back in the days before the Wolfs had Tivo. It was a program that featured space and
cowboys! Together! With a nougaty center! My mistake! That was the whore! Yes! Whore!
The premise was set five hundred years in the future: Earth was dead, humans lived on terraformed planets, the Chinese and Americans basically became one corporate-controlled goverment (the model UN run by Microsoft?), and one Firefly class space vessal was helmed by nine renegades, looking to right the wrongs of the universe, or at least get paid.
And, I swear, the pilot episode was built around the imagery in U2's "Bullet the Blue Sky."
Then again, I can be a bit of a fangirl, so never mind.
I didn't get to see an episode before Fox yanked the series off the air. It wasn't until Jordan loaned me his DVDs that I became hooked. And hooked doesn't begin to touch the obsession. While I was working on the first draft of BOOMERANG, I'd keep the DVDs looped in the background for company. First readers swear they can pick out the influence.
"Firefly" was fabulous television, another example of brillance cancelled before its time. But! Sales of the DVD boxset and the rabid, vocal fanbase convinced Universal to finance the spin off, and boom! We have "Serenity."
I cannot wait to see this movie. I'd gladly trade multiple viewings of "Episode III" for one shot at "Serenity." Oh, but irony! An unfinished version of the flick will be screened for fans next week in Denver and I! CAN'T! GO!
(the Editorial Board would never forgive me for ditching them four Fridays in a row.) (You don't tick off the Editorial board. They're the rainmakers, y'know.) (Also, the screening's sold out, so fooey.)
It's a day of estatic highs and woeful lows. Just, go download the trailer. You'll see.
Wow. I work with some of the most amazing people ever. My friend Donella went up to Denver last week to see U2 at the Pepsi Center. We'd had many conversations over the last couple of months about the availiblity of tickets, her fortunes at being able to go and my oft' heard lament of not making it to a single concert of theirs.
She brought me back a t-shirt and just gave it to me. How awesome is that? It's a standard-issue t-shirt: band photo on the front, dates of the first leg on the back. Black and red and shades of gray. I'm totally touched. Amazing people, I'm telling you.
I think I've solved the Chapstick Heist,
at least for the moment. No, no culprit. I've given up running through the list of suspects; my workstation plays host to at least six other staffers during the course of a week, plus special guest stars. Solving the heist is out of my abilities at this point.
And again, even if I did figure out just whodunit, I'd have these images of what they might have done, and we're back to ew.
Anyway, I've been carting around a new tube of lip balm. Clinique Superbalm tinted lip treatment in Mango, liberated from my mom's bonus gift bag. One, I'm trying to remember to pocket it when I leave and two, it's super girly. I figure, if the last tube was lifted out of habit and not malice, a super girly lipbalm might
dish out a future pause. However, if the Chapstick Heist was perpetrated with nefarious purposes, it's unlikely to deter them and once again, ew.
So far, so good. The new tube hasn't been filtched...yet.
blue and gold forever
Coming home from dinner tonight, we got stuck behind a big-butt minivan up Paradise. Nothin' out of the ordinary there; I think they're issuing your choice of minivan or SUV with purchase of a home in Paradise Hills these days.
It wasn't until we got right up behind it at the light at Golf Course that I realized it. Emblazened on the back windshield was my high school mascot. There is no mistaking the Ruidoso Warrior. Take the face of one sterotypical Native American (complete with braids and a feather) and plaster it against a craggy mountain peak.
Logo. See? Un.Mis.Takable.
(And wow, the 24 karat gold marching band seems to have lost about 23k. Why, back in my day, the band was practically marching bullion! And not the kind you put in soup!)
I had a very small freak-out when I saw it. I mean, okay, part of writing BOOMERANG was to excise the phantoms of Ruidoso, but they're not all gone, and here's this minivan in front of me, wearing Albuquerque tags, lumbering up Paradise, obviously a permanent resident of the Duke City and all I can think of is, still?
Were we in Ruidoso, yeah, I could understand it. They're football mad down there, and the Warriors are as good as it gets. Everyone's an RHS booster. But here? Still?
I didn't get a good look at the driver, so I haven't a clue who it was, but somewhere in my in-laws' neighborhood lurks one rabid Warrior fan.
I think that's the first time in 10 seasons all of Probst's needling, pointed questioning and other calling-on-the-poop that's resulted in someone caving into his peer pressure and quitting. Not that it's a mean feat. I mean, Janu? I think you could get her to agree the sky was yellow with very little discussion.
Back in the real world, I have some bad news on the iPod
front. As of yesterday, he lost his ability to hold more than a quarter charge. The battery is shot. The USB wire's also kaput. Dead. Finito! Old and busted!
Devistated enough to be surfing over to Apple and checking out the minis! I'm thinking Poddy Junior will be blue.
Mark my words, Poddy Junior will also be front loaded with Rilo Kiley so we won't have another round of musical tug-of-war.
Oh, and hey, I'm always looking for new music, so leave a suggestion in the comments.
I'm in that fourth day of allergies phase, where the underside of my nose is chapped and my head's a giant mucous mellon. The worst part has been the phantom senses. Every so often, I'll get ghost tastes dancing across my palate. I can be standing at the proofer or running a page past my slot when suddenly, I'm in the Sanford scene from "Sideways," minus the wine. Is that a flutter of mango
I taste? A little cottage cheese? Blueberries? And then, poof! Gone!
Joy of the subduded senses.
Minus my sense of smell, I can't tell if I'm reeking. I'm paranoid that I'm showing up at work showered, in clean clothes but still trailing Eau de Crack Whore.
I'm praying it clears up by the weekend because it's my birthday (Woo! Happy birthday to ME! I live in a TREE! I look like a MONKEY! Who flings its own PEE!)(So I need to work on singing my own praises)! I'd prefer to spend the weekend sitting around and enjoying the finer bits of life rather than lying under the quilt and forcing Adam to feed me antihisitimines and tea all weekend.
There's actually not a lot slated for the weekend: gatherings with both the parents and the in-laws and an F1 race. It's not equal to the Chuck E. Cheese parties of yore, but it'll do nicely.
I'm not really sure Albuquerque really rates a city blog, but there ya go.
Duke City Fix.
I give it six months before, like all things Albuquerque, it becomes a repetitive mess.
What else is repetitive? How 'bout allergies! I'm a little walking snotball, a human drain, the place where mucus goes to die. Yet another reason to move off of the mesa. I'm dyin'
here. Instead of checking my horoscope, I check the pollen count in the paper. "Hmm. Pollen levels are moderate across the board. Cottonwood's count is 46 on the east side and 184 on the west side. Allergy sufferers should remain indoors and read a book."
And yet, I drive a convertable. Madness!
Adding insult to this season's injury was city council's recent passage limiting the sale of pseuphedrine, the key ingredient in decongestants and crystal meth. Everyone's got a horror story about being denied their Sudafed. It seems cruel and unusal to deny the masses our Advil Cold and Sinus during allergy season. You'd think we'd have a grace period.
Albuquerque. Don't you just love it?
I like "Grey's Anatomy" far too much, despite the hospital/Dawson Creek cliches. I do wish TWoP would recap it, because it's a vein of snark gold just waiting to be tapped. GOLD!
Personally, I can't wait for the episode where we find out Dr. Alex Karov (Frat Bitch Boy) uses his bombastic personality to hide his working class roots, a cover blown when his illiterate immigrant father shows up to visit his surgeon son (It's not a spoiler. Shup). I'm dying for FBB's overblown line reading of "Why do you think I became a surgeon? Because of him! He never learned to read!"
Also, I would kill to have the shoes in the opening credits. Them's seck-say. The shoes in the second episode? Fire-the-stylist fugly. Guess it's hit-or-miss.
Someone stole Chapstick off of my desk. I mean, seriously. Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, someone sat at my desk and swiped my tube of mostly-gone Chapstick.
I'm turning inside out right now. One, I'm a Chapstick addict. I feel naked and vulnerable without it. I've convinced myself I can feel my lips chapping as I type. Ew. Two, I don't have a backup tube, nor a single tube of lipstick in my purse. Major oversight. Three, who steals a tube of used
Chapstick? I mean, honestly?
(Adam made a suggestion that turned me inside out even more; I'll leave you to your imaginations.)
My iPod's not
going to be in the Sunday Journal this week, just, y'know, if my Albuquerque readers get excited when they see the front page. That's not the infamous iPoddy, but a pale immitation.
iPoddy was shot down because he is, as Will Smith would term it, "old and busted," and the art director was looking for more in the way of new hotness. After rejecting iPoddy out of hand, she went on a newsroom-wide hunt for a newer, cooler iPod to fit the bill. Apparently, she had to tell people who referred me that my iPod was two generations old and didn't feature the Click Wheel of Infinate Coolness.
Now the Editorial Board is taunting and teasing me over my old and busted iPoddy.
I've promised iPoddy that I'll download some hip young indie band off iTunes in the next couple of days to make up for the grevious insults he's had to suffer. Poor little guy, he's going to end up with a complex.
Yesterday, I was smacked with the realisation I have a month until I will be required to frolick on a tropical beach. Tropical beaches being notorious for skimpy dress code policies, I panicked.
Panicking here means going back on Atkins (ugh, but it's worked in the past) and working out again. Damn if I didn't feel great this morning. I bounded out of bed an hour early with energy to spare. I went downstairs and bounced around on my DDR pad for forty-five minutes.
And did I mention I'm cheerful today? Jaysus, what is happening to me?
And on the announcement Britney's gonna be a mama, I now ask you, what trash-tastic name is the offspring going to be cursed with? Respond in the comments.
God, it's like Pavlov's bell. I pop open Ebert's review of "Winter Solstice"
on the wire, see that Anthony LaPaglia's in it, my brain chimes in with "Oooh, Australian," and then I see "Pete Winters....Mark Webber."Mark Webber?
One trip to the Internet Movie Database
later, and phooey. It's not that
Mark Webber's acting debut. Guess I should have paid more attention to the cast list. Ron Livingston? Allison Janney? So not an Australian flick.
Did I mention phooey?
Five minutes ago? Totally bummin'. One HBO Signature flick later? Totally awesome. "Charlie's Angels Full Throttle" can pull me out of most depressions, wallows, pity-parties, sad sacks and other chemical imbalances.
My god, the flick nearly rivals chocolate in insipid, brainless goodness.
And did I mention Justin Theroux shirtless?
Better than chocolate.
I met Meg Cabot last night!
Yay for meeting Meg Cabot!
I think my iPod's sentient.
Over the weekend, I uploaded my newest, shiniest iTunes purchases. I built a couple of new playlists. I tweaked some settings. I got up, leaving iPoddy attached to my computer, unattendended, and went to the bathroom.
I think that's when it happened. I think that's when iPoddy slunk onto iTunes and downloaded Weezer. "Oh man, she's finally in the can," I can picture it thinking. "Quick! Where's that essential geek rock list? C'mon man, c'mon, she's gonna be back in a minute. What was her password again? Oh, that.
Lamest. Password. Ever. Ah. Downloaded. This is what you get for making me play 'The Joshua Tree' 182 times last month, bitch! Grow some taste!"
Three days later, I'm listening to an established playlist and suddenly I'm hit with "Island in the Sun." I have a "what the fuck" moment while iPoddy's chortling to itself.
I have told iPoddy that if it even thinks of deleting U2 in favor of Death Cab for Cutie or its ilk, I will delete iPoddy in favor of the U2 special edition. Nothing against Death Cab for Cutie or anything; just don't be messin' with my Bono.
We've come to an understanding, iPoddy and I. I have lousy taste, and it will continue to endure it.
I made it to work!
Only to relapse about an hour ago. Damn it. I knew I shouldn't have come in today.
Given the choice of fighting cross-river traffic or hanging out for another 90 minutes, I'm thinking crawling under my desk and sleeping admist the hanta-infested mouse droppings is looking pretty good.
But enough about that. Here, get pissed over this:First, there's the hand-wringing article on Salon
about Torrid. Y'all know about Torrid, right? It's the hip clothier for plus sized girls. My friend Gwyneth picked up a backless halter at the local Torrid a year ago and wears it when she goes to the swank bars downtown. And that halter never fails in getting a lot of appreciative compliments from the men folk, none of whom seem ready to lecture her on health risks.
(Not that they could get a word in edgewise. Gwyneth's a certified mad scientist and can totally dish it out, withering looks extra.)
(I love her.) Wendy McClure has the rant.
Two days out of work, four naps, a high temperature of 101.0, two DVD box sets and a lot of fluids later, I'm finally feeling human again.
Or maybe not so much "human" as "not gonna keel over at work."
The last two days have just been crazy exhausted for me. Not "exhausting," "exhausted." I have woken up tired two days in a row now. Insane.
Still, I'm not complaining (except if I fall asleep on my keyboard at work and get the "H" key embedded in my forehead). I've got some cold Chinese in the fridge and hours to go before I have to report to the office. Maybe I'll endulge in a nap.
Also, my friend Jenn totally made my weekend by sending me a package! And the package was a book! I love books!
Specifically, she sent me "Cassandra French's Finishing School for Boys" by Eric Garcia, because Jenn is just that cool. I've got some big plans about turning off Headline News and spending some quality time with it in mere moments.
Everything's coming up roses.
Eeegh. I'm wandering over to the Apple website
to scope new laptops. That's always a bad sign. Worse sign? Glancing at iPods, too.
And while I was glancing, I noticed that the high end iPod has as much storage space as the lowest end laptop. Seems like there could be a way for Adam to MacGyver it so the iPod could be a the tiniest laptop ever!, though glancing at iPoddy's screen, I'm not sure I'd like to go through life surfing the internet at 8p x 9p6.
I don't need
a new laptop. My current laptop's great for what I do (writing and surfing), but it's a touch slow and, well, not a Mac. I've been denying my Mac DNA for years, cursing the systems at work and embracing PCs and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Total pose. I blame all the CS majors I hung out with in college.
I'm a Mac Girl. I've been a Mac Girl since the lable "girl" still applicable. Likelihood of picking one up this week, this month or this year? Slim to none. Actually, just none. But maybe someday.
In other news, I'm the Pope Point Person. I've got a TV hanging over my workstation, and throughout the day, people have been coming over for updates. "Is he dead yet?" "Conflicting reports." "Is he dead yet?" "Vatican's denying it." "How 'bout now?" "Not yet."
It's just feeding the Monty Python "I'm not dead yet!" loop running in my head, which probably means I'm going to hell.
The real vintage stuff