speedos

You know what’s special about the Olympics? All those boys with hot, cut, well defined bodies in a tiny banana hammock. Thank you world for making the Speedo and providing us with a venue to stare at specimens who actually belong in them.

I’ve watched a couple of Olympic events, funny how they all involve men and some sort of water sport. I do enjoy reading up on the results of the swimming competitions. Mainly because of the pictures that accompany the articles.


Also, I’m a Michael Phelps fan. Sure, he had a creepy Fu Manchu mustache a little bit ago, but that’s gone now. And his face leaves a lot to be desired, but that’s something you’d never see if he was hitting it from behind. I’ll just dream of putting a paper bag over his head and then have my way with him.


Last night I decided to take a break from watching the Olympics to watch the last DVD of Mad Men Season 1. If you haven’t seen this show, put it on your netflix queue. It’s well-written, beautiful cast and of course the clothes! I kept waiting for Darren Stevens to pop up and ask someone to go for a two-martini lunch or the McMahon and Tate special. Anyway, my gal pal CF asked me if I caught the men’s synchronized diving event. I said no and she went on to say I missed out on the hottie Cuban-born Canadian diver. So I of course dropped the proposal I was working on to Google “Cuban born Canadian diver” and much to my delight I found Arturo Miranda. Get ready to fill your spank bank.







Damn you Mad Men! How did I miss this? One look at his body can make just about any girl run like Niagara Falls. Unlike Michael Phelps, having to stare at his jacked teeth and almost-mono brow would cause even Niagara Falls to dry up like the Sahara Dessert. With that being said, I present to you, the new and improved Olympic Gold Medal Winner, Michael Phelps!

Apparently I'm Asian

A trip to Sephora is in my future

Things that make summer awesome:


· Lounging around/near the water with friends, food and cold beers;
· Awesome flowy sundresses and skirts;
· Flip flops;
· Sunshine until 8 p.m.


Things that make summer suck:


· Forgetting to bring your make up bag inside from your car and returning to find your makeup and brushes coated with a light slimy layer of lipgloss because your MAC palette melted into a shiny soup of gunk

When I grow up

There are many things in my life that remind me that I am getting older and (slowly!!) approaching my Golden Years:

1) People who were born in 1990 are turning 18 this year. They have been driving for 2 years and can vote. (I was a sophomore in high school in 1990. That seems like FOREVER ago. I had a perm and pinned my pants. Neither were a good idea.)

2) My gray hair recently seems hell-bent on conquering the entire area of my head thus making me go to the salon more often. (Thank goodness I don't dye my hair blue ... yet.)

3) I make an "oof" sound when I stand up. And several joints make tree-snapping/cracking noises. (And I ALWAYS comment on it like it's the first time it's ever happened.)
And finally...

4) I realize that I own many age-inappropriate things that weren't so age-inappropriate a few years ago. Like hoodies, stuffed animals (all doggies!) and... the latest track titled "When I Grow Up" from The Pussycat Dolls on iTunes.*

*For those of you unfamiliar with the song which would be anybody who A) is over 18 and B) sane, please take a gander at the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3gvcpb4_7ZQ

"When I Grow Up" is at best described as "stupid and incredibly catchy like an STD." You don't want to own it, but eventually you got it and there's nothing you can do about it. Even the free clinic can't help you on this one. This is what you get for paying 99 cents. However, I digress...
When listening to this (insipid) song, I realized that I'm old (but refined) because the chorus makes me blush. Said chorus is as follows (as best I can tell from listening to the lyrics with my old-ass ears that have a ring in them from too many days blasting my Madonna on my Walk-man back in the day):

When I grow up!
I want to be famous! I want to be a star! I want to be in movies!
When I grow up!
I wanna see the world! Drive nice cars! I want to have boobies!
When I grow up!
Be on TV! People know me! Be in magazines!
When I grow up!
Fresh and clean! Number one chick when I step out on the scene!

BAHH! So many issues!!

1) "Boobies" is one of my least favorite words. Just typing it sends me into a snit-fit. It's ranks right up there with "hump" and "apps" (short for appetizers). So every time I hear them sing the "B" word, I blush and sing, "I wanna see the world! Drive nice cars! I want to have LALALLALAA!"

2) "Fresh and clean"? Really? That's a goal from when you were a child? Were you raised in a barn or did the lyricist see one too many Summer's Eve commercials growing up?

3) This NEED to be famous. Why? I like being able to go outside without being mobbed. I like that I can buy tampons and nobody is around to report it to Perez Hilton. (He would so draw mean cartoony on me too! I know how he rolls!)

Pussycat Dolls, why have you glamorized paparazi attention? You're just wishing crazy people into your life and face it, your personal assistant is going to have to spend A LOT of time down at the courthouse filing restraining orders for you. Really? Is this the life you want for your personal assistant, Pussycat Dolls? IS IT? Sheesh.

(And just for the record, I know, that A) I enjoy writing lists and overuse them in blogs and B) that I'm a butterscotch away from a stint at a nursing home. I understand this!)

I can assure you that NONE of these lyrics were what I was thinking when I was growing up. NOT EVEN CLOSE. I was way too nerdy and scared of... well, everything. My lyrics would have gone more like this:

When I grow up!
I'll be 18! Wanna go to college! I want an excellent GPA!
When I grow up!
I want to have an apartment! Live in a city! Never date a hole-of-A!
When I grow up!
Write for TV! Eat bacon all the time! Wear lots of hoodies!
When I grow up!
Organized and clean! And labels on all my goodies!

See? Very different from what these "dolls" were thinking when they were kids. Very different. (I couldn't rhyme "Be Mrs. Ralph Macchio" in there or I would have included that...)
I can only imagine what the dreams of our youngsters are today. I have a feeling that this might close:

When I grow up!
I wanna retire at 18! Skip a degree! I wanna live without smog!
When I grow up!
I wanna hybrid car that flies! I want a really bitchin' breast aug!
When I grow up!
Paris will be Queen! Nicole VP! Brad Pitt will be the First Man!
When I grow up!
Be a billionaire! Countless things to wear! Cancer free tan!

Anybody want to share a villa at an assisted living community with me? All I ask is that you I) clean up after yourself, II) don't steal my hoodies and III) bring your own butterscotches. OOOF! (Wow, did an oak fall over or what?)

Sigh...

OH MY GOD!


That's all I have to say about that.

online dating

Here’s a hint.

If you are closer in age to my father than you are to me? I’m not going to date you.
My stated age range on match.com is 27-40. If you are 53? You are well outside that range.

Sending me a wink won’t change my mind. Seriously.

Get a clue.

Cold Stone

I went to Cold Stone after work today and came to a conclusion: the singing has to stop.

Whenever you tip them, one yells, “Hey guys, we got a tip!” and they all break into song. It is very, very uncomfortable. The last time I was there it wasn’t a big deal, because when I tipped them the place was packed with people and there were a lot of Cold Stone workers behind the counter singing, so I just got the hell out of there and let the crowd deal with the song. But when I went today, there were only three employees working and myself and another woman in the store. So when I got my ice cream I tipped and sure enough, the three employees started singing. I didn’t know if I was supposed to sit there and listen to them sing or what, but I got the hell out of there and let the other customer deal with it. Very, very uncomfortable.

The sad thing is that I don’t think I can tip these guys anymore. I mean, I really want to - what with them giving me a delicious and over-sized ice cream treat - but I can’t take that singing. And I feel like if I tried to tip the guy but said something like, “You don’t have to sing”, it would turn into some Larry David-esque episode with him calling me out on it and saying, “What? You don’t like our cheerful singing?” and then a customer saying, “Yeah - what’s wrong with you?” and then some hot guy saying, “She’s just bitter because she’s fat!” But unlike Larry David, I would grab a fucking chair and hit the fucker who called me fat and would scream “You fucking douchebag! I will kill you and shit on your grave! I will shit on your fucking grave in front of your family and your pets! I was on TV! Do you know who the fuck I am! I have a blog! I have a fucking blog!”.

I am sensitive about my weight. So sorry, no more tips.