Juniper Trela was most recently seen at the recycling drop off approximately 2 miles from her home, dressed like she always is in jeans, a tank top and a pair of well-worn, outdated flip flops. Apparently, she's taking the recycling thing a little too far!
A source very close to Juniper says, "Jun Jun's involvement with recycling things is really just a way to keep her mind off the fact that she's single. She really wants a boyfriend!"
As most of her fans know, her break up last year with an as-'til-then anonymous chef, Luke Meinert, was a public spectacle. Everyone was waiting for her to go on suicide watch, as she was frequently in the same outfit two days in a row and had taken to eating nearly an entire bag of Tostitos with salsa in one sitting.
Another source who has been friends with Juniper since before she became a household name says, "That was a really hard time for her. Even her super successful career couldn't keep her happy. It's like she just stopped having a reason to live, but luckily, she received a lot of help for that and all of us were there for her."
But there might be good news on the horizon for our favorite sci-fi/fantasy writer. Last week, she was spotted chatting it up with an unidentified man in a Nashville convenience store. The two seemed very friendly and might have possibly exchanged numbers. Now, if we can only get her out of that outfit!
30 August 2009
Ugh.
I recently overheard a conversation about boob size. Well, by overheard, I mean read, and by conversation, I mean Facebook status plus its comments.
It basically went like this:
Girl 1: Women get their confidence from their boob size.
Girl 2: I completely agree!!! :)!!!!!
Girl 3: It's because of the men. All men like big breasts.
Um ....... okay.
I, for one, get my confidence from my intelligence and snappy wit. And if I were to rest my opinion of myself on various parts of my body, this would just be sad. I have tiny boobs. My legs are long but nothing to write home about, and my ass is not something I like to flaunt too much. I have nowhere near washboard abs, and my arms have little if any tone to them. The only features I can really be "proud" of are my lips and my eyes; I will not have to worry about Botox later in life, and I have blue cat-like eyes. And yet, I manage to leave my house every day without feeling like I have to boost these physical areas. Sure, I work out and I love running; but it isn't my main focus.
As I've said before, I loathe generalizations. Why? Because more often than not, it doesn't apply in such a grand scale. "All men like big breasts." Ha. If I took a poll of my guy friends, I can almost guarantee you that this will not be the consensus. In fact, most of them would say, "More than a handful (or depending on the couth-ness rating, a "mouthful" might apply here instead) is just a waste." Now, this is not to say that there aren't men out there who get turned on by big breasts. The porn industry would not be where it is today if this were not so. It's like saying that all men want a woman who looks like Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie (*gasp* They are in the same sentence!!! Certainly there will be a brawl!). Sure, both are beautiful women, and most men will attest to this. But I know of some guys that are kind of meh towards both.
It's starting to look like all the phobias women have with their bodies are perpetuated by themselves. This isn't a novel idea, of course, but it's becoming very apparent to me, as of late. We have all of this media coverage, various beauty products, the latest styles, fad diets, etc., that just manage to keep us thinking that we're somewhere below par. That is the main reason I changed my major from marketing. The more I studied the concepts, the more I disagreed with basically convincing people that their lives weren't what they could be without such-and-such product. Blech. And while they don't just focus on women, it does seem that many companies do target them.
But then it gets this idea in our heads that we need to get the newest look from the runways (which, to me, always look horrendous - if you can muster the strength, just look at an Elle magazine fashion spread. Can I just say, "YUCK.") or try the anti-aging cream at age 28.
And from what I have heard, which is not to say it's entirely representative, many guys just sit there, scratching their heads. "You looked fine before this. What did you do this for? Me? I liked you the way you were." It's why I hate those commercials about the woman using this cream that shed 10 years off or whatever, and her husband said that he was more attracted to her now. Thanks, advertising assholes.
So here's an idea. How about getting your confidence from something other than your boobs? Your eyes? Your hair? If you died, do you want somebody to say, "She had really amazingly large breasts" or "She had an amazingly large heart?"
I'll take the latter, thanks.
It basically went like this:
Girl 1: Women get their confidence from their boob size.
Girl 2: I completely agree!!! :)!!!!!
Girl 3: It's because of the men. All men like big breasts.
Um ....... okay.
I, for one, get my confidence from my intelligence and snappy wit. And if I were to rest my opinion of myself on various parts of my body, this would just be sad. I have tiny boobs. My legs are long but nothing to write home about, and my ass is not something I like to flaunt too much. I have nowhere near washboard abs, and my arms have little if any tone to them. The only features I can really be "proud" of are my lips and my eyes; I will not have to worry about Botox later in life, and I have blue cat-like eyes. And yet, I manage to leave my house every day without feeling like I have to boost these physical areas. Sure, I work out and I love running; but it isn't my main focus.
As I've said before, I loathe generalizations. Why? Because more often than not, it doesn't apply in such a grand scale. "All men like big breasts." Ha. If I took a poll of my guy friends, I can almost guarantee you that this will not be the consensus. In fact, most of them would say, "More than a handful (or depending on the couth-ness rating, a "mouthful" might apply here instead) is just a waste." Now, this is not to say that there aren't men out there who get turned on by big breasts. The porn industry would not be where it is today if this were not so. It's like saying that all men want a woman who looks like Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie (*gasp* They are in the same sentence!!! Certainly there will be a brawl!). Sure, both are beautiful women, and most men will attest to this. But I know of some guys that are kind of meh towards both.
It's starting to look like all the phobias women have with their bodies are perpetuated by themselves. This isn't a novel idea, of course, but it's becoming very apparent to me, as of late. We have all of this media coverage, various beauty products, the latest styles, fad diets, etc., that just manage to keep us thinking that we're somewhere below par. That is the main reason I changed my major from marketing. The more I studied the concepts, the more I disagreed with basically convincing people that their lives weren't what they could be without such-and-such product. Blech. And while they don't just focus on women, it does seem that many companies do target them.
But then it gets this idea in our heads that we need to get the newest look from the runways (which, to me, always look horrendous - if you can muster the strength, just look at an Elle magazine fashion spread. Can I just say, "YUCK.") or try the anti-aging cream at age 28.
And from what I have heard, which is not to say it's entirely representative, many guys just sit there, scratching their heads. "You looked fine before this. What did you do this for? Me? I liked you the way you were." It's why I hate those commercials about the woman using this cream that shed 10 years off or whatever, and her husband said that he was more attracted to her now. Thanks, advertising assholes.
So here's an idea. How about getting your confidence from something other than your boobs? Your eyes? Your hair? If you died, do you want somebody to say, "She had really amazingly large breasts" or "She had an amazingly large heart?"
I'll take the latter, thanks.
28 August 2009
"My accent is ALWAYS on value."
Genesis Diamonds commercials seem to come up every time there's a run of ads, at least when you're listening to the radio (see my previous post on this). They aren't nearly as annoying as the Shane Company ones that basically make it sound like the purchase of jewelry is the most important thing EVAR. But they do paint themselves as the mavericks of the jewelry business.
For those of you who don't live in Nashville, Genesis Diamonds prides itself on being the official jewelry store of the Tennessee Titans. Now, I'm not sure exactly how this came to be, as the Titans are a football team, but maybe all the players buy little sparkly gifts for their wives after they have an affair or get drunk and do something stupid. Or maybe they make rings for them. I honestly haven't wasted too much brain power on this because, well, I don't care.
Right now, they have this manager whose name fails me narrating the commercials. He makes a point that he used to manage a chain jewelry store but he felt guilty trying to convince people to buy stuff. And he says that Genesis Diamonds is, like, totally awesome because they sell totally high-quality pieces at totally low prices! "The other stores price this blah-blah-blah-E2-clarity-blah-blah diamond ring at $5200, but we have it listed for $3000!" Whatever, it's still more than free, which is what I'm all about.
I guess the kicker is when the owner of Genesis Diamonds, Boaz Ramone, says the title of this post. "My accent is always on value." Don't you see, guys? He's playing on the fact that he's foreign! And that no one understands him because of his crazy, foreign person accent! But don't focus on that! Focus on the pricing! And the value! Blech.
I'm sure the economy has caused jewelry stores quite a downturn. But I just don't have much sympathy for them. They're just pandering to the people who think buying shinies for their significant others will completely take out the need to actually say, "I love you," or do anything that requires thought. Hell, if you're going to buy me a freaking tennis bracelet, costing about $1000, just give me the cash and I'll do something better with it ... like paying of my student loan. Nothing says I love you like no debt.
Anyway, I'll leave you with this from last year's Christmas season because Sarah Haskins is composed of pure awesome:
For those of you who don't live in Nashville, Genesis Diamonds prides itself on being the official jewelry store of the Tennessee Titans. Now, I'm not sure exactly how this came to be, as the Titans are a football team, but maybe all the players buy little sparkly gifts for their wives after they have an affair or get drunk and do something stupid. Or maybe they make rings for them. I honestly haven't wasted too much brain power on this because, well, I don't care.
Right now, they have this manager whose name fails me narrating the commercials. He makes a point that he used to manage a chain jewelry store but he felt guilty trying to convince people to buy stuff. And he says that Genesis Diamonds is, like, totally awesome because they sell totally high-quality pieces at totally low prices! "The other stores price this blah-blah-blah-E2-clarity-blah-blah diamond ring at $5200, but we have it listed for $3000!" Whatever, it's still more than free, which is what I'm all about.
I guess the kicker is when the owner of Genesis Diamonds, Boaz Ramone, says the title of this post. "My accent is always on value." Don't you see, guys? He's playing on the fact that he's foreign! And that no one understands him because of his crazy, foreign person accent! But don't focus on that! Focus on the pricing! And the value! Blech.
I'm sure the economy has caused jewelry stores quite a downturn. But I just don't have much sympathy for them. They're just pandering to the people who think buying shinies for their significant others will completely take out the need to actually say, "I love you," or do anything that requires thought. Hell, if you're going to buy me a freaking tennis bracelet, costing about $1000, just give me the cash and I'll do something better with it ... like paying of my student loan. Nothing says I love you like no debt.
Anyway, I'll leave you with this from last year's Christmas season because Sarah Haskins is composed of pure awesome:
They Shoot Overly-Critical Grammarians, Don't They?
Anyone who knows me even in a moderate sense knows that I am a grammar Nazi. Some of my professors at college would actually have me read papers to catch any mistakes they might have missed. I hate it when someone says, "Where're you at?" because prepositions don't go at the end of sentences. (I can be guilty of this, but I usually catch and correct myself.)
But my tyrant-like behavior in this respect doesn't just apply to the construction of sentences. Oh, no. It carries over into pretty much every part of language.
First, there is a way to pronounce things. It's spelled a certain way. I mean, sure, if you want to say toh-mah-toh instead of toh-may-toh, that's fine.
There are the tried and true "nuclear" (not nucular) and larynx (not larnyx). Those get me every time. Then there's "ask." I'm not going to axe one, because a question isn't a log or a job position. No r's exist in wash or question, and "r" is pronounced "are," not "arrah."
I know, I know. It's cultural. My trainer at work is from West Tennessee, where Memphis is called "Meh-phis," and she frequently asked querstions. I overlooked that because she was awesome (and actually found her mispronunciation of basic words rather endearing), but if anyone else had spoken that way, I would have wanted to commit some grammatically-induced homicide. Luckily for Douche Turd (from a previous post), he speaks correctly ... well, at least when he's not mumble-rambling.
Another irritation for me is when someone uses a phrase like "desert island." Now, I understand that this person is talking about a location that is isolated and uninhabited, so I suppose the actual communication isn't disrupted. But it's a deserted island. Because there's nobody else on it, unless you're a cast member of "Lost." And then you're just screwed, at least as far as I know because I've never actually watched the show.
This kind of thing gets me in trouble because, one, most people don't like to be corrected, and two, it distracts me from concentrating on the conversation because I'm focusing on the infraction. It's like Dane Cook's disgust with girls who exaggerate too much.
"... When you tell me a story, I really listen. I listen, and I don't just listen, I listen ... See, my brain is so fantastical that when you start to exaggerate, I don't follow the story. I follow the exaggeration. And it gets me frustrated, because she would be like ... 'I got off from here, I took a hundred hour nap.' No, you did not. You'd be very sick if you were taking hundred hour naps. That's a coma."
And that's basically how I am, only with grammar and pronunciation. I wouldn't say my brain is fantastical or anything because that would be rather pretentious. And we have enough of that already, and I think the majority of them live in the Hillsboro Village area of Nashville.
But my tyrant-like behavior in this respect doesn't just apply to the construction of sentences. Oh, no. It carries over into pretty much every part of language.
First, there is a way to pronounce things. It's spelled a certain way. I mean, sure, if you want to say toh-mah-toh instead of toh-may-toh, that's fine.
There are the tried and true "nuclear" (not nucular) and larynx (not larnyx). Those get me every time. Then there's "ask." I'm not going to axe one, because a question isn't a log or a job position. No r's exist in wash or question, and "r" is pronounced "are," not "arrah."
I know, I know. It's cultural. My trainer at work is from West Tennessee, where Memphis is called "Meh-phis," and she frequently asked querstions. I overlooked that because she was awesome (and actually found her mispronunciation of basic words rather endearing), but if anyone else had spoken that way, I would have wanted to commit some grammatically-induced homicide. Luckily for Douche Turd (from a previous post), he speaks correctly ... well, at least when he's not mumble-rambling.
Another irritation for me is when someone uses a phrase like "desert island." Now, I understand that this person is talking about a location that is isolated and uninhabited, so I suppose the actual communication isn't disrupted. But it's a deserted island. Because there's nobody else on it, unless you're a cast member of "Lost." And then you're just screwed, at least as far as I know because I've never actually watched the show.
This kind of thing gets me in trouble because, one, most people don't like to be corrected, and two, it distracts me from concentrating on the conversation because I'm focusing on the infraction. It's like Dane Cook's disgust with girls who exaggerate too much.
"... When you tell me a story, I really listen. I listen, and I don't just listen, I listen ... See, my brain is so fantastical that when you start to exaggerate, I don't follow the story. I follow the exaggeration. And it gets me frustrated, because she would be like ... 'I got off from here, I took a hundred hour nap.' No, you did not. You'd be very sick if you were taking hundred hour naps. That's a coma."
And that's basically how I am, only with grammar and pronunciation. I wouldn't say my brain is fantastical or anything because that would be rather pretentious. And we have enough of that already, and I think the majority of them live in the Hillsboro Village area of Nashville.
26 August 2009
Crappiness and stupidity killed the radio stars.
When you drive to and from work for nearly two hours a day, you can only talk to yourself for so long before you start questioning your sanity. For those lucky people out there with iPod inputs, readily available CDs or commercial-free radio, congrats, but I don't have any of those. (PS I hate being poor.) I'm fairly sure it's illegal to wear headphones blasting in your ears while driving, and it would be an epic event to even try to locate my CDs since most of my stuff is still in storage and hour and a half away. And where they are? Yeah, I have no idea. I also don't make enough to afford satellite radio, so I'm at the mercy of the public radio gods.
Unfortunately, they suck, no matter what the "Radio is awesome!" ads I hear 47 times a day say. I'll occasionally tune in to Free Beer and Hot Wings on 102.9 The Buzz in the mornnig, mainly for the "What Hot Wings Thinks" segment (he basically chooses a topic and goes on a tirade), although NPR is usually my default station, so I can stay somewhat on top of things. My main problem is with the morning/afternoon/evening shows and their little DJs. They are all horrible. It's like all the rejected (and maybe even some accepted) comedians from SNL write all the material, and since there aren't any faces associated with the broadcast, they rest easy in their one-bedroom apartments covered in Cheetos (Cheetohs? Cheetoz? I have not a clue as to the spelling.) and beer cans.
Nothing of interest was on NPR this morning because they were going on about how Ted Kennedy died, so I was forced to go to the pop channels. Free Beer and Hot Wings just wasn't appealing, so I ended up having to listen to "Gender Wars" on 107.5 The River. First of all, the contestants were dumb. Or they lived under a rock, I'm not quite sure. The guy, who I'm assuming was around my age or younger, won by default and he was awarded with ... drumroll please ... Thomas the Train tickets.
I wonder if anyone has ever declined a prize on one of those radio game shows. If not, this was probably the first one.
And then the sketches. Oh, the sketches. Following that root canal of a game, they documented a video that proved Michael Jackson faked his own death. How they managed to stretch this over five minutes should have been a feat in and of itself - "Everything on the internet is true because they check everythig. So Michael Jackson is still alive, living with Elvis and all the other famous people who died when they were at the top of their popularity. You have to believe it because it's on the internet, and everything on the internet is true because they ....." - but I guess what's sad is that Woody, Jim and the other people in the studio were acting like they thought it was just hilarious. Maybe they were just working on an Oscar nomination. Sure. We'll go with that.
Luckily, I arrived at work before they started on something else, but it got me wondering about the slow decay of radio quality. It's like newspapers and reality TV; it just keeps getting worse. I wouldn't be surprised if they brought on Andrew Clay (you know, the only comedian that has been banned by MTV, although that's not really so much of a punishment nowadays) to boost some ratings. Blech, no, thank you.
I've decided that I'm going to ride in silence from now on. Or maybe just break the law and listen to my iPod. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.
Unfortunately, they suck, no matter what the "Radio is awesome!" ads I hear 47 times a day say. I'll occasionally tune in to Free Beer and Hot Wings on 102.9 The Buzz in the mornnig, mainly for the "What Hot Wings Thinks" segment (he basically chooses a topic and goes on a tirade), although NPR is usually my default station, so I can stay somewhat on top of things. My main problem is with the morning/afternoon/evening shows and their little DJs. They are all horrible. It's like all the rejected (and maybe even some accepted) comedians from SNL write all the material, and since there aren't any faces associated with the broadcast, they rest easy in their one-bedroom apartments covered in Cheetos (Cheetohs? Cheetoz? I have not a clue as to the spelling.) and beer cans.
Nothing of interest was on NPR this morning because they were going on about how Ted Kennedy died, so I was forced to go to the pop channels. Free Beer and Hot Wings just wasn't appealing, so I ended up having to listen to "Gender Wars" on 107.5 The River. First of all, the contestants were dumb. Or they lived under a rock, I'm not quite sure. The guy, who I'm assuming was around my age or younger, won by default and he was awarded with ... drumroll please ... Thomas the Train tickets.
I wonder if anyone has ever declined a prize on one of those radio game shows. If not, this was probably the first one.
And then the sketches. Oh, the sketches. Following that root canal of a game, they documented a video that proved Michael Jackson faked his own death. How they managed to stretch this over five minutes should have been a feat in and of itself - "Everything on the internet is true because they check everythig. So Michael Jackson is still alive, living with Elvis and all the other famous people who died when they were at the top of their popularity. You have to believe it because it's on the internet, and everything on the internet is true because they ....." - but I guess what's sad is that Woody, Jim and the other people in the studio were acting like they thought it was just hilarious. Maybe they were just working on an Oscar nomination. Sure. We'll go with that.
Luckily, I arrived at work before they started on something else, but it got me wondering about the slow decay of radio quality. It's like newspapers and reality TV; it just keeps getting worse. I wouldn't be surprised if they brought on Andrew Clay (you know, the only comedian that has been banned by MTV, although that's not really so much of a punishment nowadays) to boost some ratings. Blech, no, thank you.
I've decided that I'm going to ride in silence from now on. Or maybe just break the law and listen to my iPod. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.
25 August 2009
Honestly, Pure Randomness ...
I have just been klutzerrific for the past two days. I hit my head twice on one of my car doors, and one left my ears ringing for a good two hours afterward. Now, I have a nice knot on the top of my left temple. Nearly everything that has come into my hands has been dropped, including a glass which shattered in a nearly poetic manner on the black and white checkered floor of the breakroom in the Davidson county DHS office (Human Services, not Homeland Security, FYI). I tripped over my dog this morning, which to be fair, was as much her fault as it was mine ... only she didn't fall flat on her face. Not that it could get much flatter, anyway.
I blame it on hormones.
Which brings me to yet ANOTHER complaint. My body hears vacation, and it automatically thinks, "PERIOD TIME!!!" I'm not even going anywhere. But friends of mine are, and they talk about it constantly. So naturally, the premenstrual cramps start up.
And then I get cranky. And clumsy. And bloated. All around, I'm a pretty unhappy person for about a week. Stupid womanhood.
In other news, it is bad when your tire is separating and it shows the metal interior. It is doubly bad when two of your tires are in this condition. It's thrice crappy when an additional tire is bald. Even though you try ridiculously hard to explain to the mechanic/tire putter-onner that you are NOT a complete imbecile and that you do know at least enough about cars to get you by, he stares at you with this, "Ha, typical girl, I wonder if she lets her oil run dry, too" expression on his face, while he's smiling and being polite. Ass.
Also, I want to play Gears of War. Or hell, something with a little violence. At least then I can pretend I'm a man that knows about vehicles, doesn't fall down because there's a virtual barrier, doesn't have a period and can get away with being cranky.
Ugh. I want a plum. Or maybe some grape tomatoes. Yum, that sounds good.
I blame it on hormones.
Which brings me to yet ANOTHER complaint. My body hears vacation, and it automatically thinks, "PERIOD TIME!!!" I'm not even going anywhere. But friends of mine are, and they talk about it constantly. So naturally, the premenstrual cramps start up.
And then I get cranky. And clumsy. And bloated. All around, I'm a pretty unhappy person for about a week. Stupid womanhood.
In other news, it is bad when your tire is separating and it shows the metal interior. It is doubly bad when two of your tires are in this condition. It's thrice crappy when an additional tire is bald. Even though you try ridiculously hard to explain to the mechanic/tire putter-onner that you are NOT a complete imbecile and that you do know at least enough about cars to get you by, he stares at you with this, "Ha, typical girl, I wonder if she lets her oil run dry, too" expression on his face, while he's smiling and being polite. Ass.
Also, I want to play Gears of War. Or hell, something with a little violence. At least then I can pretend I'm a man that knows about vehicles, doesn't fall down because there's a virtual barrier, doesn't have a period and can get away with being cranky.
Ugh. I want a plum. Or maybe some grape tomatoes. Yum, that sounds good.
21 August 2009
January 20, 2009
By popular demand, the retelling of the worst date in history. Enjoy.
Okay, seriously, I went on what was most likely the worst date ever last night ... well, two nights ago now.
It started out fairly entertaining with witty banter and Mexican dishes, although mine should not have contained cheese. I was dumb and forgot to ask the waitress to drown my spinach enchiladas in some salsa or tomato sauce instead of the typical queso. But I didn't, and by the time they arrived, I ate the dairy-covered wraps, knowing that if I reordered them, it would only stretch this date into dreaded eternity. (Now, remember this fact because it will come into play later.)
How did I get from fun to eye-roll inducing? Well, it began with the "L.L. Bean Guy" monologue. "I want to be L.L. Bean Guy, with my XTerra, boots and tall socks and shorts" or "I can do that because I'm L.L. Bean Guy" kept creeping into our conversation, usually at the most awkward of moments. Maybe awkward isn't the correct term; I'll go with "never fitting the situation." I mean, I'm all for recalling a funny moment that can add on to the humor of a current one (I've done it before and the technique's worked well), but to randomly insert it into conversation is confusing and quite frankly one of the most annoying things ever, especially when it happens about four or five times and when it wasn't funny to begin with.
Unfortunately, his humor didn't improve. It was like I was sitting across the table from a meld of Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, Luke and Owen Wilson, and Vince Vaughn (feel free to add any frat boy movie actor in at any time). He kept repeating things in this high-pitched whisper and then laughing hysterically. Forced laughs from me were abound like rabbits in springtime, let me tell you.
Then, he was rude to the waitress. I have been a waitress for over a year, and so this was exceptionally telling to me. Apparently, she had nothing better to do than wait on us. It took me a while to decide what I wanted because it all had cheese and nothing looked good to me. I finally decided on the spinach enchiladas, with plans to ask her to hold the cheese on top. As she walked by to go greet another table, he grabbed her (literally) and said, "We're ready. I'll have the" whatever he ordered. I just glared at him and apologized to the waitress, although I think both she and he thought I was saying sorry for my delayed order. Okay, so I'm not a complete traditionalist, but in every other date I've been on, the guy let me order first. That's the way my dad is and so I expect it. But that was the minor thing. He just rudely stopped the waitress, obviously throwing her off. And it wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't done it again later when we ordered dessert. At that point, she was exasperated so she told him that he would have to wait a few minutes before she put in the order.
So while we were waiting, we chatted a bit and it was very informative. I apparently am a moron because I don't like Cheesitz. Or Cheesits. Or however the hell you're supposed to spell it. I don't care, because I don't like them. I don't like them because I can't eat them; they make me sick. Literally. Then, I am also weird for liking celery, which, according to my date, is just a plant filled with water and is not a food. Um. Well, most vegetables are just plants filled with water, as is, actually most food. Water is the most abundant nutrient is, as far as I know, all foods. And celery is a food. And it's a good snack. Not nutritious, as it requires more energy to break it down than it offers, but it's healthy, especially with peanut butter spread on top for the protein. I had debates on both of these topics. And I'm sorry, the way to getting a girl to like you is not to mock her eating choices, especially since most of mine are due to the fact that I'm allergic to dairy. Good work, buddy.
During the times he wasn't referencing his love for the L.L. Bean lifestyle, laughing at my diet choices and making the waitress working harder than she needed to, there was pretty much silence. For those of you who know me well know that I can talk to anyone and anything with little effort. Just ask the right questions and you will always get a response. Plus, when we had talked on the phone, we literally chatted on for about four or five hours. Two days in a row. With never a dull moment or a retarded joke.
By the time our desserts arrived, my stomach was starting the churn. That stupid cheese. Or I guess it could have been my savior, had I heeded it's rumblings. I ate my sopapilla sans ice cream and whipped cream (He called it my honey-covered cracker, to which I sarcastically smiled. Thanks, I know my dessert sucks. If I could, I would be eating fried ice cream like you, ass). And finally, when she laid down the check, I tried to reach for the bill to see what my half was, but he grabbed it. Okay, he got a cool point there. (And oh, my GOODNESS, he kept awarding himself cool points throughout the meal. Growl.) We waited for the waitress to bring back the black book and he tried to make me slap the ice cream with a spoon. Yes. You read that correctly. And he was offended that I didn't know it somehow was a reference to "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," a movie I never plan to see. And he was offended that there were other movies topping my to-see list. Okay, whatever, dude.
By then, I had forgotten that this was only half of our date. Yay, now we get to go to a movie. I could have and should have left at this point, and my excuse could have been my stomach. It wouldn't have been a lie and he would have saved about thirty dollars. But I followed him in my car to the theater and begrudgingly got out of my car. My only criteria for what we watched: it had to be short. We picked "Underworld: Rise of the Lycans." Honestly, not that bad of a movie. No award winner, to be sure, but it was entertaining enough. And it left me strangely attracted to Michael Sheen. Why did Kate Beckinsale leave him? Anyway, while we were waiting for the previews to start, he figured this would be a perfect opportunity to throw in some jokes. Only this time, they were downright making fun of me: "Oh, my name's Jenn and I am lactose-intolerant and I ate cheese. My stomach hurts!" Those were his exact words that he repeated about fifteen times, in the same breathy, annoying voice I described earlier. Then he tried to convince me, "That's funny! Come on, it's funny!" No, seriously, it's really not. And it just got worse.
For those of you who know me, I hate being talked to during movies; some movies are more cerebral than others and if you miss one thing, you are lost later on in the movie. Granted, "U:RotL" was not one of these movies, but the visuals were stimulating. But he felt that it was time for the high five game. I don't know exactly what the hell he was doing, but every couple of things he said, he'd put up his hand in celebration. I regret doing it once (I needed help opening up my bottled water and I gave in, although he wanted a kiss on the cheek instead. Yeah, right) because it only egged him on. He finally told me that I was stingy in my handing out of high fives and I was just said, "Okay." Then, he put his hand right next to my face, saying that he wasn't going to move it until I gave him a high five. I was so irritated at this point that I just let him put it there. How old are you, four?? And if that wasn't bad enough, he started pushing my face. Yes, friends. He actually took his hand and pushed my face, saying, "You're giving me a face high five." You have no idea how mad I was growing. I was considering punching him right in the jaw and leaving, but violence is not the answer. Instead I shot him a dirty look, and thank GOD, he left me alone for the remainder of the movie.
However, the final nail in the coffin was when he left his Sour Skittles wrapper in the floor. When I asked him if he was going to throw it away, he told me that everyone else left their trash. I wryly grinned and held up my empty box of Junior Mints, which I promptly threw into the trash can. We pretty much walked in silence out to the parking lot. The good-bye was understandably awkward with no eye contact and a false "I had fun." I almost sprinted to my car, saying aloud, "Won't be hearing from him again." Oh, and I forgot to mention that I called both my mother and my friend during the drive to the movie to tell them how horrible this date was. My friend found it amusing as all get out, my mother wanted to know how much longer I would be out, and both couldn't figure out why I didn't just end the date. I really wish I had. But I wouldn't have this fun story to tell.
At this point, I'm thinking Hell will include freezing temperatures and annoying man-children that only tell Will Ferrell-inspired "jokes." At least Will Ferrell is humorous most of the time, "Semi-Pro" not included. My God, I may never date again.
Okay, seriously, I went on what was most likely the worst date ever last night ... well, two nights ago now.
It started out fairly entertaining with witty banter and Mexican dishes, although mine should not have contained cheese. I was dumb and forgot to ask the waitress to drown my spinach enchiladas in some salsa or tomato sauce instead of the typical queso. But I didn't, and by the time they arrived, I ate the dairy-covered wraps, knowing that if I reordered them, it would only stretch this date into dreaded eternity. (Now, remember this fact because it will come into play later.)
How did I get from fun to eye-roll inducing? Well, it began with the "L.L. Bean Guy" monologue. "I want to be L.L. Bean Guy, with my XTerra, boots and tall socks and shorts" or "I can do that because I'm L.L. Bean Guy" kept creeping into our conversation, usually at the most awkward of moments. Maybe awkward isn't the correct term; I'll go with "never fitting the situation." I mean, I'm all for recalling a funny moment that can add on to the humor of a current one (I've done it before and the technique's worked well), but to randomly insert it into conversation is confusing and quite frankly one of the most annoying things ever, especially when it happens about four or five times and when it wasn't funny to begin with.
Unfortunately, his humor didn't improve. It was like I was sitting across the table from a meld of Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, Luke and Owen Wilson, and Vince Vaughn (feel free to add any frat boy movie actor in at any time). He kept repeating things in this high-pitched whisper and then laughing hysterically. Forced laughs from me were abound like rabbits in springtime, let me tell you.
Then, he was rude to the waitress. I have been a waitress for over a year, and so this was exceptionally telling to me. Apparently, she had nothing better to do than wait on us. It took me a while to decide what I wanted because it all had cheese and nothing looked good to me. I finally decided on the spinach enchiladas, with plans to ask her to hold the cheese on top. As she walked by to go greet another table, he grabbed her (literally) and said, "We're ready. I'll have the" whatever he ordered. I just glared at him and apologized to the waitress, although I think both she and he thought I was saying sorry for my delayed order. Okay, so I'm not a complete traditionalist, but in every other date I've been on, the guy let me order first. That's the way my dad is and so I expect it. But that was the minor thing. He just rudely stopped the waitress, obviously throwing her off. And it wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't done it again later when we ordered dessert. At that point, she was exasperated so she told him that he would have to wait a few minutes before she put in the order.
So while we were waiting, we chatted a bit and it was very informative. I apparently am a moron because I don't like Cheesitz. Or Cheesits. Or however the hell you're supposed to spell it. I don't care, because I don't like them. I don't like them because I can't eat them; they make me sick. Literally. Then, I am also weird for liking celery, which, according to my date, is just a plant filled with water and is not a food. Um. Well, most vegetables are just plants filled with water, as is, actually most food. Water is the most abundant nutrient is, as far as I know, all foods. And celery is a food. And it's a good snack. Not nutritious, as it requires more energy to break it down than it offers, but it's healthy, especially with peanut butter spread on top for the protein. I had debates on both of these topics. And I'm sorry, the way to getting a girl to like you is not to mock her eating choices, especially since most of mine are due to the fact that I'm allergic to dairy. Good work, buddy.
During the times he wasn't referencing his love for the L.L. Bean lifestyle, laughing at my diet choices and making the waitress working harder than she needed to, there was pretty much silence. For those of you who know me well know that I can talk to anyone and anything with little effort. Just ask the right questions and you will always get a response. Plus, when we had talked on the phone, we literally chatted on for about four or five hours. Two days in a row. With never a dull moment or a retarded joke.
By the time our desserts arrived, my stomach was starting the churn. That stupid cheese. Or I guess it could have been my savior, had I heeded it's rumblings. I ate my sopapilla sans ice cream and whipped cream (He called it my honey-covered cracker, to which I sarcastically smiled. Thanks, I know my dessert sucks. If I could, I would be eating fried ice cream like you, ass). And finally, when she laid down the check, I tried to reach for the bill to see what my half was, but he grabbed it. Okay, he got a cool point there. (And oh, my GOODNESS, he kept awarding himself cool points throughout the meal. Growl.) We waited for the waitress to bring back the black book and he tried to make me slap the ice cream with a spoon. Yes. You read that correctly. And he was offended that I didn't know it somehow was a reference to "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," a movie I never plan to see. And he was offended that there were other movies topping my to-see list. Okay, whatever, dude.
By then, I had forgotten that this was only half of our date. Yay, now we get to go to a movie. I could have and should have left at this point, and my excuse could have been my stomach. It wouldn't have been a lie and he would have saved about thirty dollars. But I followed him in my car to the theater and begrudgingly got out of my car. My only criteria for what we watched: it had to be short. We picked "Underworld: Rise of the Lycans." Honestly, not that bad of a movie. No award winner, to be sure, but it was entertaining enough. And it left me strangely attracted to Michael Sheen. Why did Kate Beckinsale leave him? Anyway, while we were waiting for the previews to start, he figured this would be a perfect opportunity to throw in some jokes. Only this time, they were downright making fun of me: "Oh, my name's Jenn and I am lactose-intolerant and I ate cheese. My stomach hurts!" Those were his exact words that he repeated about fifteen times, in the same breathy, annoying voice I described earlier. Then he tried to convince me, "That's funny! Come on, it's funny!" No, seriously, it's really not. And it just got worse.
For those of you who know me, I hate being talked to during movies; some movies are more cerebral than others and if you miss one thing, you are lost later on in the movie. Granted, "U:RotL" was not one of these movies, but the visuals were stimulating. But he felt that it was time for the high five game. I don't know exactly what the hell he was doing, but every couple of things he said, he'd put up his hand in celebration. I regret doing it once (I needed help opening up my bottled water and I gave in, although he wanted a kiss on the cheek instead. Yeah, right) because it only egged him on. He finally told me that I was stingy in my handing out of high fives and I was just said, "Okay." Then, he put his hand right next to my face, saying that he wasn't going to move it until I gave him a high five. I was so irritated at this point that I just let him put it there. How old are you, four?? And if that wasn't bad enough, he started pushing my face. Yes, friends. He actually took his hand and pushed my face, saying, "You're giving me a face high five." You have no idea how mad I was growing. I was considering punching him right in the jaw and leaving, but violence is not the answer. Instead I shot him a dirty look, and thank GOD, he left me alone for the remainder of the movie.
However, the final nail in the coffin was when he left his Sour Skittles wrapper in the floor. When I asked him if he was going to throw it away, he told me that everyone else left their trash. I wryly grinned and held up my empty box of Junior Mints, which I promptly threw into the trash can. We pretty much walked in silence out to the parking lot. The good-bye was understandably awkward with no eye contact and a false "I had fun." I almost sprinted to my car, saying aloud, "Won't be hearing from him again." Oh, and I forgot to mention that I called both my mother and my friend during the drive to the movie to tell them how horrible this date was. My friend found it amusing as all get out, my mother wanted to know how much longer I would be out, and both couldn't figure out why I didn't just end the date. I really wish I had. But I wouldn't have this fun story to tell.
At this point, I'm thinking Hell will include freezing temperatures and annoying man-children that only tell Will Ferrell-inspired "jokes." At least Will Ferrell is humorous most of the time, "Semi-Pro" not included. My God, I may never date again.
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