I'm pretty sure...

...construction workers are completely incapable of speaking -- or working -- in normal tones. Must be all that testosterone. In fact, the smell of testosterone is kind of wafting in the air up here. Can you smell it?



Like drywall, fast food wrappers and beer. Not pretty.

If I were a rich man.

Meet my Papaw, Jack. He passed away in February. My great uncle sent this picture to my mom, who forwarded it on to me. I remember this ... he was playing The Fiddler in a county playhouse production of Fiddler on the Roof. He could play anything, anything ... all string instruments, all brass instruments (although no woodwind -- every man has his limitations, I guess). He even played tuba in the Salvation Army Band, and played bass in a dance band even following numerous strokes. How awesome is that?

In fact, everyone on my mom's side of the family is musically inclined -- save one uncle and myself. (My aunt even has her doctorate in musicology and teaches at the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Whoa.) I tried -- hell, I lugged an effing French horn around for THREE YEARS in elementary school and took piano lessons for one year. That was, until my instructors, band director and parents discovered I couldn't read music. Not one note. What a letdown I was to my family, eh?

So ended my dream to sing in musical theater. Ah, what could have been ... I still secretly screetch the soundtrack to RENT in my car. I'm still Maureen in my own mind.

Survivor hasn't looked this good since Ethan Zohn.

Holy. Shit.

Fantastic.

As if it isn't embarassing enough that I'm hooked on Gossip Girl the show, I'm now bidding on eBay for the books.

However, I will win, because I have a credit card and determination to kick 16-year-old ass. Is there a 12-step program for weaning one's self off utter crap*?




* Add boxed wine, Halloween candy and Trader Joe's wasabi mayonnaise to the list of things from which I need weaning. Oh, and Wentworth Miller. I have a lot of hang ups...

Withdrawal.

Our server has been in and out all day. It'll come back just enough to give me a sweet taste of freedom and then BAM! Back down again. I'm going into withdrawal. Meanwhile, I've been sitting here surreptitiously snatching quick reads of the first Gossip Girl book (shut up, Josh) and sucking down my grande skim four-Splenda extra-hot latte I picked up at lunch.

By the way, when I tried to Google a picture of "withdrawal" to add an image to this scintillating post, these came up:

Vertical Withdrawl Unit (check out the handsome fella in the high-waisted draws):

I'm assuming this has something to do with being submissive, but since both of these fellas looks a little light in the loafers, I can't tell which is the bitch:

This just made me go "WTF" since I don't follow politics... I think it's Dubyah, but the Wentworth Miller cut is throwing me off a little:

And this just proves the miracle that is Google image search:


True dat.

Self-portrait...

...of me and the construction workers downstairs. (No, I don't know why there's a side of beef hanging in the construction area. There just is.)

Seriously, these guys have GOT to take a break sometime...

Barbie WTF.

While shopping on KB Toys for Christmas, I found these:

Barbie Best Models: South Beach Barbie Doll

Barbie Best Models: Monte Carlo Barbie Doll

Now, I'm by no means conservative, but WTF?? I couldn't even tell if these were Barbies or real people. Some photographer at Mattel went waaaaay overboat in setting up these shots. Seriously. Look how the South Beach Barbie has her ankles crossed. And Monte Carlo Barbie has accessories. I want to know what photographer, who probably went to photojournalism school and planned to shoot hair-lips in Cambodia with Doctors Without Borders or hoped to serve on the front lines in Iraq with the AP, ended up doing this.

Because, dude? This cannot have been your dream.