They're awesome. Try them. They're like eating those Japanese "cookies" that are little angry panda wafers filled with an unidentifiable, vaguely berry flavored frosting. Holy crap so good. And vanilla creme Wheaties. I have no idea why. And it turns out, given the proper motivation, I can really pack them away.
Speaking of which, I got an internship, which surprised my parents to no end since they thought I'd mooch off of them forever. So did I, but things haven't turned out in my favor. So basically what I do all day at work is to wait for someone to give me something to do, read advertising magazines, and act like I have a freaking clue what half the things they say mean. Oh yeah, I'm working at one of Dallas's largest advertising and marketing firms founded by a man named Stan Richards, who turns out to be famous, so that's cool. Wow the keyboard of this Mac sucks. I feel like I might be blogging a lot more now that I have to work and can't spend my entire day watching Judge Joe Brown and trying to get my shoes back from the stupid dog. I think probably the only thing that really annoys me at work right now is that despite the fact that 600+ people work here, we have some hella morons making coffee. It always smells frightening and burned, but today it smelled like meat. MEAT. I don't know where they found beef flavored coffee, but I sure can't figure out why they decided to brew it instead of carving out their olfactory organ.
So on to my first choir rehearsal last night. To clarify, being in Dallas brings back rather stark memories of my high school experience and, as such, any choir I sing with will seem decent by comparison. Naturally, the choir really isn't that good but they're not horrible either for being a community choir that is all volunteers. I am definitely the next to youngest, with the exception of my future boyfriend, who is actually pretty hot. I imagine that we'll date for a little while and either he will dump me after 1 week or I will dump him after 1 month, so I have that to look forward to. If he's gay we'll probably get married or something until he has a crisis at 35 and proceeds to hit on 20 year old girls at weddings. Other than that, about 80% of the choir is 50 years old or above. Some 70ish man totally checked me out, but I'm pretty sure it's because he couldn't see too well due to his rheumatism and mistook me for his 55 year old piece of sweet, sweet ass. I actually had a moment of bonding with one of the older women, until I told her my name and she chuckled good naturedly, at which point it became fairly obvious that she couldn't hear a word of the conversation. That can only bode well for tuning. At one point, our overly polite conductor asked the sopranos (who SUCK) to try to sing the same F. Mind you, this is not a high note for sopranos. Every soprano I know, even the crappy ones, eat that kind of thing for breakfast. But without practice and when you get older, your voice goes down in pitch and Granny just can't do it anymore. At any rate, when asked to sing a unison, I counted about 9 different notes from 7 sopranos and one bass, which seemed to just sing regardless of who was rehearsing at the time.
As a result, my week has been both adorable and scary. So, scadorabry.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
So I didn't exactly blog the VERY next day...
You people are too picky. Part of my reason for waiting was ultimately so that I could take pictures of the new fattitude of my new kitten, but though I have found my camera, there is no wire to connect it to my computer. I'll figure all of that out later and give a brief update re: Meg's life.
Sooooooo I auditioned for a choir today that is affiliated with Southern Methodist University (rockin' the Greek houses, as well as fake tans). This will only be interesting to the people who were in Collegium with me, but when I originally called to set up an audition and the guy asked where I had sung in college, I told him simply Harvard and he totally asked me about Jim. I have no idea whether our former conductor was really famous or if he was just super eccentric, but at least this guy knows who he is. Needless to say, I went in today, paid $6 for parking, sang a few scales, the guy asked me if I could sight read, and now I'm in the choir. Nicely casual but not a good sign.
Anyway, so the wedding. Overall it was a fairly average Catholic wedding. Nice church, most people with covered shoulders and a few skanky ones, all of the Jews and Protestants waiting uncomfortably during the Communion, etc etc. The reception started out around 3:30 or 4 pm, and I made a beeline for the alcohol, anticipating my meeting with said mystery man. I'm not going to lie, I looked pretty cute. Not slutty cute, wedding cute, with some uncomfortably gorgeous shoes. By the by, the word for this afternoon would, indeed, be "uncomfortable".
Moving on, my friends and I attacked the buffet (mmmmm grilled peppers *gargling noises*) and then waited for the fun to begin. The fun never did precisely begin, which I primarily blame on the DJ and my own accursed luck. At some point, Marilyn (mother of the bride) catches me and whisks me over to meet her friend, Darrin. Or Darren. Darin. Daran. Regardless, we'll call him "E. Lee" because my friend Gary said that he looked like he belonged in a Civil War reenactment. So the first thing I notice is that he's not precisely my height. Well he IS my height, just not my gorgeous heels height. My tolerance for this sort of things is usually decent, though I, like any other girl, like to be carried over doorsteps and shielded from the wind, so we're not really onto a good start. The awkwardness is pretty tangible, but again, I'm a trooper so I stick it out.
Our conversation primarily involves him trying to get me something to drink. I don't mind giving him something to do, but honestly, I really wasn't thirsty, I had already had two glasses of wine, and at this point it's 4:45, which is neither happy hour nor even a convenient time for alcoholics to drink, in my personal opinion. Eventually I let him convince me to go to the bar with him, mostly because his crappy little friends do nothing but stare at me. Uncomfortable. I get gingerale because at this point I'm beginning to suspect that he's trying to get me drunk. I am not going to get drunk with a 35 year old man who wants to get married. There's just something off about that situation. However, this was a prime opportunity to hot foot it back to my table o' friends who, like hyenas in the wild, have already sensed which one of us is the sickly antelope that needs to be eaten. My friend Amy was so appalled at my obvious discomfort that she made several efforts merely to take me away from him, including a feigned broken bra strap that I "just [had] to help with".
There's not much to tell about the rest of the early evening, except to say that I spent most of the time trying to subtlely wriggle out his grasp and inviting everyone but him somewhere later that evening. He also put his hands everywhere from my upper thigh to my hips. It was like we were dating, except that we had just met and he creeped me out. And we aren't and never will date. And he kept talking about people's hairstyles and looking aghast every time I said something more offensive than "Oh pickles, I dropped my grilled pepper". And he made me dance when NO ONE was dancing but the BRIDE AND GROOM. NO ONE. I made him sit down after about 20 seconds, though he paid one of the ushers to let us continue dancing. Of course he asked for my number and I gave it to him because I'm a pushover, though I qualified it with a "I don't want to go on a date really". So here's for me being a wuss but an honest wuss. Although I am given hope because my friend Bonnie said that she saw him hitting on someone else in a similar drunken stupor later on. God I need a boyfriend in Dallas. One that my mother's aquaintances would recognize as such and stop telling desperate men that I'm available and super excited to get pregnant or something. *shudder*
As a parting thought, I just tipped my smoothie back too far and, seeing its opportunity, it ran swiftly up my noise so far that there is not only pureed bits of mangos and blackberries in my brain, but there is also an imprint of my nose in the smoothie.
Sooooooo I auditioned for a choir today that is affiliated with Southern Methodist University (rockin' the Greek houses, as well as fake tans). This will only be interesting to the people who were in Collegium with me, but when I originally called to set up an audition and the guy asked where I had sung in college, I told him simply Harvard and he totally asked me about Jim. I have no idea whether our former conductor was really famous or if he was just super eccentric, but at least this guy knows who he is. Needless to say, I went in today, paid $6 for parking, sang a few scales, the guy asked me if I could sight read, and now I'm in the choir. Nicely casual but not a good sign.
Anyway, so the wedding. Overall it was a fairly average Catholic wedding. Nice church, most people with covered shoulders and a few skanky ones, all of the Jews and Protestants waiting uncomfortably during the Communion, etc etc. The reception started out around 3:30 or 4 pm, and I made a beeline for the alcohol, anticipating my meeting with said mystery man. I'm not going to lie, I looked pretty cute. Not slutty cute, wedding cute, with some uncomfortably gorgeous shoes. By the by, the word for this afternoon would, indeed, be "uncomfortable".
Moving on, my friends and I attacked the buffet (mmmmm grilled peppers *gargling noises*) and then waited for the fun to begin. The fun never did precisely begin, which I primarily blame on the DJ and my own accursed luck. At some point, Marilyn (mother of the bride) catches me and whisks me over to meet her friend, Darrin. Or Darren. Darin. Daran. Regardless, we'll call him "E. Lee" because my friend Gary said that he looked like he belonged in a Civil War reenactment. So the first thing I notice is that he's not precisely my height. Well he IS my height, just not my gorgeous heels height. My tolerance for this sort of things is usually decent, though I, like any other girl, like to be carried over doorsteps and shielded from the wind, so we're not really onto a good start. The awkwardness is pretty tangible, but again, I'm a trooper so I stick it out.
Our conversation primarily involves him trying to get me something to drink. I don't mind giving him something to do, but honestly, I really wasn't thirsty, I had already had two glasses of wine, and at this point it's 4:45, which is neither happy hour nor even a convenient time for alcoholics to drink, in my personal opinion. Eventually I let him convince me to go to the bar with him, mostly because his crappy little friends do nothing but stare at me. Uncomfortable. I get gingerale because at this point I'm beginning to suspect that he's trying to get me drunk. I am not going to get drunk with a 35 year old man who wants to get married. There's just something off about that situation. However, this was a prime opportunity to hot foot it back to my table o' friends who, like hyenas in the wild, have already sensed which one of us is the sickly antelope that needs to be eaten. My friend Amy was so appalled at my obvious discomfort that she made several efforts merely to take me away from him, including a feigned broken bra strap that I "just [had] to help with".
There's not much to tell about the rest of the early evening, except to say that I spent most of the time trying to subtlely wriggle out his grasp and inviting everyone but him somewhere later that evening. He also put his hands everywhere from my upper thigh to my hips. It was like we were dating, except that we had just met and he creeped me out. And we aren't and never will date. And he kept talking about people's hairstyles and looking aghast every time I said something more offensive than "Oh pickles, I dropped my grilled pepper". And he made me dance when NO ONE was dancing but the BRIDE AND GROOM. NO ONE. I made him sit down after about 20 seconds, though he paid one of the ushers to let us continue dancing. Of course he asked for my number and I gave it to him because I'm a pushover, though I qualified it with a "I don't want to go on a date really". So here's for me being a wuss but an honest wuss. Although I am given hope because my friend Bonnie said that she saw him hitting on someone else in a similar drunken stupor later on. God I need a boyfriend in Dallas. One that my mother's aquaintances would recognize as such and stop telling desperate men that I'm available and super excited to get pregnant or something. *shudder*
As a parting thought, I just tipped my smoothie back too far and, seeing its opportunity, it ran swiftly up my noise so far that there is not only pureed bits of mangos and blackberries in my brain, but there is also an imprint of my nose in the smoothie.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Oh the stories
Buuuuuuuuuut I can't talk about it now. I'm super sleepy and I've had enough liquor to make me want to nap forever. So's I'm agonna blog tomorrow, but suffice to say that A) the kitten escaped my room and found his way to someplace new and freaked out and B) wow gay.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Today's theme is gaucheness... and vocabulary
So this past weekend I went to a party for a friend of mine from high school, Monica, who is getting married on August 20th. Monica and I have an interesting relationship insofar in that I discovered post high school that she really didn't and never had liked me and I had kind of considered us to be friends. I admit that I can be quite a handful at times, so the fact that there's probably legions of people out there who hate my guts is no real surprise, but the shock of finding out her behavior toward me was completely at odds with how she really felt, combined with the fact that she's quite good friends with my good friends, makes it an uneasy relationship all around. Apparently the majority of her dislike for me stems from an incident concerning our mothers, which my mother is completely unaware of. My mom is a super nice lady so I find it doubtful that she would insult someone purposefully and I'm not sure I like people who hold imagined grudges for no reason.
The other irony about all of it is that, ultimately, I still kind of like Monica, though I don't always agree with her approach to life, but hey, potato potahto. And she apparently is completely unfazed by her dislike of me and wonders why I'm so distant. For the record, I don't hide my emotions well. Though I try to be tactful, I don't have a good poker face and it's definitely gotten me in trouble. Anyway, at this point all conversations with Monica and her mother tend to be pretty uncomfortable, though I am genuinely happy that she's getting married because I love weddings.
So back to the party. I show up to this bar in Dallas that has definitely burned me before. The last time I parked near there, my car got towed and taken to the one of the less savory parts of town. At the tow site, they have a bulletproof pane of glass for the receptionist and rottweilers behind 9 foot rusty fences made out of scrap metal. AND it's 40 minutes from my house, albeit 15 minutes from the bar. But it was suggested to me by the tow truck site lady that I go nowhere near that part of town after dark and I believed her, but I digress. So I show up to this bar with my friend Bonnie and her beau Alan and we scamper upstairs, where I am accosted by Monica's mother, Marilyn, who informs me that a male friend of hers saw me at a play that we all went to together and now just "has to meet [me]". Mind you, he was at that improv performance in order to ogle another girl that just happens to have a boyfriend, but I won't split hairs. So she tells me that he thinks that I'm super hot and I vaguely remember a guy sitting next to her that I thought was pretty cute though a little short for me. There are exceptions but I tend to like my menfolk a couple of inches taller than me to accommodate my heel wearing escapades. THEN I'm informed that he's an opera singer, 35 (I swear I thought he was 19 at the time), and, in the words of Marilyn, "challenging". Hmmmm...challenging.... That could mean, well, challenging. OR it could mean "an asshole".
What does one say to this information, I wonder. It's hard to tell. The polite thing to do is to squeal with glee, but as I've just said, I don't have a good poker face. So I compromised and had a general visage of disbelief as I made appreciative noises at her matchmaking skills. Mind you, if I get married to this guy, I'm totally going to eat these words someday. Somehow I'm not too worried about the possibility. But this does prove my theory that everyone I know is getting married to set me up. So that's cool. But, the coup de grace:
Marilyn: So you just have to show up looking extremely hot at the wedding.
Me: Um, I'll try my best.
Marilyn: You should wear a push-up bra or something.
Me: ... I think I need a beer.
So yet again, someone is staring and JUDGING my chest. Not only that, my somebody's MOTHER. And this time it hella can't be blamed on me because I haven't spoken to Marilyn in years. You know what World, suck it. They're this size. Shit happens. I have lovely and proportional legs that because of all the stupid weight lifting I've been doing are actually quite muscular so why don't you leave my poor breasts the hell alone and center on something else. I also have a sparkling personality.
And awkward.
The other irony about all of it is that, ultimately, I still kind of like Monica, though I don't always agree with her approach to life, but hey, potato potahto. And she apparently is completely unfazed by her dislike of me and wonders why I'm so distant. For the record, I don't hide my emotions well. Though I try to be tactful, I don't have a good poker face and it's definitely gotten me in trouble. Anyway, at this point all conversations with Monica and her mother tend to be pretty uncomfortable, though I am genuinely happy that she's getting married because I love weddings.
So back to the party. I show up to this bar in Dallas that has definitely burned me before. The last time I parked near there, my car got towed and taken to the one of the less savory parts of town. At the tow site, they have a bulletproof pane of glass for the receptionist and rottweilers behind 9 foot rusty fences made out of scrap metal. AND it's 40 minutes from my house, albeit 15 minutes from the bar. But it was suggested to me by the tow truck site lady that I go nowhere near that part of town after dark and I believed her, but I digress. So I show up to this bar with my friend Bonnie and her beau Alan and we scamper upstairs, where I am accosted by Monica's mother, Marilyn, who informs me that a male friend of hers saw me at a play that we all went to together and now just "has to meet [me]". Mind you, he was at that improv performance in order to ogle another girl that just happens to have a boyfriend, but I won't split hairs. So she tells me that he thinks that I'm super hot and I vaguely remember a guy sitting next to her that I thought was pretty cute though a little short for me. There are exceptions but I tend to like my menfolk a couple of inches taller than me to accommodate my heel wearing escapades. THEN I'm informed that he's an opera singer, 35 (I swear I thought he was 19 at the time), and, in the words of Marilyn, "challenging". Hmmmm...challenging.... That could mean, well, challenging. OR it could mean "an asshole".
What does one say to this information, I wonder. It's hard to tell. The polite thing to do is to squeal with glee, but as I've just said, I don't have a good poker face. So I compromised and had a general visage of disbelief as I made appreciative noises at her matchmaking skills. Mind you, if I get married to this guy, I'm totally going to eat these words someday. Somehow I'm not too worried about the possibility. But this does prove my theory that everyone I know is getting married to set me up. So that's cool. But, the coup de grace:
Marilyn: So you just have to show up looking extremely hot at the wedding.
Me: Um, I'll try my best.
Marilyn: You should wear a push-up bra or something.
Me: ... I think I need a beer.
So yet again, someone is staring and JUDGING my chest. Not only that, my somebody's MOTHER. And this time it hella can't be blamed on me because I haven't spoken to Marilyn in years. You know what World, suck it. They're this size. Shit happens. I have lovely and proportional legs that because of all the stupid weight lifting I've been doing are actually quite muscular so why don't you leave my poor breasts the hell alone and center on something else. I also have a sparkling personality.
And awkward.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Oh snots I drank too much juice
I also saw the movie The Piano today, which, for those of you who don't know, is a movie about a mute woman (Holly Hunter) during colonial times who marries Sam Neill (old, but hot), has a daughter (Anna Paquin - but where's Wolverine?), and a man she falls in love with (Harvey Keitel). It was a quiet but very good movie. I will, however, warn all potential viewers about something that the movie execs definitely failed to mention pre film. Harvey Keitel is naked in the movie. And I don't mean like, "Oh heck, where's my shirt and socks" naked but nekkid. Like, wedding tackle nekkid. Family jewels nekkid. Nut and berries nekkid. At any rate, it certainly threw me for a loop and I have to say that that's all I can pretty much remember about the film right now. I saw Harvey Keitel super nude, in all of his wrinkly glory.
However, this is not the point of this post. I wanted to go ahead and write out for all of those too lazy to read the comments the names I received as possibilities for my impending kitty. There is also a new photo right cheeyah:
Incidentally, awesome.
Okay, so here we go in no particular order:
1. Puddles - not a good start
2. Batista - Middle name here I come.
3. Guyver - Hooray!!
4. Snugglepuss - *throaty boy laugh*
5. Pig or Pudu - What the hell is a pudu? I bet it's adorable.
6. Fibonacci - 6th grade! Gross!
7. Jeff Grossman - Hmmm... might love it a wee tad TOO much if I named it that.
8. Angelo part Deux - it's a rather sad story for Angelo the First, in case anyone wants to hear it.
9. Wysiwyg - I can pronounce, but I doubt you can.
10. Bill - but what if I marry a Bill? Would I then have to choose whom I loved best??
11. Gato Merron - the suggestion of the breeder. For those of you who don't know, it means "Brown Cat" in Spanish. If I'm going to go with that, I might as well capitulate to my mother who suggested:
12. Cocoa
At any rate, your suggestions are highly appreciated, but since I can't bear the thought of my departed fish and I probably shouldn't be yelling "Snugglepuss" loudly at the neighbors, I think I'm going to think of some random Renaissance artist and leave it at that.
Bernini with your coffee, anyone?
However, this is not the point of this post. I wanted to go ahead and write out for all of those too lazy to read the comments the names I received as possibilities for my impending kitty. There is also a new photo right cheeyah:
Incidentally, awesome.
Okay, so here we go in no particular order:
1. Puddles - not a good start
2. Batista - Middle name here I come.
3. Guyver - Hooray!!
4. Snugglepuss - *throaty boy laugh*
5. Pig or Pudu - What the hell is a pudu? I bet it's adorable.
6. Fibonacci - 6th grade! Gross!
7. Jeff Grossman - Hmmm... might love it a wee tad TOO much if I named it that.
8. Angelo part Deux - it's a rather sad story for Angelo the First, in case anyone wants to hear it.
9. Wysiwyg - I can pronounce, but I doubt you can.
10. Bill - but what if I marry a Bill? Would I then have to choose whom I loved best??
11. Gato Merron - the suggestion of the breeder. For those of you who don't know, it means "Brown Cat" in Spanish. If I'm going to go with that, I might as well capitulate to my mother who suggested:
12. Cocoa
At any rate, your suggestions are highly appreciated, but since I can't bear the thought of my departed fish and I probably shouldn't be yelling "Snugglepuss" loudly at the neighbors, I think I'm going to think of some random Renaissance artist and leave it at that.
Bernini with your coffee, anyone?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)