When purchasing beer to take to a Summer BBQ you are attending, do not pick the brand by the cutest packaging, because ultimately you will be mocked. REPEATEDLY. Stick to the manliest, cheapest brand you can find. Trust me, Internet.
“Fuck you, I’m a wine drinker,” only gets you so far. And so far I mean mocked even more.
Today, while rushing back to the office from lunch, I managed to barely escape hitting someone with my car. And to make matters worse, that someone was a co-worker.
Thankfully with my big sunglasses on and hair in a ponytail I don’t think he recognized me. He did, however, shake hit fist in anger and flip me the bird. Seriously? Do people still do that? I can’t remember the last time I flipped someone off. Though, it does sound rather tempting now that I think about it. In the last few moments of writing this post I’ve already thought of ten people I’d love to wave a little bird action in their general direction. In fact, maybe that’s what I’ll do this weekend.
Who wants to drive me around while I hang out the window flipping random strangers off? Come on. That sounds like an excellent Sunday afternoon plan. Well worth skipping church over. I’m sure Baby Jesus would understand.
Week after week I sit down and watch “Lost” on the TV I inherited from Tim when he died. Each time I watch the show I find more reasons why Sawyer reminds me of him.
I don’t know how the rest of you cope with death, but I have to keep Tim alive in my thoughts. In this instance, I like to play out the scenario of how he would react over my Tim/Sawyer comparison. He would be so pissed off at me, but then go home, watch the show and find he was secretly flattered. He, of course, would never admit he had watched the show. Tim was a complete bad ass with a softer side that would have made any mother proud.
Every Thursday after the show ends, I want to cry because I desperately miss my friend. I hold back my tears and vow never to watch the stupid show again, but I always do because for one hour every week Tim seems close… and I need that.
To read this week’s column go here. One of these days I may even get around to posting the pictures with needles in my forehead. Just not today… I’m too busy being pissed off at the President for making me late to work. The war is one thing, but fucking up my commute? Now that’s something worthy of impeachment.
*Edit: for all those who have emailed me requesting the contact info for the Botox doctor I used here you go Center For Facial Appearances. Make sure you ask Dr. Anderson to tell you the stories about his travel abroad. Trust me.
After an especially crummy day yesterday, the child guy I’m dating took me to dinner at my favorite pub. Yes, he’s of legal drinking age. Barely. I know I really should have a blog name for him, but I typically use people’s initials and his initials are bad luck for me, and seeing them on a constant basis would make me even more superstitious than I already am.
I don’t recall the exact comment I made, but he called me difficult. Me? Difficult? I should have been more offended than I was, but I’m fully aware of how difficult I can be so I just shook it off.
Later that night, however, I just couldn’t shake his observation. I couldn’t decide if he was calling me difficult in a joking matter, or if he was serious. I called and asked him, “On a scale of one to ten, ten obviously being the highest, how difficult am I?”
Without a moment of hesitation he replied, “I’d say 6.5-7.” I was crushed. Anything above a four is of concern. Then again, I know if I called and asked my mom the same question she would tell me I was of the charts at a 99.5 on a scale of one to ten. Somehow knowing that put it all into perspective and I didn’t take away his Pokemon cards as punishment.
