Ahhh the BlackBerry. I have had one for years and I must confess my love is deep, abiding and strong. I really felt for Barack Obama when it looked like he’d have to give his up. I got shaky just imagining it.
But the Berry has got me in trouble at times. Saucy exchanges viewed mistakenly by other people and taken the wrong way. E-mails sent on the run to the wrong person, and ABOUT that person. Not to mention the way it starts randomly dialing people — always the most inappropriate people — without your knowledge whenever it gets jostled in your purse, and you later look down and ask: “What the FUCK?” while cursing yourself for not having deleted the contact information for that weird Colombian guy you briefly dated and quickly fled.
My berry and I have had our moments.
Nonetheless, nothing is as rip-roaringly funny as what happened to my paramour today. He fired off a PIN to me that expressed his desire, in quite hilarious terms, to do something naughty to my knockers, always his favorite body part.
But instead of sending it to me, he sent it to a prominent politician whose last name is right beneath mine in his contact list.
Oh. Dear.
I have been laughing so hard I can barely breathe for a half hour. The esteemed Mr. Trix-Smith has yet to respond to my paramour’s dirty missive.
I have always wondered if there’s a book to be written about Berry mishaps, or at least the trouble modern technology has caused people in their personal and professional lives. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t accidentally forwarded an e-mail to the wrong person, for example.
What’s your most embarrassing technological mishap?
OMG, hookers. Here I am feeling all good about myself for having a healthy (read: non fattening) breakfast of egg whites and a smoothie and what do I click on? Only the sexiest, most luscious hunk of meat to ever parade around these parts. Feast your eyes on: The Bacon Explosion.
Mmmmm, I can hear certain friends of this blog drooling right now – you know who you are.
Yes, that is crispy, crumbly bacon rolling around on a pallet of sausage, being held in place by bacon rebar. Is it wrong that I want to immerse myself in this flavorful, juicy, meat construction? I think not.
I’m not gonna lie, the neatly crisscrossed pattern makes me think of a delicious, flaky pie crust lattice. Mmmm, pie + bacon. Sorry if I salivate on you.
OK, this post may be a bit inflammatory, so be warned. I had a really bizarre revelation yet again today in the lunch room at work, and I had to tell you guys about it.
So there I am, 3 minutes from the lunch bell ringing, clutching my leftover tortellini from last night in one hand, and gripping the counter top for fear of passing out from hunger/low blood sugar with the other. All of the microwaves were in use, people would occasionally taunt me by retrieving a dish from their machine, stirring it, and then putting it back in for another 3, 4, even 5 minutes. Now, I normally wait a good long time after noon before venturing into the lunch room jungle to forage for a place to heat my foods, but today I was too busy to eat my mid-morning snack so the Hyena of the Microwaves mantle was all mine. Anyway, forgetting I am not, in fact, invisible, I finally gave up and flounced away towards my desk in a huff (I keep a jar of peanut butter in there for just such a hypoglycemic occasion). Seconds later, a guy I know from another department comes tearing out into the hallway to offer me his microwave. Apparently he saw how upset I got over the convoluted microwave line and hierarchy of temperature-controlled lunches and thought I was annoyed with him. Oh dear, Josh*. It’s quite the logical conclusion to draw, I’m well aware. However, let it be known that my unstoppable, uncontrollable, searing rays of castrating bitchitude are not always directed at men. Sometimes I turn on myself, too.
I found this image of some safety tag parents can attach to their hypoglycemic kids. It’s pretty amazing.
Legitimately red-faced, I tried to explain my sitch: That I sometimes have low blood sugar, which means that by the time I actually feel hunger it means I’m mere minutes from faceplanting on the linoleum. I’m so not mad at him or anyone really, just annoyed that I let myself get to the point of the Peanut Butter Rescue Spoon. And, rather gratuitously (because I always have to make a stupid joke and because I am in all ways an asshole), I inserted some crack about being a girl and thus being socially obligated to underfeed myself.
Over the last year or so, I have come to a disturbing realization: young boys don’t seem to check me out on the street anymore. Before your perv detector goes off, let me explain. I am not looking to pick up sixteen-year-old boys, I simply noticed that their lingering glances or flirtatious grins are generally reserved for more nubile young babes, as well they should be. But probably up until 25 or so, I could still make a schoolboy blush with a wink or a wisecrack on the street, and now it’s suddenly occurred to me that I am old enough to be their older sister from their father’s first marriage.
When did I stop being, in the eyes of a younger generation, a hot girl, and become a woman?
Part of this passage is due to the fact that my career as an office slave requires me to dress like, well, a grown up. Long gone is the pink hair, the miniskirt and kneesocks combo, the torn fishnets and whimsical barettes I sported into my early twenties. These indicators of youthful abandon no longer feel appropriate, and while I don’t hesitate to show a little skin on the weekends, I have naturally become more inclined to Dress My Age and feel uncomfortably self-aware when I do choose certain articles of clothing or accessories better suited to a teenager.
I catch the image of myself in the reflective doors of the elevator in my office building, and examine my face and body for clues. What do other people see when they look at me? A girl in sheepish clothing, or a grown woman? If I’m in front of a client, is it obvious that I’m playing dress-up in an ill-fitting suit and strand of pearls, or do I project certitude and experience? Can anyone else see the feather-light lines splintering around my eyes, or is the fullness of my cheek more apparent? And how does my outward presentation versus my internal voice color my interactions? (more…)
I read this post today by a neighbouring WP blogger, and it really sums up a lot of my feelings about all things ‘green’. You know, G-R-E-E-E-E-E-E-N, the buzz word for everything you see, buy and need these days. Employment – better to work for a green company. Advertising – green products are marketed to consumers as the elite must-have. Consumer – green products are better! buy green! don’t be caught dead without the fashionable Gruene. Business – green companies are on the rise, all that non green to make…….green. (see Employment.) Porn – oh yeah, there’s green porn! Ew? At some point, it started feeling fake to me, “being green”. But, how could that be? I’m a logical person, I understand the detrimental effects humankind has on the planet (and the media reminds me hourly, natch) and yet, there are times when I just say, Fuck It. I can’t win for trying and I’m never green enough, so, fuck you, Green.
But, not really. Come on, Green, you know how we are. You know we fight sometimes and do things that we know will hurt the other, but, it’s like we just can’t help it. It’s in our DNA, you know? Well, I don’t have to tell you that, you know that. Right?
I dunno, man. What d’y'all think? Can we ever be green enough, each of us in our personal lives? Will we ever really “repair” the planet? Actually reverse the polluting effects we have now? Or is it all really just a placebo to help us get on with it? I like to think that I’m able to maintain certain baseline habits that I feel must be helpful to the environment; not wasting electricity, conserving water, not driving a car if I can walk, smoking herb instead of drinking booze, re-usable grocery bags. But I can’t imagine giving up my washer/dryer, my always on internet connection, meat or the use of most plastics. I’m not likely to get a job as a forest ranger, hemp clothing designer, surfer or nomad, so I’ll be working in a building with central heat and air and a coffee shop in the lobby that sends millions of disposable cups to the landfill every month. Sigh.
You know, we never felt it was necessary to institute a bunch of commenter rules for BCP. Who wants to read through a litany of what you can and can’t say, what your comments should be related to, how you should feel about X or Y in order to join the discussion? We say, “pah”, come hang out, join the discussion or don’t. Oh, but if you’re going to be an asshole you could at least use actual English to get the brilliance of your hatred across. K, Thx!
…According to the Boy Person. Here’s how it is: I am one of those people who, the second I get home, immediately strip off my constrictive public clothes and bundle up in socks, an undershirt or sweater (depending on the temperature), and a pair of pajama pants. I have eight pairs of jamma pants in this apartment alone and they are pretty much the household uniform. Sexy? Perhaps not, but damn comfortable. Sexy is not on my agenda in the confines of my own home.
Conversely, the boy will return from work and change into a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, his own “hanging out” uniform which is antithetical to my personal household sartorial philosophy. “But why are you putting on more clothes?” I’ll ask. “We’re at home!”
“Why are you wearing pajamas? It’s 5:30 in the afternoon!” He’ll respond. And so it goes. Maybe if girl-jeans were typically as comfortable as boy-jeans I would feel differently, but the only pair of “outdoor” trousers I’ve ever willingly wore around the house were the massive, baggy cargo pants I stole from my college boyfriend. Basically, I want to be prepared to take a nap at a moment’s notice. Clothing with buttons and zippers are worn for the benefit of other people, but in my queendom, drawstring and elastic are the bylaw.
On the plus side, the sight of me in my work clothes, particularly a suit, is more titillating to him than any G-stringed lace contraption I could buy. “Mmmm…” He’ll murmer. “Your shirt has a collar.”
All this pajama action eventually led to a “discussion” that has yet to be resolved: the issue of pajama-wearing in public. When I mused that I would happily wear jamma pants every day if my office were a more forgiving place, he was horrified. “It’s a nuisance,” he spat. “Those people who wear pajamas in public have no respect for others!” (more…)
For Christmas this year, I got to go home for two weeks for the first time in twelve months. Besides the obvious joy of seeing my family, friends, and pets, it was simply glorious to be back Stateside. Sunshine! Mexican food! Shopping at Target! Customer service! Shopping at Target! A mani/pedi for $20! Obama-mania!
I essentially took a two-week hiatus from the internet and basked in the pleasure of actual human interaction. I devoured both homecooked meals and lunches at my favorite restaurants. I stayed out with friends at our favorite bars to get gleefully sloshed until 2:00 am. I went shopping for new work clothes to replace my dated and threadbare attire. I took home clothes that needed hemming and alterations and had them tailored for half the price it would cost in the UK. I bought a bikini, new bedding, and jars of banana peppers to take back to London with me. I hit up the used bookstores and purchased enough novels to keep me sated for six months. And when it was time to leave, I happily paid a $100 baggage charge for my bulging suitcases and left the rest at the house for my generous mother to ship over.
It was not without its stresses. Trying to cram in all the visits, errands, and appointments I arranged was a headache, as there simply wasn’t time for it all, especially since I sold my car. Although I have a loving relationship with my parents, we haven’t lived together under one roof for ten years and while it was mostly wonderful to be with them, there were tense moments when we all reverted back to my teenage years (aka The Dark Time).
It was both too long and not nearly long enough. Too long in the sense that I became comfortable and spoiled by the reassuring familiarity of home, so that my typical two-week post-vacation depression has been exacerbated into full-on gloominess. While I spent the first vacation week checking my Blackberry, shuffling client reports, and phoning Saudi Arabia at 8:00 am, panicked at being out of touch, by the second week, I forgot that I had to work for a living at all and returning to the office felt akin to the diagnosis of a terminal illness. DOOOOOOM.
While my absence from home was not nearly as dramatic or protracted as others I have met (a Chinese client I had who visited his family for the first time in five years, or a Romanian woman I worked with who had not seen her young daughter for seven years), I nonetheless had a bit of a jolt as I adjusted to my return to American soil – call it reverse culture shock. Here are some of my experiences… (more…)
Now that my appetite has returned, so too has my libido. Strange, considering I am single as single can be and rarely get laid. But that’s what YouPorn is for!
In any event, I was thinking a moment ago about what my favorite sexytimes songs are.
Here are some of them, but I know I am forgetting some:
1. Cream by Prince.
2. Little Red Corvette, Prince.
3. I Love You by The Dandy Warhols.
4. She Said by Pharcyde.
5. Electric Relaxation by A Tribe Called Quest.
6. Been Around the World by Cracker.
7. Dr. Feelgood by Aretha Franklin, who I am SO crushing on right now, even more than usual, after she turned that hoary old chestnut into a rousing gospel number on Inauguration Day. And, you know, the HAT!!
Let’s hear some of yours!
And just for fun, here she is. This song gives me the shivers, makes me horny and makes me weepy all at the same time because really, who is more awesome than Aretha?
Over the last year or so, I have come to a disturbing realization: young boys don’t seem to check me out on the street anymore. Before your perv detector goes off, let me explain. I am not looking to pick up sixteen-year-old boys, I simply noticed that their lingering glances or flirtatious grins are generally reserved for more nubile young babes, as well they should be. But probably up until 25 or so, I could still make a schoolboy blush with a wink or a wisecrack on the street, and now it’s suddenly occurred to me that I am old enough to be their older sister from their father’s first marriage.
…According to the Boy Person. Here’s how it is: I am one of those people who, the second I get home, immediately strip off my constrictive public clothes and bundle up in socks, an undershirt or sweater (depending on the temperature), and a pair of pajama pants. I have eight pairs of jamma pants in this apartment alone and they are pretty much the household uniform. Sexy? Perhaps not, but damn comfortable. Sexy is not on my agenda in the confines of my own home. 
For Christmas this year, I got to go home for two weeks for the first time in twelve months. Besides the obvious joy of seeing my family, friends, and pets, it was simply glorious to be back Stateside. Sunshine! Mexican food! Shopping at Target! Customer service! Shopping at Target! A mani/pedi for $20! Obama-mania!
