Sheep.

Giving a cheese basket is always a neighborly gesture.

I drew this for my friend, Panda, who was kind enough to make my day by sharing this quote with me.  It made me laugh and if it doesn't make you laugh, you should really question how seriously you're taking sheep these days.


UPDATE: My friend Panda liked the drawing, but said the stick-figure was creepy.  Then she said, "I'm not saying I wouldn't eat her cheese, but I still wouldn't want to be her friend."  It's the quote of the day.

My wolf pack

I’m blessed to have an amazing family and many good friends.  Several people fall into my “best friends” category, but some are old, some are new, some are borrowed, and some are blue. 

I’ll perform a roll call of sorts over time to acquaint you with and pay tribute to the special people in my life.  Today, I’d like to familiarize you with Mini-Bottom and Sweet B.  Put together, we are the three best friends that anyone could have.

Mini-Bottom: aka Sis, Sister, The Lit’lest Bottom

Hobbies: Watching copious amounts of television and movies, Baking, Doing a really great job at holidays of remembering to buy gifts and decorate really cute-like and making everyone else feel like an asshole because I forgot it was Valentine’s Day again, Playing and watching soccer, Reading books about serial killers, Smacking an ass really freaking hard

Known for: Being a really loyal, stable, awesome friend, Taking highly unflattering pictures of loved ones,  Committing to plans like a champ, “Cleaning” her room and by “cleaning” I mean doing “deep cleans” and by “deep cleans” I mean having the entire contents of her and possibly three other unknown peoples’ rooms spread out on her floor and bed, Not appreciating when other people touch her, Not taking your bullshit so quit wasting her time

Sweet B: aka SB, Second Sister

Hobbies: Making and accepting mix tapes, Playing and watching soccer, Reading romantic novels and in general being in love with Mr. Darcy, Making great “feel-better” cards with puffy paint, Giving questionable medical advice

Known for: Inadvertently accepting relationship requests, Possessing surreal amounts of energy and essentially just being a cartoon character that’s come to life, Never finishing a meal or taking home leftovers, Mistakenly believing that people possess far fewer teeth than they actually do, Possessing an imaginary life unrivaled by any other sane person I know

Here’s to you, Mini-Bottom and Sweet B!  You’re better friends than people deserve to have. 

In which I use science to graphically explain my motivation to exercise

Because I’m practically a math and science genius, I put together a super technical graph denoting my levels of motivation in response to different stimuli.*  You may be able to click on it to better read it, but I'm not totally sure because my math and science genius doesn't always extend to the computer-world. 

The lure of a Diet Coke and maybe some cheese distracted me and as such I forgot to put “desire to lead a more healthful existence” in the graph.  It would fall roughly between the “desire to fit into new, nicer clothing” and the “desire to play soccer again” bars. 

*I should probably ashamed of the last bar, and I guess I am a little bit, but life’s not always rainbows and butterflies and kitten-kisses and butterscotch shots.  Anastasia Firmbottom is the real-deal-Holyfield, minus the Holyfield part.  Regardless of how I feel about people, though, I do appreciate and encourage everyone to lead a healthy life.  ***the more you know!!!*** whoosh!  (shooting star)

I'm hot, and not just because of this firm bottom.

It’s probably about 110 degrees outside right now, which is okay because inside it’s only about 95 degrees.  My workplace’s air conditioning system is on the fritz and while yesterday I misguidedly attempted to beat the heat inside by braving the heat outside, today I am stuck in here.  I am uncomfortable.  I am wearing as little clothing as I can get away with without violating both the rules outlined in my company handbook and the rules of good taste.  Yet, my hands and arms sweat whenever they come into contact with my desk or computer apparatus.  My arms slip off the table even as I write this.  I shan’t lie- it’s a little gross.  I mean, I’m clean, and I smell faintly of delicate and inviting flora and fauna and baby powder, but really, this has degenerated into what I don’t with a light heart refer to as “yuck”.  It’s hard to focus on the tasks at hand, and when I say “hard to focus” I mean, “more difficult to focus than usual” and when I say “tasks at hand” I mean “work”.  I’m pretty sure if I put my mind to it, I could do the following things:

-Fantasize about the future, when Boyfriend and I will get married and have perfect kids that bring us immeasurable joy

-Work on perfecting my Cleveland from Family Guy’s voice

-Eat some cheese

-Read celebrity gossip and mentally judge all of them

-Feel a little bit guilty about wasting my life following celebrity gossip and being judgmental

-Think about where I’m going to go for lunch

I’m pretty sure that’s all I’m capable of right now.  I really just hope they let us go home early.  Then, I can do all of the things on the list, and be comfortable while doing them.

The day David Beckham and I became BFFs

Besides the obvious (winning a billion dollars, having my head transplanted onto Adriana Lima’s body…wait, maybe I’ll take her face, too…, being voted Super Smartest Girl in all the Land, curing all the diseases humans battle*, or single-handedly bringing about world peace), these are some things that could happen today that would make this day way better:

-The quiet, serious upper-management fellow that’s been hanging out at my work lately could spontaneously burst into song and dance.  He could skip around the office, wrangling people from their seats while he danced his heart out, a la Christopher Walken in that Fat Boy Slim video.  I would lie down on the floor and just bask in the awesomeness of it all.  Afterwards, he’d look around confused, because as it turns out he’d blacked out prior to his outburst and had never danced before.  We’d all look at one another with that, “What the hell?” wide-eyed look and return to our desks, never to speak of it again.  But every once in a while, when a song from a passing car blared a little loudly, we’d look at one another, and just nod our heads as if to say, “We all know what happened here.  And it was good.”

-I could go to lunch and after I placed my order, there would be sirens and balloons and they’d yell “You’re our 89 millionth customer and we’re giving you and your family free food for life!” and then David Beckham would come out in shirtless glory and hand me my free-food-for-life card and kiss my cheek and we’d take a picture for the paper.  Then he’d ask to join me for lunch, and I’d say, “Sure I have a table over there,” and he’d say, “Yeah, that’s cool, or we can get this to-go and fly around for the next hour in my private jet”, and I’d say, “That’s cool, too.  They both sound fun; you pick.”  Then he’d say, “Let’s do the private jet one, because the bathrooms are cleaner and plus, I have to return this DVD or I’ll get a late fee,” and I’d be all “Sounds good, Becks.”  Then we’d fly around for an hour or so before he dropped me back off at work.  Afterwards, we’d “Friend” each other on Facebook and he’d comment on the picture I posted of me and him after I won the prize, and he’d comment, “OMG, why didn’t you tell me I had toilet paper on my shoe??” and I’d reply, “I didn’t notice the toilet paper because I was too busy noticing that you’re David Beckham. haha!”  Then we’d be BFFs and every year he’d send me a cheese basket for Christmas. 

Soccer balls and flash cameras are hard to draw.

-My boss would invite me out for Happy Hour after work, and by “after work” I mean three hours before my shift was over, so essentially I’d be paid to party.  Then, as we were walking into the bar, a bunch of people would shout, “SURPRISE!” and they’d give me a Medal of Honor for Awesomeness and appoint me Champion Queen of Everything.  I’d ask how they had the authority to appoint people to these positions, but they’d knowingly shush me and remind me that the first step in being able to love another person is being able to accept love.  I wouldn’t know what in the world they meant by that, so I’d just squint my eyes like I understood, and say that my first order of business was a round of drinks for everyone!  Then I’d tell everyone, “Alright people, let’s get down to brass tacks”, because I’ve never used that expression before, and the time feels as good as any to start throwing around old, smart-sounding sayings.  Then, everyone would hoist me up on their shoulders and march around the bar, all while chanting, “All hail Queen Firmbottom!” and I would think to myself, “I hope nobody drops me because these people all look a little bit uncoordinated” and also, “Wait, did I ask Mini-Bottom to record ANTM this week?  Because if not I’m going to be lost next week.” 

*Wait, perhaps that's not such a great idea, since it won't allow natural selection to work and then we'll overpopulate and kill the planet ahead of time and God would be pissed.  Not like "No, you can't have the last cookie" pissed, but like "Oh, I'm so not talking to you for like a month" pissed.  Maybe I'll just cure all the super bad diseases. 

Mama Firmbottom: Dramarama (and not the good kind)*

I hate drama.  Sometimes in life, it’s unavoidable.  Sometimes, drama stalks me and gets all creepy until I tell it, “Look D., I want you to stop cutting my hair at night and telling my Denny’s waiters that we’re an item.  People are asking me about you, and seriously, enough is enough.  Plus, I see the hair-shirt you’re making, and trust me, nobody thinks it’s avant garde; it’s weird.”  Then, I put drama on a timeout, and return to my normal, awesome life.

Life is too short for unnecessary beefs with people, and to get upset about misunderstandings, or to steam about other people or their actions, and not seek clarification. 

How to avoid unnecessary drama:

Step 1 – Be considerate.  This should be common sense, but whatever.  Think before you speak, and before making a decision, look outside of yourself and consider how it may affect others.  You don’t have to go all WWJD** on people, just take a second to think about someone that’s not yourself. 

Step 2 – Communicate.  If you think someone insulted you, if you were offended by something, entertain the notion that perhaps there was a misunderstanding, and then seek to clarify it.  Don’t be passive aggressive.  Don’t sulk, pout, or send vague or sarcastic emails or texts.  Don’t put “Some people are ASSHOLES” as your Facebook quote.  Don’t respond “nothing” if people ask you what’s wrong.  Just talk to the person with whom you have a problem.  Why beat around the bush or keep things awkward and tense? 

Step 3 – Understand your own feelings before you project them onto someone else, or get upset for no reason.  Ask yourself why something bothered you.  Also, understand your motivations for confronting someone else.  Ask yourself, “What am I trying to accomplish?”  This is not to encourage a defeatist attitude, but simply to fully understand what kind of end result you hope to see. 

Step 4 – If you can, and if it would not serve to encourage unacceptable behavior, don’t take it personal.  Unless you’re sure that something was done maliciously, perhaps it’s easier for all involved if you just take the high road.  If your co-worker is being a bitch one day, (unless this is a repeat issue), just accept the fact that they have their psycho days, and maybe they have something going on at home, and they’ll probably get over it and realize they were being unreasonable.  Then move the fuck on.  Everyone has their douche days.*** 

Step 5 – Listen.  If someone puts their cards on the table, treat their feelings with respect.  Then either explain what you meant to do or say or how their perception of the event differed from your own.  I’m not encouraging people to get walked on, or to be aggressive and confrontational.  I’m encouraging open communication for the purpose of re-establishing the status quo, as it were. 

These steps all kind of dovetail from one another, but I think they’re relevant.  Also, remember that “the shortest distance between two points is a straight line”, which, though I’m not great with expressions or analogies, I think means that the simplest explanation is the likeliest.  Or maybe it means that math isn’t really bringing the hard-hitting life clichés or it means something vaguely sexual, in a way that I can’t begin to understand would ever be helpful.  So just put your conspiracy theories and your “everyone is out to get me” shoulder chip to the side until you’ve got proof. 

Sometimes people get so caught up in what’s going in their lives that they can’t see the bigger picture.  When you lose perspective, you can lose levity.  Life is so incredibly short- why waste it being unhappy, if you can avoid it?  You can’t predict or control what life throws at you, but you can certainly control how you react to it.  Emotions can be overwhelming, but that’s where the people you care about come in, and it’s better for them to be there for you than to be absent because you have some ridiculous ongoing drama.

I once heard a Chinese proverb, “The fire of anger only burns the angry.”  I took it to heart because the Chinese nailed wontons, almond cookies, cool dragon costumes, and finger traps; I think their record speaks for itself.  Also, I’m not big on temperature extremities and burning doesn’t sound pleasant.  So, I’m going to do my part to stop being so dramatic.  I would appreciate it if you would do yours, World.  Thank you. 

*Click here for the good kind, not *A* good time, perv

**What Would Jem Do?  She’d rock, that’s what she’d do.  I loved her.

***I didn’t mean this in a literal sense, but does anyone else feel like this could be a Summer’s Eve commercial tagline?  Maybe my calling was in marketing and advertising.

My life is like one big invitation for the rest of the world to be jealous

In the past few days, I:

Walked a 5K “Heart Walk” in honor of a loved one.  I’m not trying to brag, but I jogged for a good minute or two during the whole thing.  There was some 90 year old woman that kept trying to breeze past me and the mothers with their strollers, but I wasn’t about to let her or the blind people walking ahead of me, win.  So I told my sister that while I respected this lady’s obvious commitment to be up in the gym working on her fitness, I wouldn’t even let Betty White school me like that.  Anyone that knows me knows that statement was a reflection of the seriousness of the matter at hand.  I love me some Golden Girls.  So I, motivated by my cousin’s “Rocky” instrumental rendition, gave a solid half-sprint ahead of that lot and finished in a very fairly respectable amount of time. 



This is what it might have looked like if I ran instead of walked.

 My sis and I ran some errands, and in the car-ride between errands, did some fist-pumping to be reckoned with.  We didn’t do this as an ode to the “Jersey Shore” people, because I’ve never seen that show, but my gut tells me they’re ass-monkeys anyway, so no big loss.  We did this because we wanted to entertain the people around us, at the stop lights.  It was fun.  We enthusiastically fist-pumped until we could pump no more, and broke out into fits of laughter.  The best part was seeing the people staring and/or laughing at us.  I don’t really mind people laughing at me, as long as it’s not when I’m competing in a spelling bee or wearing a bathing suit or reciting my wedding vows or giving my alibi for last Thursday night.  I was at home, eating cheese.

Mini-Bottom and I also went to a hip-hop show, after my mom’s pleadings to remain safe and be cautious.  My mom often forgets that a) I’m a very adaptive person, 2) everyone likes me* and Grey) I am a survivor.  Don’t let the winter-coat physique fool you- if shit goes down, this Firmbottom is out.  I will not get caught in a ruckus.  I have a lot of living left to do, and it’s not just so I can grace the world with awesome alliterations.  I have plans.  As such, I keep my nose clean.**  In any case, we had a fantastic time, though we left early because as awesome as he is, we’d already seen Ice Cube, previously.  Fun fact: when we told her about the concert, my Granny said, “Yes, I’ve heard of Ice Box.”  Honestly, I defy anyone to not love old people. 


Imagine a lot more smoke in the air, and you're getting closer.

I got a pedicure.  I went to the cheap place with the really nice Vietnamese women that always say, “Than yoo, Lay-dee!” when I leave.  I usually prefer my nails to be painted one solid color, usually red, because I’m sexy like that.  But it always pains me to request this, because these women always offer to paint designs for free.  It’s not simply a matter of saying, “no”, mind you.  I’m pretty sure based on their huge eyes and quivering lips that painting designs is the highlight of their nail-painting days.  I’ve said no several times and each time I felt like I had just kicked their puppy in the face or told them that professional wrestling was fake.  I always feel bad, so this time I just acquiesced and let them design something for my big toes, or as I like to call them, the HMFTIC.***  Well,  they were given an inch yet took a mile and a half.  So now I’m walking around with a representative visual equivalent of the 4^th of July, Love, Freedom, and Happiness and Buddha on my toes.****  Another fun fact: the woman painting my toes had the same name as me.  Who’d have thought that there’s a Vietnamese Anastasia Firmbottom?  Weird!

*Unless they’re an asshole, n’est-ce pas?

**Not a cocaine or shit reference, though I guess that may be how that expression started?  I just mean I stay out of trouble.  Wait, now it sounds like I endorse doing cocaine and sniffing shit.  I condone neither of those things. 

***Head Mother F***ing Toes In Charge. 

****I may be exaggerating that part a little bit.  And is “representative visual equivalent” redundant?  I’m so distracted by my toes I can’t even be pressed to find out.

This is more than a crush*

I once was a cherry-cheeked young lass, with an innocent heart and a joker smile, and an unfortunate lack of fashion and body-awareness.  I was what is commonly known as a “late bloomer”, but that didn’t stop me from having crushes, like every other high-school girl.  I’d like to take a moment to reflect on and pay tribute to the great crushes of the late nineties. 

San Francisco- Ah, my first big crush.  This boy was dreamy- dark blonde hair, blue eyes, a winning smile.  He played soccer, and was a year ahead of me.  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t an asshole, because he seemed nice and all the pretty and popular girls befriended if not dated him.  I went to a small school so I’m certain had he been a raging doucher I would have heard.  The highlight of my day was seeing him near the gym each day during the break between second and third period.  I’m pretty sure if he had tried to talk to me I would have stammered, blushed, and acted either rude or disinterested.  Contrary to all logic, that approach doesn’t seem to work well, but I eventually learned that. 

Yellow 5- All the girls in my group liked this one, even though he was younger than us.  I, still being painfully shy and awkward, was still operating under the “please don’t pay attention to me” strategy and in a move I would forever regret, turned Yellow 5 down for a requested dance during our “Welcome Back” dance.  Anyway, Story and I knew part of his class schedule and would come up with elaborate plans (complete with maps and timetables) on how to pass him as many times in the day as possible.  My mom called this “stalking” but it’s not like we ever followed him home or stole his sweatshirt or collected his hair or anything.  Even at that time I knew that was creepy and would require way too much effort.  So, it was comparatively healthy.  Besides, I actually talked with him a few times throughout the years, over the pounding of my anxious heart,  and much to the surprise and delight of my girls.  Nothing ever came of our interaction, but still…WIN. 

Mormon Beckham – I played soccer with him and his sister for years.  Not once did he ever have one iota of interest in me, but there was not a lot I wouldn’t have done to change that.  I fawned over his scars endlessly, I asked about his religion and his hobbies.  I complimented him and if given the choice, always picked him to be on my team if we’d scrimmage.  He was always acted nice and polite, as Mormons are wont to do, but now that I reflect, he didn’t really have much of a personality.  It may be that our two religions put us in two different worlds, nary to cross.  Or it’s possible that he just found me annoying and figured it was his god-given cross to suffer fools.  I’m sure that today he’s a very good husband, and a great father to his 11-20 children. 

The Gay One, The Be-freckled One, and N-Dude – All attended my school for a year or less, and all were my friends.  The gay one had a different name that fails me right now, but he never held any interest in me, much to my confusion, because we spent a lot of time together and got along very well.  He never “came out” while he was at my school, but had he, it may have explained a lot.  In retrospect, that revelation wasn’t really shocking like the ending of The 6^th Sense was or the fact that people pay Sarah Palin to do…anything.  All the signs were there, I just couldn’t see them.  The Be-freckled one played soccer and every day we’d drive to practice in his car, which was by far the most ghetto yet awesomely sound-equipped car I’d ever been.  I liked him but my enamor wore off when he started dating a girl that embarked on a mission to make me her new best friend.  She was nice enough, but I wasn’t into it.  Also, when that affair of the heart ended, Breath announced she was moving in, and I wasn’t going to stand in the way of true love or the possibility of actually landing a prom date.  N-Dude was different.  He didn’t look anything like the light-eyed, tan-skinned, mostly-athletic boys I’d previously liked.  He was quiet, intelligent but uninterested in school, and had a very caustic wit.  I guess he was kind of pre-Emo, sans the floating-sexual-orientation and open-invitation to make fun of him.  We remain friends to this day, and years after the fact, I found out he liked me “like that” during high school.  Of course, he and I were both extremely awkward, and instead of just telling me he liked me, his plan was to date my friends.  Contrary to all logic, that approach doesn’t work too well either, but he eventually learned that.

The Rebel- When I was finally old enough, I got a McJob.  It was the first time in my life boys seemed to notice me, and this led to some very entertaining moments and people in my life.  I met The Rebel in the drive-through.  He and I are still friends, and my parents still ask about him fondly, however, at the time they were not appreciative of the seven year age gap betwixt the two of us.  In his defense, he never tried anything lurid or inappropriate with me.  But there was no way I could resist his charm and rebelliousness.  He drove a lifted truck and had piercings.  He raced motorcycles and listened to rap but didn’t smoke weed or do drugs.  He was dangerous, but not so dangerous my tender bunny-heart would be afraid to associate with him.  I’ll never forget his sexy line before our one and only kiss: “Now, kiss me like I’m not your grandmother.”  Now that’s amore. 

The Heartbreaker – This was one of the smoothest talking people I’ve ever met in my life.  I didn’t think I had any chance with him because he was so popular and cute.  This means that I was…free.  I was free to be my exact self and make my silly and sarcastic jokes and just relax and never worry about what he thought.  So when he took an interest in me, it was one of the most thrilling feelings I’d ever experienced.  How could someone so cool want me?  I wasn’t as pretty or flirty as the other girls he’d dated.  I wasn’t as stupid or slutty as they were either, but that’s neither here nor there.  I had never experienced such intense feelings for someone.  I felt butterflies in my stomach when he held my hand; I thought I was in love.  Unfortunately his ability to make a girl feel like a million bucks was not only exercised on me, and when reality cold-cocked me, it hurt.  Though I felt it was entirely possible for him to be “the one”, I was one of several naïve girls he charmed.  It was from him I learned that the rest of the world wasn’t always as honest as I was, and I needed to be more discerning about who I trusted.  Umm…so thanks for that, I guess. 

This completes my late-nineties heavy-hitter-crushes role call.  From many of you I learned good lessons, but all of you entertained me to varying degrees.  All of you and those who flittered through my life helped make me the Anastasia Firmbottom known and loved today.  Thank you all, crushes from my days of yore. 




*It totally wasn't more than a crush, but I really like that song, so I went with it. 

I Love: Part Deux

I love making plans and coming up with ideas and schemes.  God, I love a good brainstorm.  I’m full of a lot of things, but “good ideas” is definitely one of them.  My specialty, as anyone that knows me well will tell, is short-term planning.  I can tell you general things I want to accomplish before I die, and what I’ll do a week from now.  But I have always struggled with the “5-year plan” or whatever they ask you about on job interviews.  I cannot possibly know what the next year will bring, let alone the next five.  Why, just three hours ago, I was still straight.*  Who knows what the future will bring? 

Short-term planning, though- now at this, I rock.  In high school, Story and I would concoct elaborate plans all the time, often about the most trivial of things.  When we wanted to subconsciously infiltrate a crush’s thoughts, we came up with a plan for that.  When I wanted to talk to a cute guy, we had a plan for that.  The best part of our plans were the code names and the maps.  I’m a visual learner, and I also have an awful sense of direction, so maps are the way to go, for me.  And if our plans fell into the wrong hands, well there’s no way we could risk blowing the operation by having a person’s real name written down.  Secrecy was of paramount concern. 

One awesome thing about Story and indeed, to a further extent, my sister Mini-Bottom, is their ability to commit.  When we have a plan we are in agreement upon, we commit to the end.  I shall give you but one example, as I have a sea of options afore me. 

May is a big birthday month; four close friends all celebrate their day of birth within 5 days of one another.  I usually put together a little soiree for them, but this particular year, I wanted to go balls-out.  So, with my sister acting as co-conspirator, we designed a fake cake for her to jump out of and sing “Happy Birthday” Marilyn Monroe style.  And in keeping with our usual “Keep it Sexy” motto, she’d be dressed as a banana in a bikini.  Mini-Bottom pulled through like a champ.  I set up a dinner and orchestrated the migration to my apartment, where before our guests of honor arrived, I helped her into her costume.  She hid in the cake while I positioned the Birthday-ers.  When the time was right, she popped out like only a sexy banana could.**  She sang her heart out, to the delight of all party-goers.  It was a smashing success.  That kind of follow-through is what makes dreams happen. 

Here is a picture I drew to represent the night’s brilliance:

*Ba-zing!  Gotcha, Mom.  Honestly, you have to know by now that I’m joking when I say things like that.  Like that whole “porn” incident when the youth group was over.  Did you really think I’d entertain my church-friend guests with porn…while you and Dad were home?  That just wasn’t our style.  We’d definitely have waited until you were out of town.  So, no, of course we weren’t watching porn.  In much the same vein, I’m still straight.  Besides, if I ever switched sides, as it were, I’d throw myself a huge “Who knew??” party and register for gifts and take up rollerblading.  And you’d be the first one invited.  Because I love you.

**Unbelievably not a euphemism.

The Band

When I was in high school, my friend Story and I decided to start a band.  She knew one Nirvana song on the guitar and at least three songs on the keyboard.  Most importantly, she could read music.  I could clap, play kazoo, and would sing and write music.  I suppose Story’s ability to read music would have come in more handy had I known how to write music.  Since we’re optimists, though, we never let minor setbacks like this bring us down.  And besides, we had more pressing things on the agenda, like finding a drummer.  We held tryouts and by “tryouts” I mean that on one of the sleepovers at my house, our other best friend Breath and my 11-year old sister threw caution to the wind and played their hearts out on an overturned laundry hamper using two pencils for drumsticks.  After a few moments deliberation, Story and I agreed that Breath had no rhythm and furthermore wasn’t giving the tryouts the seriousness that it deserved.  So Breath was out, and Mini-Bottom was in.  Breath responded in typical 16-year old girl fashion by calling us names, throwing the “drumsticks” at us, and sulking while we congratulated my sister and welcomed her to the band.  I think we may have offered to let Breath manage us, but I don’t recall what, if any, her response was.  I’m guessing she was probably less than thrilled, though, based on the aforementioned drumstick throwing.  In any case, we had our band.  We didn’t have many instruments or any musical talent, but we had a lot of heart.  I went on to write a few songs (lyrics only but for the “ba da da a da dum”s and “ohhhh oh ohhhh”s and a lot of arrows indicating how it was to be played and sung).  We talked about practicing; we tossed around ideas.  We talked about “the Band” quite a bit, for a while.  And we never actually did or played anything, as it turns out, which is probably a good thing, because I can’t see anything groundbreaking coming out of the keyboard/kazoo/hamper combination. 

I'm still proud of all of it, though.  I mean, how many of you were ever in a band?  At least now I can have “We’re thinking about getting the band back together” conversations, and it means something.  And Story has kids these days, so it says to me we’ve got ourselves a maraca player and some backup vocals for the "One Night Only" Reunion tour.  That is, if Breath ever takes her managerial duties with more than a modicum of seriousness and actually books some gigs. 

Moral of the story: Breath does not react well when she does not get her way, and as such, Breath should never be told bad news while holding projectiles.  I'll keep this in mind when I tell her we're reducing her manager cut from 15 to 10%. 

House of Bottom: Fashion Powerhouse since 1993.

Lady Gaga went to an award show in a meat dress.  But that bitch has nothing on Anastasia Firmbottom.  I made my own meat dress. 

Boom.

Local Business Owner and Cat Enthusiast

Today is a very special day.  It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia season 5 comes out on DVD today, which means that Thursday marks the beginning of season 6.  I am an extremely stoked panda. 

I don’t know that it would be as exciting if I’d already seen all the episodes of season 5, so for this thrill I have to thank my family, who dutifully erased all the episodes from their DVR list before I got a chance to view them. After all, why keep the one show I watch at their place (because I do not have cable or even reliable bunny ears) when 90,000 hours of Spin City and Two and a Half Men and Generic Poorly Acted Cop Show and I Bake Cakes and Shit So They Gave Me a Show need the space?  I mean, Charlie Sheen is unquestionably going to bang a boring but hot-bodied middle aged woman and make jokes chockfull of sexual innuendo in those backlogged episodes of Two and a Half Men.  Why miss that?  Those jokes aren’t going to laugh at themselves, you know.  And those cakes?  Gorgeous and impressive.  Looking at that cake is absolutely worth sitting through 58 minutes of talk and drama and fluff.  It’s balls-full of drama-fluff.    Will a fly land in the icing?  What if it’s too heavy for the supports?  Will they finish the cake on time?  “I’ve got to have more time, Captain!” 

So for today’s agenda, it will be finish out the day at “work”*, high-tail to the DVD store and buy my DVDs, go home, and adopt a near-comatose level of activity on the couch for the duration of said DVDs. 

I sincerely hope Boyfriend didn’t have any more ambitious plans for this evening. 

*Misguided reports have suggested I work as a stripper, a tiger-shark research scientist, a garbage-collector, a Chinese interpreter that works as a liaison for the Save The Pandas organization, a Fashion Director consulting for America’s Next Top Model, and a Cheese-Tester.  That’s just ridiculous; nobody has time to do all of those things.  For God’s sake people, there are only 24 hours in a day.  I need 8-10 to sleep and in the remaining 14-16 hours I have to fit in eating, resolving hygiene issues, earning dem dollas, being awesome, and conquering the world.

P.S. Everyone,

You're welcome:  Kitten Mittons

What I've done...

In the past few hours:

Ate two chicken soft tacos: the breakfast of champions.

Been shamefully entertained by Hungover Owls.

Contemplated working. Couldn’t seal the deal.

In the past few days:

Watched Body Heat. Was first bored, then thought after all was said and done, it was pretty entertaining. Was completely impressed with how great Kathleen Turner’s body looked, how young and not-so-creepy Mickey Rourke looked, and how well Ted Danson could dance.

Went to a birthday dinner for an ex-boyfriend. He sat next to me, and on the other side of him was another of his ex-girlfriends. Found the coincidence a little entertaining, and my amusement served to diffuse the minute amount of awkwardness I started to feel when I realized that we were paired up, due to the amount of people present and the seating arrangements.

Went to a costume party. Didn’t dress as anything but wore a nametag that said “Kevin”* thanks to my friend, the birthday girl. Saw Lady Gaga, Hello Kitty, Jack of Jack in the Box fame, Michael Jackson, Yoshi, and someone that went as Biff Tanner but didn’t realize it.

Went to a birthday party for a friend’s baby. Bought birthday girl cute clothes, including little denim leggings that looked like skinny jeans. Now is the time for her to wear things like this and not get made fun of.** Failed to accurately identify 95% of most country’s flags during a flag-game. Watched kids hit Piñata with limited success. Remembered I hate Piñatas. Held my friend’s giant adorable sumo-wrestler baby. Didn’t drop the baby. Felt good about not dropping the baby. Ate too much food. Felt sick. Went home and watched Back to the Future. Got lost in Michael J. Fox’s eyes for a little while. Contemplated who I’d pick if I had to choose between Michael J. Fox and Jason Bateman. Decided I didn’t like that game and quit because saying no to either felt wrong.

Read more from a book I’m reading by my favorite author. Found out that the Irish Gaelic language has no equivalent of the English “yes” or “no” and the closest thing would be something like, “This is so” or “I think not”. Have some doubts about this, but nevertheless found it hilarious. Spent the next ten minutes or so imagining how life would be if we spoke like that.

Me, to boyfriend: “Would you like me to make dinner tonight?”
Boyfriend: “I think not. Would you like to go out instead?”
Me: “This is so. Have you tried the new Thai place?”
Boyfriend: “I think not. Have you been? Is it good?”
Me: “This is so, I went there a fortnight ago. I think not and this is so. It was okay. Would you like to try it?”
Boyfriend: “This is so. Are you paying?”
Me: “I think not.”


Fell asleep. Had some crazy dreams. Lacking evidence to the contrary, decided the Hot Pocket I had for my late dinner was to blame. Decided in the future I will not have Hot Pockets before I go to bed.




*I didn’t dress as anything, but not because I am not awesome and incapable of coming up with great ideas. I was quite keen on going as a giant toothbrush, but it was part of a group-act and my teammates didn’t follow through. “Kevin” is, to my understanding, basically a creepy human Gollum-person that roams the streets of Iraq looking for candy. At the time I didn’t think this was a commentary on my appearance but I now have my doubts. I should clarify that not all Kevin’s are creepy human Gollum-persons that roam the streets of Iraq looking for candy, either. Just the one.

**By me. Sorry, but I have yet to see anyone that isn’t gainfully employed as a model or beautiful actress look good in skinny jeans. And I have some great-looking friends. If you’re thinking, “But wait- I look good in my skinny jeans, don’t I?”, the answer is most likely “no”. Don’t feel bad, just go put on pants that don’t make you look like you’re angst-ridden and desperately seeking validation. If you are a man asking that question, proceed straight to slapping yourself.

I love...

I’ve been inexplicably cranky for the last few days and have actually written a few things but didn’t post them until now because I didn’t want this blog to be a center for negativity. Then I figured I’d just wait until I was feeling more upbeat, so I could write something more light hearted, to balance out the cranky ranting posts.

So right now, I’m going to write about something I love. Today’s edition will be regarding free stuff or as I like to call it, “a good deal”. For lunch today I will dine at Chick Fil A, not because of the superiority of their entrees, but because I have a little pink receipt* that means whatever is on that receipt, I get to have for free. The location nearest my work has a promotion this month on Wednesdays, and whatever you order that day, you get to have for free one other day. Now, like most money-conscious people my age**, I recognize the benefit of eating a meal for free, so despite the fact that this is not my favorite place, I’m going to go there. I should point out, it’s not that I think Chick Fil A is bad. Au contraire, it’s one of the better fast food joints, but at the end of the day, let’s not pretend fast food is gourmet cuisine. If I could afford it I’d much rather go to The 555 in Long Beach, K’ya in Laguna, Mario’s in Riverside or TAPS in Dos Lagos. Hell, I’d rather go to Denny’s even, but why pay $14 for lunch when I can pay $7 or best of all, $0.00, on this fine day? That would quite simply be bananas, unless I miraculously have Publisher’s Clearing House burst into my office right now with a big-ass check, which would be awesome both because I would be a millionaire and also because I never entered, so God must have my back or something.

Another good deal I’m happy with these days is the never ending pasta bowl from Olive Garden. I’m a strategic eater, so this $8.95 delight gets me two to three dinners, if I execute seamlessly. Again, this clearly isn’t the crème-de-la-crème of Italian eating, but for the price, it suits me. I can’t figure out when the fuck this promotion ends, but I’ll enjoy this while it’s around. Because when I’m there, I’m family. Which means everyone there clearly loves me but is easily annoyed with me and is worried about me and wants to know why I don’t call or visit as much as I should. They also remind me that it’s my grandfather’s birthday in a couple weeks so I better get a gift. Yeah, they’re pretty thorough like that.

In any case, I’m glad that there are a few decent food deals of which I can take advantage, for now. And no, I’m not paid or coerced into promoting these two places. I can’t be bought.*** I just love a good deal. And I love you, I think. Maybe not. I don’t actually know who reads this; it could be just me. But you know what? I love me. So all in all, I feel pretty alright about this.



*Not a euphemism.

**i.e. Conscious of the fact that I have very little money and am in debt but not mature enough to really buckle down and eradicate that debt once and for all. I have a plan but am not steadfastly sticking to it, so instead of being out of this hole in 4 months it will likely take the next year. I am American Express’ dream client.

***Wait, how much are we talking? Let’s not rule anything out just yet. My plans for world domination will need to financed somehow because clearly mama doesn’t bring home enough bacon just yet.

Dear You: Edge and Edgier

We get it: you’re rebellious. You smoke and drink and do drugs and treat your vagina like a parking garage.* You are unapologetic. You’d rather beg for forgiveness than ask permission. You don’t believe in God and think religion is for idiots and pussies. You hold disdain for pop culture, The Man, and demure hemlines. You got your first tattoo at 16. You squeeze your toothpaste from the middle. Yes, your coolness alone could single-handedly combat global warming if you could be pressed enough to give a shit. Kudos, you antiestablishmentarian. Your strong will may prove to be a great asset once you stop using it solely to call attention to yourself. I hope one day your fighting spirit produces something that contributes to humanity and society. Until then, please stop reminding me how cool you are.

And you. Nobody cares that you’re convinced everything is a conspiracy. It’s notable that you want the world to be a better, more equitable place. Your quest for transparency is respectable, even, but your methods are not. When you have proof instead of unanswered inquiries and a series of bitch and whine sessions, or when you set aside your belief that the world makes more sense when people are in drug-induced hazes, or if you actually got some credibility by attaining some credential or degree or certificate or something, we’ll take you more seriously. It’s like Charlie said to Mac regarding karate: Take one class, if you love it so much. Until then, and until you have solutions instead of a pedestal you rest mightily upon because you have the ability to point out problems, please stop. Just stop.

Lastly, you. Just because not everyone agrees with your conservative religious beliefs and life approach means they’re condemned to hell and can no longer offer the world anything of use. Just because a person can see the merits of social and/or government-assistance programs does not mean they’re ready to turn the country over to tyrannical despots. Subscribing to different religious beliefs than you do does not automatically make a person the devil. Lacking a developed vocabulary does not give you the authority to make up words when you feel like it, and then try to defend your imagination by placing yourself in the company of geniuses. Please do not vainly try to pass your limited intelligence off as something endearing, a quality highly sought after and one to be attained. Not everyone that doesn’t wave a flag is unpatriotic. Not everyone that holds different opinions than you is wrong. Your passion is admirable, but perhaps misguided.

You all are on far sides of a stupid spectrum. Can we, for a moment, all agree that it’s possible not one of us knows everything, and that perhaps others may have a valid point, and thus are deserving of a limited audience? Can we take a timeout on holding strong opinions on issues about which we are ignorant? Can we take a moment to really think about issues instead of spouting rhetoric in either direction? Can we agree that it’s possible that there are many roads to the same destination? Can we agree that we all would like the world to be safe, harmonious, and happy? No? Then let’s compromise: unless it’s obvious we are joking, let’s not hold as fact items which are clearly opinions. Let’s respect each other as people, not assume that anyone not you is working to destroy the world, and respect our differences and the possible contributions we each can make to society.

You all annoy me, but I hold towards you no ill will. I just hope one day that your individual strengths accomplish more than annoyance.


Love,

The Firmbottom’d one



*Some people have permits, some pay by the hour, and some park for free after hours. You are not at any time responsible for the their personal belongings, though.

Who turned on the air conditioner?

Right now, I’m cold. I know the temperature outside isn’t too bad, and I know the temperature inside is reasonable. This does little to change the fact that my fingers are difficult to move and feel like they may fall off. Can we talk about something for a second? When I am wearing a jacket, why do people insist on asking me if I’m cold? Honestly, unless I’m going to shoplift or am moving and can’t carry anything more, for what other reason would I be wearing a jacket? And why would you ask unless you hold the power to make the temperature more comfortable for me? They don’t do it solely out of compassion, mind you, because they raise their eyebrows a little and look incredulous, or kind of do that smirk thing. My sensitivity to temperature fluctuations does not make me less of a person! I am comfortable with layering when it is colder. I wish others would not take it as a personal affront when I do not share the same affection as they do for cold weather.

My nose has started to become runny.

*sigh*

Happy Rosh Hashanah.

Sea Salt and Bad-Ass Women

I saw "Salt" this weekend, and it made me happy because I’d been looking forward to seeing this for quite some time. Also, I enjoyed saying, “Would you like to see ‘Salt’?”, because it made me giggle because it made me think of sea salt which is completely different.

Insert tangent here: I’m a big believer in finding new ways to amuse myself, every single day. Some days it really doesn’t take much. For example, one day last week I said “ahhhh” in a very refreshed manner every time I sipped a drink. I don’t know why I found this hilarious. Additional example: we have a new “acting president” where I work. He seems to be very polite, but has upon occasion exhibited traits consistent with that of a germophobe (or “mysophobe” in the scientific crowd*). It has taken overwhelming strength to not go into the conference room he’s converted to a temporary office and touch everything. Not lasciviously, mind you; I just want to touch his chair, his phone, his computer, his desk. Just thinking about touching his mouse*** and then watching him work at his computer makes me snicker. I haven’t done it yet, because a part of me thinks it’s a little bit cruel, but the other part of me mostly thinks it’s funny because my hands are clean and it would affect nothing because he’d never know. These two sides continue to duke it out and are currently at a stalemate.

Resume original tale here: “Salt” was pretty entertaining. I didn’t know until the end if Salt was a good guy or bad guy (yes, I know she’s a girl but I tend to not get caught up in gender specific pronouns as a matter of principle), and really the only issue I took with the whole film was that Angelina Jolie (henceforth referred to as “AJ”) was so skinny her ass-kicking-ability seemed wholly unbelievable. I mean, honest to god, I have trouble believing she can carry her own groceries let alone take down grown men in a battle of the physical nature. That being said, I still think she’s got a beautiful face and is a great actress.**** I think the reason AJ is so alluring in the roles she consistently plays is because she’s the embodiment of every woman’s dreams*****. She’s beautiful, she’s smart and witty, she’s good hearted, she’s able to protect herself and the people she cares for and fight for what she believes in, and men find her irresistible. Also, she kicks ass, shoots guns, rides motorcycles, and flies planes. I’m not gonna lie- I can handle my 2004 Mustang.****** But I would think twice about knocking some guy off a motorcycle and going full throttle on it, all whilst evading capture by a team of CIA agents. AJ would not, because she doesn’t let things like fear and gravity deter her. She’s like a female James Bond. I want to be her, but without that whole cutting and drugs and Billy Bob Thorton stage. I want to survive a car accident unscathed, save the President, get hit on by three men who because I am in a relationship I’d not indulge, pay off my credit cards, rock a fabulous hairstyle, and make dinner for my boyfriend, all in one day. In short, I want to be Anastasia Firmbottom: Bad-ass Woman Extraordinaire.



*scientific crowd= Ooooh, look at me, I went to “college” and/or can operate a medical/psychological dictionary or look up words on the “information highway” also known as the “internet” in computer savvy circles.**

**I went to college. I can also look up words in the dictionary and use the internet. I’m practically a superhero. 

***Not a metaphor.

****I already talked about how great she is, blah blah, blah, but does anyone else want to see her in a role a little more light-hearted? I know she’s got great range, but she always plays the intense “where’s my mind and/or child?!” or “watch me beat bad guys and shoot guns because I rule!” roles. Can we see a romantic comedy? Don’t keep proving your acting chops, just entertain me for once. I don’t need Oscar worthy roles or blow up movies all the time. Make me laugh for a change. Clearly, it’s not difficult to accomplish.

*****Not so much every woman’s dreams as much as *my* dreams. I’m prone to hyperbolic statements. It is my gift; it is my curse.

******Seriously, I own that bitch. I can merge in and out of traffic like it’s nobody’s business and when the radio turns up instead of down when it’s supposed to, I’m like “What? Oh, you think I’m defeated? Well, I’m not because I know if I press mute I can just turn you up from silent. How do you like me now?” We’re not even going to get into how I deactivated the seatbelt alarm when it went haywire, but it was handled.