this chick = effing creative

Another blogger with a book deal.
But this one's worth a gander (A glimpse. Not a male goose.): INDEXED

Bunnies.

So, Kates (younger sister -- mind you, only a year and a half younger) and I are emailing today and I ask her if she's going to Mum and Dad's for Easter . . . this is her reply:

Yeah I’m going to mom and dad’s. mom started talking about how she bought these little chicken things to eat this year and I was like woah woah woah. And she goes, AND I still got ham and pineapple cuz I knew you’d be upset. So whatever. Now I have to have my ham and pineapple share space on my plate with some foreign chicken object. Puh-lease.

I totally know how she feels.

Cris: Is your Mum making chocolate bird nests again this year?

It must have been a sight to behold.

Just look at the fantastic crap you find when you google the word "molasses" to check for spelling . . .

The Boston Molasses Disaster, also known as the Great Molasses Flood or The Great Boston Molasses Tragedy, occurred on January 15, 1919, in the North End neighborhood of Boston, Massachusetts in the United States. A large molasses treacle tank burst and a wave of molasses ran through the streets at an estimated 35 mph (56 km/h), killing 21 and injuring 150. The event has entered local folklore, and residents claim that on hot summer days the area still smells of molasses.

. . .

"Molasses, waist deep, covered the street and swirled and bubbled about the wreckage. Here and there struggled a form — whether it was animal or human being was impossible to tell. Only an upheaval, a thrashing about in the sticky mass, showed where any life was.... Horses died like so many flies on sticky fly-paper. The more they struggled, the deeper in the mess they were ensnared. Human beings — men and women — suffered likewise."

The Boston Globe reported that people "were picked up by a rush of air and hurled many feet." Others had debris hurled at them from the rush of sweet-smelling air. A truck was picked up and hurled into Boston Harbor. More than 159 were injured; 21 people and several horses were killed - some were crushed and asphyxiated by the molasses. The wounded included people, horses, and dogs; coughing became one of the biggest problems after the initial blast.

Amazing.

Half past Fun.

I went to a screening of the new Showtime series, The Tudors, tonight. It began with cocktail hour and ended with a Q&A with “Henry himself!” Johnny Rhys-Meyers. Dude . . . what a pretentious ass. I’ll admit, I didn’t always feel justified in thinking that about him. I mean, I think he’s a decent actor, and he’s pretty, and people seem to like him, etc, etc. However, tonight I’m not sitting here thinking “M-Dawg! You had it all wrong! He’s quite a lovely fellow!” Instead it’s “Well, he’s a pompous little fuck, isn’t he?”

My feelings about him aren’t going to stop me from buying the Showtime package and watching every single Tudors episode though. I LOVE me some Tudor history. Especially good old Henry VIII. Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived! Don’t the Brits have some good fun!?! (By the by, the new Philippa Gregory, The Boleyn Inheritance is excellent. Still, nothing tops The Other Boleyn Girl . . . holy crap, I’d marry that book.) Second Parentheses (Betsy: I heart you for the invite.)

To transition gracefully . . .

It’s half past midnight and good Jebus, In other news, I spent $60 at Sam Flax on Monday, picking up 3 different sketch pads (because I’m going to draw like a madwoman, apparently) and some new pastels. I almost bought new pencils until I realized that would give me four sets. Good thing I didn’t because I probably wouldn’t have spent the money on the Jam Band for my fridge. And who knows what I’d do without a magnet of a frog playing bass.



The good news: I’m working at this proactive thing.
The bad news: I’m working at that lazy thing, too.

Hey, at least I’m multi-tasking.


FYI: The new Chocolate LG phone kind of sucks it with regard to the phone part. Texting on this mutha's a bitch. Haven't tried the music part yet. It better rock my world or there's going to be one unhappy camper in Muggyland. *It is a fancy little devil though.*

RICK RICK RICK!

For Cristina.

Top o' the mornin'

Definitely met a great kisser tonight . . . this morning.(?)

On my way home from the bar (bar kissing = classy), my cabbie helped me understand the way of THE LOVE in NYC. Very helpful, indeed: “As the good book says: When Man and Woman get chummy, they marry. In New York . . . don’t happen."

Awesome.

May 1, 2007

I am really excited about this.



Hey . . . it's the small things.

I can believe anything provided it is incredible.

Love my horoscope for this week:

SCORPIO (Oct.23–Nov.21): You've entered an Oscar Wilde–type phase. I urge you to get a sense of how the British author's paradoxical brilliance worked so you can put yourself in a similar frame of mind. Study the following Wilde-isms. (1) "I can believe anything provided it is incredible." (2) "Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative." (3) "If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh; otherwise they'll kill you." (4) "Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess." (5) "Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much." (6) "Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul." –Rob Brezsny, Village Voice

Shared a smile and a wave this morning with a little girl on a school bus. It was a nice way to start the day.

Mr. Ness

Hot damn, you're friggin' smart. Nice bloggage. You've been added, my friend. You've been added.

AND I'm terribly sorry to have missed your birthday shenanigans Saturday night. A belated happy birthday to you! Are you and my niece kind of like soulmates since you share the same birthday weekend AND pieces of my heart? I'm pretty sure you are. I'm pretty sure you are.

I just repeated two phrases twice. I just repeated two phrases twice. Apparently I can't stop. Apparently . . .

Sorry.

Random tidbits.

On the bus, on the way to work this morning, I was reading my ALLURE maggy (nope, Cris, my subscription has yet to arrive – I bought the issue with Michelle Pfeiffer on the cover because I heart her greatly) and made a few interesting discoveries.

1. OhMiBod . . . OhMiFUCKINGAMAZING
Did you know there’s also an iCARTA: a toilet-paper dispenser with a built-in iPod dock and speakers??? Holy Christ, I love iPods . . . now if I only HAD ONE. Of course, I’m sure as hell going to get one now that I know about the OhMiBod.

2. “Redheaded Caucasian women require 20% more anesthesia to block movement in response to a painful stimulation than women with dark or blonde hair.” Weird. And so random to note . . .

3. Lanvin creative director, Alber Elbaz (yeah, who?), is my new hero (hero being a loose term here for “the guy who put into words how I feel at the moment”): “It’s very important to hate what you do because that’s maybe what gives me the energy to wake up the next day and start all over again — the fact that I’m never satisfied with my work.”

I had quite the bus ride.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what makes me happy and what would make me happy. I’m coming up with a lot of things. There’s nothing but good in that. So far this week, for instance, there’s:

1. Exercising later in the day. (I’m pretty sure running half asleep, in the morning, doesn’t do much for me.)
2. My niece.
3. Walking home, in the cold.
4. DVR'd Inside the Actor’s Studio. (Dave Chapelle, Robert Downey, Jr., Angelina Jolie, oh my.)
6. Melissa Moss’s art. It’s phenomenal. I was introduced to her work yesterday and have already emailed her about buying 2 prints on wood (“burden” and “ogee”). I must say, I’m super-excited. And reading her bio and seeing her work makes me want to change things up . . . pretty cool, indeed.

Bob’s your Uncle.

Nope, Peter’s my uncle . . .

Here’s another little British saying I grew up with. My American coworker just used it during our conversation. Irritating? A little bit. Why? Well, it’s the same irritation I have towards Americans who use slang like “wanker” and “bollocks” on a regular basis: “Oh, because I studied abroad/lived in England for awhile! I picked it up!” Here's the thing: you sound like an idiot. Stop it. You’re American.

Whatever . . . people can say whatever they like. Just don’t start mimicking an English accent after I tell you my Mum is English. I WILL slap you. Because, you’re annoying. And don’t sound English -- in fact, I have no idea what accent you're going for.

(Click the title of the entry for phrase origin info.)

And no, this blog is not going to turn into “Quirky sayings from my Mum” . . . that would make me a wanker.

I'm such an ass.

FACTOID: Wanker is also an English language surname; according to the 1990 census, "Wanker" is the 53,492nd most common surname in the United States.

white rabbit white rabbit white rabbit (fingers crossed, eyes squeezed shut)

My Mum has been torturing me with “Pinch, punch, first day of the month! White rabbit!” for a good few months now. She’s made sure to call me on the first day of the month, as early as possible, to yell it into the phone. The Brit comes up with yet one more weird English custom every few months.

This morning I tried to beat her to the punch . . . if you will. She picked up the phone and started yelling the line to me before I could say a thing. She completely stole my thunder. I’m going to win this war . . . I’m going to win. April’s a whole new month. I think I might even fake a pregnancy as an April Fool’s Day joke, too, just for kicks.*

*Yes, yes, I'm a special person. I know.

Below you will find some references as to where in the hell this little custom comes from . . . from REALLY reliable sources:

From Wiktionary:
pinch and a punch for the first of the month

1. Phrase said on the first day of a new month, accompanied by a pinch and a punch to the victim.
* Must be done prior to 12 midday to prevent retaliation.
* If the phrase ends "with no return", under NO circumstances is the person that has been pinched, allowed to retaliate (as long as this has happened before 12 midday).
* The exception being, the victim can respond with "A kick and a flick for being so quick" accompanied by a kick and a hit to the original speaker. This can't be retaliated to.
* A version encountered on the Canadian west coast turns this phrase into a race of who can say it first, on the first morning of each month. "A kiss and a kick for being so quick," is uttered by the person who is beaten to the "punch" line.
* Its origins are from old England times when people thought that witches existed.

People thought that salt would make a Witch weak so the pinch part is pinching of the salt and the punch part was to banish the witch. The witch would be weak from the salt so the punch was to banish her.

From Wikipedia:
More on the “white rabbit” part.

I have obviously spent way too much time on this. However, I definitely woke up this morning and immediately said “white rabbit white rabbit white rabbit” – because we can all use a lucky month once in awhile.

Better than some.

Do you ever hear snippets of a conversation and think "God, I would be bored out of my fucking skull if I had your job"?

I do.

Random thoughts . . . if you want to call them that.

Immaculate conception? Or not???? (wink wink nudge nudge)
SCORPIO (Oct. 23–Nov. 21): In the coming weeks, you'll attract cosmic assistance whenever you add to your repertoire, branch out artistically or socially, or start gathering seed money for a project that may take years to ripen. Mythically speaking, the coming weeks will also be a good time to have intimate relations with a fertility god or goddess, and to plant magic beans that will grow into a bean stalk that reaches the sky. "Is that it?" you may be asking. "Nothing but good news?!" My only caveat, which is pretty minor, is that you might add a few pounds to your frame. If you're a hetero woman, that could be caused by a pregnancy unless you're careful. --Rob Breszny, Village Voice

Don’t know how I feel about this . . .
'Grey's' spinoff in the works

No kidding . . .
The Romantic Life of Brainiacs

Word. Word. WORD.
Ferguson Speaks From The Heart

Thank Timmy for small favors!! You've made my week. (And yes, that's a wee bit pathetic. Noted. ALSO note that this is the second blog to start with a posting highlighting the pressure I put on the blogger to start said blog. Again, a little sad.)
The Calvacade of Whimsy

TOOL: Bill O'Reilly
UNTOOL: Craig Ferguson

Morning . . . already.

Is it weird to want to change places with a panda?



How is it that I could manage just fine on 3/4/5 hours of sleep in college but now I turn into a zombie if I don't get at least 7?? Must. Find. Caffeine.

Poop poopy poop.

I started a TOOL list on my office wall ages ago. See crappy little camera photo:



Included on the TOOL side are people like John Mayer (even though I own and really like his new album, he’s still a pretty big pussy, uh, tool), DJ AM, Carson Daly, Perez Hilton, P.Diddy, etc. Among the UNTOOL people are various coworkers (one can’t really put coworkers on the TOOL side as they will see TOOL list – one CAN put coworkers on internal TOOL list though), my Mum, and . . . well, that’s it so far. The mess of red marker you see is because someone did not approve of the addition of DJ AM to the TOOL list. The fight is ongoing . . . and I’m pretty sure said coworker doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I mean: DJ AM = UNTOOL??? I think my coworker might be insane.

Mindless gibberish.

I dropped off $86.85 worth of dry cleaning this morning – and that's WITH the 10% discount. This is what I get for buying "nicer clothes that will last longer" this year. Ahh well . . . (An "Ah well" is now how I deal with my money problems now – all grown-up and mature, you see.)

I have a date for Valentine' s Day!! Of course, it's with one of my best girls and I won't be getting laid at the end of it (as one ALWAYS does on a date – am I right?!) BUT it's a date on V-Day, nonetheless. We shall be going to see MUSIC AND LYRICS. Very excited. Very.

I'm usually all disgruntled on V-Day – "I hate this holiday! It can suck it!" type stuff. But, in truth, it's really a lovely little day. I mean, you should tell people you love them every day yadda yadda yadda, but this is the one day that you get to make a real ass out of yourself with the love crap! I mean, come on! Fun! I will be finding appropriately ridiculous gifts for the niecy and nephew, and will spoil my Mummy with something shiny. I’ve decided to turn over a new attitude leaf this year. Just because I don’t have the love of my life now (not counting my DVR) doesn’t mean I won’t have him next V-Day! Word.

And, if my history is anything to show for my lovelife, well, big things are to come.

POSTED LAST YEAR ON OLD BLOG (the one I took down during a "I don't care about anything!" phase – it was great): 2.14.05

Top three men of 2005 . . . a V-Day treat:

1. There was, um, some guy whose name started with a D. Devon? Christ, I can't remember. Not important. Anyhoo, Devon and I, we met at a bar (go figure). He was the bouncer, I was the DJ. Kidding. He was the bouncer and I was one of the classy bar attendees. (I mean, who isn't classy at a place where the waitresses blows a whistle before serving a drink? Class-sssyyyy). So, this bouncer, Devon(???) and I started talking after I eye-effed him. That's right. Classy AND drunk. For some godforsaken reason I give him my number right before walking out the door. AND I put his number in my phone. We were definitely going to talk again! Over the next 2 days *TWO DAYS* Devon calls me 10 (or so) times, leaving only 2 messages – which I had yet to return. I suppose he was pretty upset by the 11th call b/c he dumped me. I was dumped over the phone by some guy I never dated. He asked me why I gave him my number if I wasn’t going to talk to him. Uh, I’ll give you three guesses, stalker.

2. AW. AW, the detective I met when my sister was mugged. (That’s right I turned a bad situation into a good one . . . for me.) OK, so we didn’t really date. At least, I didn’t call the times we hung out “dating.” Apparently, he did. There was a period of, oh, say, 9 months when I didn’t see him but he’d call every few weeks to say hello and check in. Really liked him, he was a nice guy. However, I wasn’t interested in being anything more than his friend, unfortunately. Never had that spark AND he was shorter than me (probably still is), which of course means that I’m not interested. Because, I’m a shallow bitch. I think he wanted a wife. He already had a house in Florida and a 14 year old (17 year old??) kid, so what more would he want? I can’t be positive. He decided to just come out and tell my voicemail one day how he really felt (what is it with me and my voicemail?), and it went a little something like this: “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to say hello, and how’re you doing and, well, I don’t want to keep it a secret any longer . . . I love you.” And, buh bye.

3. RM. (Don’t you just love the initials?? Like they’re going to read this and be all “WOAH!”). Oh, RM. We had fun. Book parties rock for meeting people . . . aka, making out big-time post-party. Or so I’ve learned. RM is QUITE a bit older, owns his own company, has a house in the Hamptons, runs with the socialites, is everything I mock, etc. He makes me laugh. Were still in touch . . . if you know what I mean.

All class. All the time.

Oh, I've been in the lowlands too long.

I have checked Missed Connections three times (no wait, four times) today. I had an amazing Missed Connection last night on the bus.

I gave up on my daily walk home last night because I’m fond of my toes. (If you haven’t noticed, it’s cold as fuck outside. How cold is fuck, you ask? Um, go outside.) Got on the good old bus to get home and managed to squeeze my way through everyone to get to the back of the bus. Once there, a quite handsome young man with a guitar (I’m sure it’s a gorgeous instrument) motioned at me that the seat next to him was free. A “you want to sit down” gesture.

“Thanks!”

“____”

Yup, didn’t hear his reply as my earphones were still in my my ears. *Crap crap crappity crap* So, I just smiled and said “Thanks!” again. Quick. On. My. Feet. And witty, don’t forget witty.

The bus started moving again and I took my earphones out and got out a maggy. *LIKE I’M REALLY READING. HELLO!!! SAY SOMETHING!!* You could cut the tension with a knife.

I could sense that he wanted to say something to me and of course I wanted to say something to him BUTTTTT . . . I didn’t. Why? Because, I’m a giant asshole.

Instead, a few stops later, he got up and walked off the bus. BUT not before looking around at me and giving me a big smile.

GOD DAMMIT! EFF EFF EFF EFF EFF.

WHAT IS MY PROBLEM??!!

All I know is that I’m riding the bus home more often. Of course, I’m going to have to be careful with my eye-effing. I had another “eye-catch” at the end of the ride but THIS bussy had some awfully bloodshot eyes and, well, there’s only room for one drunk in Muggyland.

The Talented.

Dear Mr. Gyves,

I have always found your photography skills to be, quite frankly, above the snuff. Much to my pleasure, you have created a way to share your lovely photos with me (and I suppose others) on a more frequent basis: quickstuff.

I thank you. We all do.

Love,
Me

P.S. Love the second "tables" image. Love.

Hot.

Wax on Wax Hoff