So, today was a big day for me.  I took some time out of work for a much-needed wardrobe replenish, and the logical place to go here in the UK for an office-appropriate, sartorial pick-me-up is the ever-tasteful Marks & Spencer.  After two hours of browsing and 20+ items in the dressing room, I walked out with a killer black, belted dress, a deep purple cardigan, and a fresh reminder of why, exactly, I hate shopping so very, very much.  It’s because I have to try on 20+ pieces of clothing to find two that even attempt to flatter me, and I generally walk out cursing my bizarre, awkward body and the fluorescent lighting that has highlighted its flaws in such loving detail.

But that wasn’t all.  I also arranged for an afternoon appointment in the lingerie section with one of those legendary Bra Whisperers.  You’ve heard tell of them, if you are a woman – you walk into an upscale lingerie store and, with the wink of a beady eye and a quick snap of a tape measure, they inform you that the bra-size you’ve called your own for the last ten years is, in fact, dreadfully mistaken and then, while you sputter protests, they conjure up a host of beautiful delicates in some combination you’ve never considered, and suddenly, magically, you are harnessed into the bra of your dreams.  Your tits are caressed by angels’ breath and the support is like flexible steel girders, and, “Ooh,” you breathe, “I never knew it could feel like this!”

So, yeah, my expectations were high.  After a lifetime of 34B (high B, low C!), I was ready to discover my true bra size.  I’ll admit, I was having fantasies that the Bra Whisperer would eye me up and proclaim me a 32C, although this was unlikely, as my 34Bs are normally straining at the last hook of the strap and runneth over my cups do not.  Still, while the grandmotherly Whisperer dispassionately assessed and measured me, I sent up my prayers.

My regular old Calvin Klein bra, with light padding - this is what I wear most days.



It’s only a game-deciding goal in the World Cup.  A reasonable venue for the worst call of all freakin’ time.  There are about three American players being fouled, and yet the ref somehow managed to see something no one else in the entire stadium world could.  Amazing.

So, I’ve been in this long-term relationship – five-and-a-half years, to be exact – and things haven’t been going well recently.  To be honest, it’s been a rocky relationship from the start, and I can only ascribe its duration to my own complacency, oft-misplaced loyalty, and perhaps a mutual recognition of tenacity.  There have been good times, no doubt, but also a fair share of bad times, and throughout it all, a nagging sense of boredom and of things left undone and unsaid.

When Johnson and I got together, I was 22 years old and coming out of a nasty patch; I latched on to him with enthusiasm.  He was a foreigner in my hometown, we were both looking for some security, and the mutual benefits were immediate and obvious.  It didn’t take long for me to invest my heart and time, shrugging off the occasional errant suitor in the face of Johnson’s promises of longevity and fulfillment.  If I was good and devoted to him, he would be good to me, and together, we would go places.

It didn’t take long before I could see we were going to have problems.  He had a roving eye, as is his wont, and I was going to have to fight to remain in his affections.  Over the years, other pretty girls came and went, but I continued to declare my commitment and one by one, they dropped by the wayside.  I wanted to prove I was dutiful and in it for the long-haul, but sometimes the frustrations of all this struggle to stay visible and important overwhelmed me.  I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just sail on an even-keel; maybe we weren’t so well-matched after all, and I should be seeking attention elsewhere. (more…)

From AskReddit:

If you had a magic orangered button, and pressing it meant you would get 500 million dollars, but someone on your Facebook friend list would die, would you press it?

submitted by witide

edit It would be a random person, you can’t control who.

Had this conversation at work today. It’s a 50:50 split between those who put a human life as priceless, and those who have enough randoms on their friend list that some near stranger would die.

What’s your price, reddit?

ANSWER:  HELL YES.  I knew I friended Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck for a reason.

I live in Vegas now and one thing Vegas has a lot of is nudity.  I was reminded of this (as if one could forget) last night as I was sitting about 10 feet from the stage at a middle-of-the-pole strip joint.  The girls were alright looking, all had put some effort into hair and make-up and kept their skin looking fairly smooth (red lighting is your friend, girl) although I would say the ratio of Buttahfaces to Hotties was about 4 to 1.  There seemed to be a lot of the Tiger Woods Selection of strippers on deck last night, and the ones who didn’t make you want to put on your beer goggles all looked hella aggravated.  Lookit, it’s not easy to be up there all night, night after night, trying to look ‘exotic’ or ‘ravishing’, especially when you consider what working conditions the average stripper has to put up with.  So this is what I was thinking about as I waited; the ugly expressions so commonly found in strip clubs and the usual causes of them.  I reached back to my days in a thong and came up with Top 5 Complaints of a Stripper:

–  Losers that camp out in the front row and grease up the rail with their skeevy, sweaty hands while carefully parsing out 17 dollars in singles.  Wow.  Hey.  Careful.  Don’t hurt yourself putting that one dollar bill out there for the girl who’s been dancing 3 song sets all night.

– This one used to annoy me purely out of principal – strippers that hit the stage looking fine as hell until you get down to her feet and her toes are hanging on for dear life to those Bakers platform heels, looking like swollen shrimp cocktail.  Get those bear claws outta here, girl!

– So you get a lapdance from a stripper and sit back to enjoy the show.  You know you can’t touch her but you’re so convinced that what she secretly wants is for you to palm your grimy, ragged hands all over her ass so instead you think you’re slick and you slide your finger under the band of her thong and tug on it.  Then when she whips her head around to see what the fuck your retarded ass thinks you’re doing, you smile all stupid like and ask her, “You like that, huh?”  No, fucker.  She didn’t enjoy a band of elastic cutting her in half while you eyeballed her asshole – surprised?

– You know what’s creepy?  You calling a girl over to your table of 4 with no extra seating available and expecting her to perch on your knee while you bounce her up and down against your balls and try to play patty-cake on her tits with your face.  Either pay her for a dance or follow her back to VIP – she’s not a fucking accessory.

– Oh, you REALLY think you’re being crafty, don’t you?  You think you’re a fucking genius when you roll up to the club in commando mode, or wearing some silky shorts, figuring that when she grinds on you it’ll be just like her rubbing on you naked.  First of all, you ain’t slick, she knows exactly what your game is and secondly, you putting your tiny dick front and center sans padding only confirms what she already knew – you’re hung like Jon Gosselin and too cheap to pay for a booth.  Fuck off.

This concludes the community service portion of my probation (I’m lying).

Catastrophic weather events and tax-payer hell are admittedly superior nuisances to one of my latest first-world problems, but I’m not going to let that prevent me from sharing a little recent frustration.  Actually, “recent” isn’t strictly accurate, as this is an annoyance that’s been plaguing me for the last year, and my irritation is down to my fellow citizens rather than the faceless powers that be (as far as I know…).

When I moved into this flat, one of the first things I did after sorting out the bills was to contact the council and ask for a recycling bag.   This was straightforward.  My liberal guilt is not assuaged by the fact that I use only public transport (my black soul yearns for my old Subaru, and if I were richer, I would have it), but it is somewhat appeased by my rabid recycling habit.  Glass, plastic, and aluminum are all lovingly washed out and dried next to the sink, to be placed with smug reverence in my Recycling Bag.  I rip the plastic windows out of my junkmail to recycle the envelopes, and take anything with my name on to work to shred and return to the holy green bag.  I take pride (yes, pride!) in the fact that my two-person household produces half a 13 gallon bag a week of trash.  If I had a garden, I would have a compost heap and grow my own herbs, and your eyes would water in the face of my fuckin’ halo.

Basically, recycling not only makes me feel righteous, it just feels right.  As a person who actually has apocalyptic nightmares about the world drowning in mountains of trash, this is my last and weakest defense against the coming garbage tsunami, and as a drinker, it is solace.  We may consume the contents of the beer and wine, but by god, the packaging is to be used again.  Ditto for the oven-ready meals.

As a liberal consumer with liberal culpability, I have to recycle.  Just as Hitler was a vegetarian, whatever else I am responsible for inflicting on the environment, I can comfort myself with the fact that at least I am a Dedicated Recycler.

So, I ordered my recycling bag and saved up my recycling for two weeks.  When the bag came, I was pleased to hoist up my contributions on the wrought-iron fence outside my flat, representing my own milk and canned-soup habit in the face of my thoughtful neighbors.  Despite the fact that I didn’t know any of them, I felt like a part of the conscientious community.  It barely registered that I appeared to be the only recycler in my corner-block of four apartments.  I was part of the whole solution, after all, and felt a soft glow of togetherness throughout the day, until I returned home that evening after work and my bag was gone. (more…)

So.  Last week I set aside a morning to do my taxes.  I have used H&R Block’s online products for several years now and have not had any problems.  I noticed when I logged in that the interface had been changed and I now was being asked to select from various products which carry a fee or the free online option.  I choose the free online option as my return for this year is very simple and will require no more than a 1040 and some state returns.

First problem:  None of my information from the prior years imported.  Okay.  I’m a fast typist and I can re-key it.

Second problem:  I try to file the federal return and there is an option page where you select how you will make your payment to the IRS.  If you want to pay online there is a link to a third-party pay site called ‘PAY1040’, except the link doesn’t work.  Okay.  I manually open the site in another window.

Third problem:  I make my payment and receive a confirmation code.  The H&R Block software REQUIRES this confirmation code in order to proceed with the actual filing of the return, but when I key it into the online system, I get an error message that the code is not valid and it stops me from filing.

Fuck.  Okay, well, I need to contact H&R Block’s support department and get this fixed.  Off I go to open a chat window and await one of their support people.  This is what happened next, note that there are no time stamps but trust me when I tell you I had to hold for almost an hour for this bullshit: (more…)

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