Tonight I will be babysitting my darling niece, Maddie. Since we're meeting in the city, I'm trying to decide what we should do. Normally, I would take her to my favorite knitting store. She loves playing with the yarn...but the store closes at 8 and we're meeting at 8:30. Then I thought maybe we'd just go home and I could cook for her; make my famous chocolate mousse with steamed milk....buuuut she's allergic to milk. So, then I thought of the perfect plan. One that was so amazing that I knew she'd be excited...ANY 6 year old would be!
Me: (over the phone) Maddie, I have a big plan for us tonight!
Maddie: What? What??!
Me: Well, I thought you and I could go see Wall-E! It's opening night in the theatres!
Maddie: Oh. (total lack of enthusiasm)
Me: What? What's wrong?
Maddie: Well, I really wanted to catch fireflies with you.
Me: (Numbed by how simple and sweet this statement is) I would LOVE that, Mad. We'll see Wall-E another time!
Maddie: Don't worry Aunt Colleen...you can buy me Wall-E for my birfday! I'd rather own it anyway.
Me: Uh, Maddie, I already got you a present. Besides, the movie just came out...it's not going to be on sale for a while.
Maddie: (Pauses to think) Hm, well then you can take me to see it on my birthday! Tonight, there are fireflies that need to be catched!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Ways to Annoy Me
Ways to Annoy Me:
1. Ask me to smell your finger or any other appendage. No explanation needed. (I hope)
2. Degrade the Sacred Oreo by eating it in one big bite. Please, pay the Oreo proper respects and first twist the two ends of chocolate cookie gently apart. Then continue to lick the virginal white cream until it is completely gone. Teeth may be used ever so cautiously to get the last scrapes of cream. Then, and ONLY then, may you eat each side of the cookie separately. Insubordination will not be tolerated.
3. Obliterate the pile of dirt and dog hair I just finished sweeping because you heard a dog bark outside and you MUSTGETTOTHEWINDOWRIGHTTHISSECOND! I am sweeping up YOUR goddamn fur. BOW BEFORE ME.
4. Uncover for the first time and proceed to investigate (Read: “lick”) your unmentionables while I am attempting to give you a bath. Also, playing tug of war with the wash cloth I am trying to wash your belly with. Let go…RELENT!
5. Make the comment: “Childbirth can’t be that painful. Try getting kicked in the nuts. Women just have a lower tolerance for pain.” How about I kick you in the nuts several times over the course of each hour for over 24 hours? After then, we can talk about pain.
6. Eat black licorice then try to give me a kiss. I’d rather kiss my dog after he had an Olympic afternoon of licking his ass.
7. Give me a guilt trip at the grocery store when I want to buy a bag of Vienna Fingers and then eat the entire bag of cookies YOURSELF.
8. Lick up the mouthwash I spilled all over the bathroom floor, then continue to throw it all up making the whole apartment smell like bacteria-killing fluoride minty fresh doggie puke.
9. Press your cold, wet nose against my leg then entire time I am putting on my makeup with a face that says, “Can we go out now? Can we go out now? Can we go out now?”
PS – STOP LICKING YOUR ASS.
10. Pronounce Target like “Ter-Git.” Have you no soul?
11. Get all the questions right on Cash Cab even though you’re not paying attention AND drunk. I realize that Cab Calloway was the obvious answer, but YOU’RE DRUNK. Nothing should be obvious.
12. Sit on top of me, panting, signifying that you want me to walk you thus preventing me from being actually being able to get up and take you on that walk.
13. Tell me we can watch one of MY movies tonight, only to spend the entire movie NOT watching, but playing Risk on your stupid computer.
14. Demonstrate the absorbency of a tampon by plugging up a leak in the side of a boat. That REALLY makes me want to buy your product and stick it in my vagina.
15. Give my dogs a toy that makes a lot of noise. May you contract an organ eating disease and have your guts devoured by rats. LOUD rats!
1. Ask me to smell your finger or any other appendage. No explanation needed. (I hope)
2. Degrade the Sacred Oreo by eating it in one big bite. Please, pay the Oreo proper respects and first twist the two ends of chocolate cookie gently apart. Then continue to lick the virginal white cream until it is completely gone. Teeth may be used ever so cautiously to get the last scrapes of cream. Then, and ONLY then, may you eat each side of the cookie separately. Insubordination will not be tolerated.
3. Obliterate the pile of dirt and dog hair I just finished sweeping because you heard a dog bark outside and you MUSTGETTOTHEWINDOWRIGHTTHISSECOND! I am sweeping up YOUR goddamn fur. BOW BEFORE ME.
4. Uncover for the first time and proceed to investigate (Read: “lick”) your unmentionables while I am attempting to give you a bath. Also, playing tug of war with the wash cloth I am trying to wash your belly with. Let go…RELENT!
5. Make the comment: “Childbirth can’t be that painful. Try getting kicked in the nuts. Women just have a lower tolerance for pain.” How about I kick you in the nuts several times over the course of each hour for over 24 hours? After then, we can talk about pain.
6. Eat black licorice then try to give me a kiss. I’d rather kiss my dog after he had an Olympic afternoon of licking his ass.
7. Give me a guilt trip at the grocery store when I want to buy a bag of Vienna Fingers and then eat the entire bag of cookies YOURSELF.
8. Lick up the mouthwash I spilled all over the bathroom floor, then continue to throw it all up making the whole apartment smell like bacteria-killing fluoride minty fresh doggie puke.
9. Press your cold, wet nose against my leg then entire time I am putting on my makeup with a face that says, “Can we go out now? Can we go out now? Can we go out now?”
PS – STOP LICKING YOUR ASS.
10. Pronounce Target like “Ter-Git.” Have you no soul?
11. Get all the questions right on Cash Cab even though you’re not paying attention AND drunk. I realize that Cab Calloway was the obvious answer, but YOU’RE DRUNK. Nothing should be obvious.
12. Sit on top of me, panting, signifying that you want me to walk you thus preventing me from being actually being able to get up and take you on that walk.
13. Tell me we can watch one of MY movies tonight, only to spend the entire movie NOT watching, but playing Risk on your stupid computer.
14. Demonstrate the absorbency of a tampon by plugging up a leak in the side of a boat. That REALLY makes me want to buy your product and stick it in my vagina.
15. Give my dogs a toy that makes a lot of noise. May you contract an organ eating disease and have your guts devoured by rats. LOUD rats!
Monday, June 16, 2008
Could Use a Little Help
Hey everyone...I am in dire need of some business advice. Especially from the professionals out there!
As most of you know, I'm freelancing a lot right now for a few different magazines. One particularly has very odd rules which have been accumulating since the day I signed my contract. I want to know how people think I should handle this:
-They require me to come into the office once a week for eight hours....and not get paid for those hours. (I was ok with this thinking it would be a temporary thing...like, until they got used to me and knew I was doing my job and doing it well. Well, it's not temporary in their minds. They want me to continue coming in for the rest of my life and then sign my first born over to the company.)
-So, while I'm at the office, not getting paid for hours I'm working, (not only writing but doing other random odd jobs that a freelancer shouldn't be doing for a company. In my mind at least) they dictate that I'm not allowed to eat or drink at my laptop which I bring into the office with me every week. I would understand if it was their equipment...but this is my computer. Not to mention, writing is creative process. I NEED MY COFFEE TO BE CREATIVE. In all honesty, I could be around the corner writing and getting MORE work done with a venti caramel frap.
-Also, while at the office, working hours which I am not being paid for, the editor has mandated that everyone MUST take lunch between the hours of 12:30 and 1:30. If you don't leave the office during this time, then you DON'T LEAVE AT ALL. IE - If you don't eat lunch at 12:30, you go hungry. Now...I am turning 25 in a couple of weeks. I really don't need someone telling me when to eat. I am a professional and I should be allowed to eat when hungry. If I have a doctor's appointment, I should be able to go to that without being chastised by a boss who doesn't pay me for the hours I work within the office. Outside of working in the food industry and retail, I never thought it wouldn't matter WHEN I ate my lunch within an office environment. Plus...do I need to remind everyone, yet again, that I'm not being paid for these hours? How in the world can you justify telling people when they can leave when you're not paying them?
-And lastly, the editor sent notice to the writers that there were too many grammatical errors in this issue. And that in the next round of articles, we will be docked $25 per mistake. PER. MISTAKE. I only get paid $100 per article. So, you're telling me that if I make 4 mistakes, you will pay me nothing? And, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that it was an editor's job to, oh I don't know...EDIT!
Now, I know I sound like a whiny child here, and if I had a ton of really stupid grammatical errors within my articles, then I would understand an editor coming to me and saying, "Look, Colleen, you really need to check over your articles before sending them in." It's just the way we're all being treated that irks me so much. But all this being said, I revise and edit my articles A LOT. Not to mention none of the editors at the three other magazines I write for have ever had a problem with me or my grammar.
So, all this being said...please enlighten me. Perhaps this IS how the industry works and I am just inexperienced? How should I handle this? Should I terminate my contract? I am seriously stressed out about it...any insight would be SO appreciated.
As most of you know, I'm freelancing a lot right now for a few different magazines. One particularly has very odd rules which have been accumulating since the day I signed my contract. I want to know how people think I should handle this:
-They require me to come into the office once a week for eight hours....and not get paid for those hours. (I was ok with this thinking it would be a temporary thing...like, until they got used to me and knew I was doing my job and doing it well. Well, it's not temporary in their minds. They want me to continue coming in for the rest of my life and then sign my first born over to the company.)
-So, while I'm at the office, not getting paid for hours I'm working, (not only writing but doing other random odd jobs that a freelancer shouldn't be doing for a company. In my mind at least) they dictate that I'm not allowed to eat or drink at my laptop which I bring into the office with me every week. I would understand if it was their equipment...but this is my computer. Not to mention, writing is creative process. I NEED MY COFFEE TO BE CREATIVE. In all honesty, I could be around the corner writing and getting MORE work done with a venti caramel frap.
-Also, while at the office, working hours which I am not being paid for, the editor has mandated that everyone MUST take lunch between the hours of 12:30 and 1:30. If you don't leave the office during this time, then you DON'T LEAVE AT ALL. IE - If you don't eat lunch at 12:30, you go hungry. Now...I am turning 25 in a couple of weeks. I really don't need someone telling me when to eat. I am a professional and I should be allowed to eat when hungry. If I have a doctor's appointment, I should be able to go to that without being chastised by a boss who doesn't pay me for the hours I work within the office. Outside of working in the food industry and retail, I never thought it wouldn't matter WHEN I ate my lunch within an office environment. Plus...do I need to remind everyone, yet again, that I'm not being paid for these hours? How in the world can you justify telling people when they can leave when you're not paying them?
-And lastly, the editor sent notice to the writers that there were too many grammatical errors in this issue. And that in the next round of articles, we will be docked $25 per mistake. PER. MISTAKE. I only get paid $100 per article. So, you're telling me that if I make 4 mistakes, you will pay me nothing? And, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that it was an editor's job to, oh I don't know...EDIT!
Now, I know I sound like a whiny child here, and if I had a ton of really stupid grammatical errors within my articles, then I would understand an editor coming to me and saying, "Look, Colleen, you really need to check over your articles before sending them in." It's just the way we're all being treated that irks me so much. But all this being said, I revise and edit my articles A LOT. Not to mention none of the editors at the three other magazines I write for have ever had a problem with me or my grammar.
So, all this being said...please enlighten me. Perhaps this IS how the industry works and I am just inexperienced? How should I handle this? Should I terminate my contract? I am seriously stressed out about it...any insight would be SO appreciated.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
I'm One of "Those" People
I attended a party/Q&A last night for the tv show, How I Met Your Mother. It was a great time. Met a really nice man named Nick who works in casting and I also met Neil Patrick Harris whom I am now madly in love with. If only he wasn't gay, I could have his babies. Neil, if you ever need a surrogate or an egg donor...CALL ME. We would make beautiful Aryan babies.
I also met Josh something-or-other who plays Ted on the show. He was very nice and attractive but also extremely tired. I felt bad for all of them. And Allison Hannigan was absolutely lovely and very gracious.
Anyway, that was my evening and it was awesome!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
A Pinch of Worry with a Dash of Anxiety
I have always been a worrier. Not quite as much as my sister, but still—I constantly stress myself out about things that I have no control over whatsoever. In the third grade, I used to get so sick with anxiety about the timed spelling tests I took once a week, that the worrying would start the week before, usually the day after I finished the previous test. By the time I put my pencil to the paper and my teacher started her stopwatch, I thought I would be so violently ill that I could barely remember how to spell my name, never mind “motorcycle.” I remember thinking that my future was dependent on whether or not I would ace these tests, and that if I missed one spelling, a series of events would unfold: One, my parents would no longer love me. Two, they would kick me out of the house. Three, I would die homeless.
Example A:
Colleen has a headache. A bad headache.
It must be a tumor.
Colleen is also unemployed and can no longer afford a decent health insurance plan.
Colleen dies homeless and poor from the cost of brain tumor treatments (whatever those are)
This is what I like to call The Cyclone, and I have spent my life taming this storm. I start by checking that everything around me is standard and working and then I start imagining the most tiny thing that could go wrong. It's always something very tiny and insignificant, but by the time I have finished analyzing it in my head it has turned into the Worst Case Scenario: small A leads to small B leads to very awful C jumps straight to homeless and dead. (See Example A)
The boyfriend! got me thinking about why I do this, and at first I thought it might be hereditary. My father and sister are stereotypical A-type personalities. Everything needs a plan. Every plan needs a schedule. And every section of the schedule requires a specific and carefully thought out time slot and escape route. As a kid, I knew our evacuation plan thoroughly. I knew where to meet if a disaster ever hit Lancaster, PA. I knew where the ladder was kept (under my parent’s bed) and what to do in the case we were all trapped in a fire.
But if this incessant worrying IS hereditary, then how do I explain my mother and brother? Because they are the exact opposite. Very “go with the flow” which I can be…but there’s always that voice in the back of my head (which sounds curiously much like my father’s voice) telling me to create a back up plan JUST IN CASE.
So, maybe a little bit of the reason I worry so much is because I am my father's daughter, but I realized that the root of it is a singular feeling that has followed me through my life. This is the feeling of guilt. I have always had a wonderful life in so many ways. I have a fantastic family, I’ve never known what true hunger or danger is and never for a second did I think I'd have to sleep without my blankie. And the thought that other people in the world do not have a warm place to sleep, food on their plates and a DVR to record every episode of The Bachelorette invokes a feeling of guilt. I need to worry about something… anything. I owe it to those who have a harder life. The feeling that because I am very lucky, I need to suffer crippling angst to even the playing field out a little bit.
And of course, the exact opposite rings true as well. I owe it to those who are not as lucky as I am to appreciate the crap out of my life. But it's also this overwhelming feeling that if I am not a stressed out wreck, everything will be taken away from me. And then I realized…that the way in which I worry about things is so mesmerizing that it causes me to walk directly into that which I fear.
Example B:
Colleen's Third Grade Spelling Tests -
I would make myself sick with worry to the point where I wouldn’t even be able to concentrate and on more than one occasion, I failed these tests.
So, I’ve decided that I should start worrying about developing really big breasts or about how to spend the six figure salary I'll be making whenever I get a new job.
For about an hour, I felt totally renewed and I kept smiling when I thought about how much better my life will be without The Cyclone. About how I can channel all the energy that I used to spend worrying into more productive things, like charity work or writing or art or chugging Irish Car Bombs while dancing naked in the house. And I was still feeling this jolt of exhilaration that evening when I walked the dogs to the yard to let them perform their nightly duties, still reeling from the possibilities of what a stress-free life would be like. And as I let the dogs go trampling down the stairs, I noticed our downstairs neighbors left their front doors open.
Do you see where this is going?
Sure enough, within seconds, both dogs were out the front door. All because I was daydreaming about not worrying and I didn’t anticipate this. Had I been in my normal state of mind, I would have been forcing them to walk behind me. I would have gone downstairs PRIOR to opening the dog gate. I wasn’t being responsible. Luckily, for everyone involved, the gate leading to the sidwalk was closed, so both dogs were just mulling around on the front stoop. But it could have been so, so, so much worse.
Bottom line, I’m pretty convinced that this only happened because my head was in Lala Land dreaming of a perfect stress-free existence. Which, this just doesn’t exist (for me). I will never be the person who can split up from a group in a public place and NOT have a set time and place to meet back up. I will never be the person who can walk into a room and not notice where the emergency exits are. And I will always, always be the woman who carries extra tampons with me because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.
Example A:
Colleen has a headache. A bad headache.
It must be a tumor.
Colleen is also unemployed and can no longer afford a decent health insurance plan.
Colleen dies homeless and poor from the cost of brain tumor treatments (whatever those are)
This is what I like to call The Cyclone, and I have spent my life taming this storm. I start by checking that everything around me is standard and working and then I start imagining the most tiny thing that could go wrong. It's always something very tiny and insignificant, but by the time I have finished analyzing it in my head it has turned into the Worst Case Scenario: small A leads to small B leads to very awful C jumps straight to homeless and dead. (See Example A)
The boyfriend! got me thinking about why I do this, and at first I thought it might be hereditary. My father and sister are stereotypical A-type personalities. Everything needs a plan. Every plan needs a schedule. And every section of the schedule requires a specific and carefully thought out time slot and escape route. As a kid, I knew our evacuation plan thoroughly. I knew where to meet if a disaster ever hit Lancaster, PA. I knew where the ladder was kept (under my parent’s bed) and what to do in the case we were all trapped in a fire.
But if this incessant worrying IS hereditary, then how do I explain my mother and brother? Because they are the exact opposite. Very “go with the flow” which I can be…but there’s always that voice in the back of my head (which sounds curiously much like my father’s voice) telling me to create a back up plan JUST IN CASE.
So, maybe a little bit of the reason I worry so much is because I am my father's daughter, but I realized that the root of it is a singular feeling that has followed me through my life. This is the feeling of guilt. I have always had a wonderful life in so many ways. I have a fantastic family, I’ve never known what true hunger or danger is and never for a second did I think I'd have to sleep without my blankie. And the thought that other people in the world do not have a warm place to sleep, food on their plates and a DVR to record every episode of The Bachelorette invokes a feeling of guilt. I need to worry about something… anything. I owe it to those who have a harder life. The feeling that because I am very lucky, I need to suffer crippling angst to even the playing field out a little bit.
And of course, the exact opposite rings true as well. I owe it to those who are not as lucky as I am to appreciate the crap out of my life. But it's also this overwhelming feeling that if I am not a stressed out wreck, everything will be taken away from me. And then I realized…that the way in which I worry about things is so mesmerizing that it causes me to walk directly into that which I fear.
Example B:
Colleen's Third Grade Spelling Tests -
I would make myself sick with worry to the point where I wouldn’t even be able to concentrate and on more than one occasion, I failed these tests.
So, I’ve decided that I should start worrying about developing really big breasts or about how to spend the six figure salary I'll be making whenever I get a new job.
For about an hour, I felt totally renewed and I kept smiling when I thought about how much better my life will be without The Cyclone. About how I can channel all the energy that I used to spend worrying into more productive things, like charity work or writing or art or chugging Irish Car Bombs while dancing naked in the house. And I was still feeling this jolt of exhilaration that evening when I walked the dogs to the yard to let them perform their nightly duties, still reeling from the possibilities of what a stress-free life would be like. And as I let the dogs go trampling down the stairs, I noticed our downstairs neighbors left their front doors open.
Do you see where this is going?
Sure enough, within seconds, both dogs were out the front door. All because I was daydreaming about not worrying and I didn’t anticipate this. Had I been in my normal state of mind, I would have been forcing them to walk behind me. I would have gone downstairs PRIOR to opening the dog gate. I wasn’t being responsible. Luckily, for everyone involved, the gate leading to the sidwalk was closed, so both dogs were just mulling around on the front stoop. But it could have been so, so, so much worse.
Bottom line, I’m pretty convinced that this only happened because my head was in Lala Land dreaming of a perfect stress-free existence. Which, this just doesn’t exist (for me). I will never be the person who can split up from a group in a public place and NOT have a set time and place to meet back up. I will never be the person who can walk into a room and not notice where the emergency exits are. And I will always, always be the woman who carries extra tampons with me because YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Paging Dr. Shepherd
I know that it is horribly main stream…but I am in love with Patrick Dempsey. Not so much Patrick Dempsey the man, but more Derrick Shepherd, the character he plays on Grey’s Anatomy. The character he becomes on that show is charming, and kind, charismatic, intelligent, a life-saver, benevolent, tender, passionate, and never without perfectly tousled hair and a slightly disheveled demeanor.
Now, I know this man doesn’t really exist. I realize that he is the product of Shondra Rhymes’ imagination and Patrick Dempsey’s “talent” (I put it in quotes because I KNOW you will all pounce on the fact that I think he has talent), but who cares? He is my fantasy to have and dammit, I’m going to make it count!
However, when I’m sitting there on my couch, gazing lovingly at the television while McDreamy saves his most recent patient from the latest organ-eating Venezuelan parasite that has somehow infected all of Seattle, it’s all I can do to not daydream that I am the patient on the hospital bed being poked and proddod…and I tell you what, nothing kills the fantasy more than when my Dempsey-hating boyfriend adds commentary every five seconds, bursting my fantasy bubble.
Him: This show is so terrible. Look at that! A doctor would not pull a nurse into the on-call room while the chief of surgery stands ten feet away!
I’m sucked back to a somewhat reality and all of a sudden Sean is standing in the doorway of my hospital fantasy. I grudgingly wrap myself back up into the hospital gown and blow a kiss to Dr. Shepherd who returns it with a wink and says in a raspy voice, “I’ll give you two a minute.”
Him: Colleen!
Me: Huh?
Him: How can you watch this shit? I love you less now.
Me: Well, no one’s making you sit here and watch. We have two tv’s, you know.
He pauses, not going anywhere. I start to nestle myself back into my fantasy, when…
Him: This guy sucks!
Me: (I sigh) He sure does. (And nibbles…I say in my thoughts)
Him: Look at him! I bet that stubble is makeup… painted on.
Me: Even better…smoother against my skin.
Him: No, seriously, how can you like this guy?
Me: Why does this bother you so much?
And that’s when I knew exactly how to answer. It would most certainly NOT get him to shut up, but I was DVR-ing Grey’s anyway. I could rewatch later. And the reaction that was about to come was going to be priceless….
Me: Seriously? You want to know?
Sean nodded.
Me: He just reminds me so much of you, baby. (I leaned over and rubbed my knuckle against his stubble)
Him: WHAT?!?! How can you even say that!?
I shrugged.
Him: Take it back! We are nothing alike! (He jumped up from the couch, flailing his arms about) This guy is totally vanilla!
Me: Mm, I like vanilla…it’s classic. Though, I also like chocolate (My mind slipped to Taye Diggs, yum).
Him: This is absurd! He doesn’t even stand for anything! I’m like Henry Rollins, and Hugh Jackman, Chris Meloni and Mike Ness all rolled into one!
Me: Who?
Him: Mike Ness!
Me: ….
Him: Social Distortion?
Me: Mm, not ringing any bells.
Him: Why are we even together?
(Another long pause)
Me: Because you remind me of Patrick Dempsey.
The rest of my show was watched in glorious silence, me sporting a smirk, him with a scowl.
My victory was short-lived, though. He managed to get his revenge when he told me that Sarah Silverman was in his top three. Sarah. Silverman. The horse-faced comedian who is whiny and annoying and has GOD AWFULLY large nostrils. Seriously? And these already massive nostrils flare to the size of grapefruits when she laughs at her own jokes…and who ISN'T annoyed by someone who laughs at their own jokes??
Ok, I get it to some extent why a man is attracted to her. She does have a certain something, and she’s intelligent, clever, and (sometimes) funny. But to make her one of your TOP THREE? C’mon…
He has become obsessed with the idea of me having a crush on someone like him. And yet, let’s examine the celebrity crushes he has...are they short, petite, flat-chested girls with rounded features who are categorized not so much "sexy" or "attractive" as “cute”? NO! In fact, they are the absolute opposite…and as much as I would rather slowly char my own flesh over a campfire and eat it between graham crackers and marshmallows than say this next statement…I will admit that both Sarah Silverman and Sheryl Crow bear a striking resemblance to his ex girlfriend!
It almost makes me want to come home and confess a newfound love for Clay Aiken. But even I won’t stoop that low…
Now, I know this man doesn’t really exist. I realize that he is the product of Shondra Rhymes’ imagination and Patrick Dempsey’s “talent” (I put it in quotes because I KNOW you will all pounce on the fact that I think he has talent), but who cares? He is my fantasy to have and dammit, I’m going to make it count!
However, when I’m sitting there on my couch, gazing lovingly at the television while McDreamy saves his most recent patient from the latest organ-eating Venezuelan parasite that has somehow infected all of Seattle, it’s all I can do to not daydream that I am the patient on the hospital bed being poked and proddod…and I tell you what, nothing kills the fantasy more than when my Dempsey-hating boyfriend adds commentary every five seconds, bursting my fantasy bubble.
Him: This show is so terrible. Look at that! A doctor would not pull a nurse into the on-call room while the chief of surgery stands ten feet away!
I’m sucked back to a somewhat reality and all of a sudden Sean is standing in the doorway of my hospital fantasy. I grudgingly wrap myself back up into the hospital gown and blow a kiss to Dr. Shepherd who returns it with a wink and says in a raspy voice, “I’ll give you two a minute.”
Him: Colleen!
Me: Huh?
Him: How can you watch this shit? I love you less now.
Me: Well, no one’s making you sit here and watch. We have two tv’s, you know.
He pauses, not going anywhere. I start to nestle myself back into my fantasy, when…
Him: This guy sucks!
Me: (I sigh) He sure does. (And nibbles…I say in my thoughts)
Him: Look at him! I bet that stubble is makeup… painted on.
Me: Even better…smoother against my skin.
Him: No, seriously, how can you like this guy?
Me: Why does this bother you so much?
And that’s when I knew exactly how to answer. It would most certainly NOT get him to shut up, but I was DVR-ing Grey’s anyway. I could rewatch later. And the reaction that was about to come was going to be priceless….
Me: Seriously? You want to know?
Sean nodded.
Me: He just reminds me so much of you, baby. (I leaned over and rubbed my knuckle against his stubble)
Him: WHAT?!?! How can you even say that!?
I shrugged.
Him: Take it back! We are nothing alike! (He jumped up from the couch, flailing his arms about) This guy is totally vanilla!
Me: Mm, I like vanilla…it’s classic. Though, I also like chocolate (My mind slipped to Taye Diggs, yum).
Him: This is absurd! He doesn’t even stand for anything! I’m like Henry Rollins, and Hugh Jackman, Chris Meloni and Mike Ness all rolled into one!
Me: Who?
Him: Mike Ness!
Me: ….
Him: Social Distortion?
Me: Mm, not ringing any bells.
Him: Why are we even together?
(Another long pause)
Me: Because you remind me of Patrick Dempsey.
The rest of my show was watched in glorious silence, me sporting a smirk, him with a scowl.
My victory was short-lived, though. He managed to get his revenge when he told me that Sarah Silverman was in his top three. Sarah. Silverman. The horse-faced comedian who is whiny and annoying and has GOD AWFULLY large nostrils. Seriously? And these already massive nostrils flare to the size of grapefruits when she laughs at her own jokes…and who ISN'T annoyed by someone who laughs at their own jokes??
Ok, I get it to some extent why a man is attracted to her. She does have a certain something, and she’s intelligent, clever, and (sometimes) funny. But to make her one of your TOP THREE? C’mon…
He has become obsessed with the idea of me having a crush on someone like him. And yet, let’s examine the celebrity crushes he has...are they short, petite, flat-chested girls with rounded features who are categorized not so much "sexy" or "attractive" as “cute”? NO! In fact, they are the absolute opposite…and as much as I would rather slowly char my own flesh over a campfire and eat it between graham crackers and marshmallows than say this next statement…I will admit that both Sarah Silverman and Sheryl Crow bear a striking resemblance to his ex girlfriend!
It almost makes me want to come home and confess a newfound love for Clay Aiken. But even I won’t stoop that low…
Friday, May 16, 2008
My New Job
http://washingtondc.craigslist.org/doc/vol/677350090.html
Partner Needed to Travel Back in Time. NOT A JOKE. (Alexandria, VA)
Reply to: comm-677350090@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-12, 9:43AM EDT
I am looking for a partner to travel back in time with me. This is NOT A JOKE. I have done this before. Your gender is not important, but you must have your own weapons. Contact me immediately.
______________________________________
Thanks to Moonrat, I saw this CraigsList ad, attempting to enlist people for time travel. Because I’m self-loathing and irrationally mean sometimes, I responded to it.
My letter in response:
Dear Time Traveler,
I am considering joining you on this quest. I am a currently unemployed 24 year old female, 5’1, 110 lbs. I have no weapons to bring, but my last name is Katana and if we were to make a detour to 1991, I could grab the Katana swords my family had hanging over our fireplace (unfortunately in 1992, my brother and I broke these swords when we were pretending to duel…and apparently we did not do such a good job with the pretending part). And really…what is more intimidating to those in the past than a Katana with a Katana? We’ll be unstoppable. But in the case that this is not good enough for you, or if you consider me with a sword as intimidating as an ant with a toothpick, let me assure you that I do know how to fire a rifle, thanks to my boyfriend’s father, New England’s hillbilly woods, and about half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Will there be vodka on this trip? It helps my aim.
I was also wondering what era we were traveling to? Are we talking prehistoric times here or will I perhaps find myself in the center of a Gettysburg battlefield? This would greatly affect my choice of whether or not I participate. If I had my choice, I would like to travel back to the 50s or 40s…the clothes were pretty back then and it would be awesome to bring back some true vintage hats and dresses!
And my last question for you…I just finished reading The Time Traveler’s Wife. In this book, the protagonist always ends up naked after every time travel experience. This will be a deal breaker for me. While I do consider myself pretty fit, I am still extremely modest and in no way would ever be caught naked in public.
Please clear up these things for me and I look forward to hearing more about this trip.
Thanks,
Colleen
Partner Needed to Travel Back in Time. NOT A JOKE. (Alexandria, VA)
Reply to: comm-677350090@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-05-12, 9:43AM EDT
I am looking for a partner to travel back in time with me. This is NOT A JOKE. I have done this before. Your gender is not important, but you must have your own weapons. Contact me immediately.
______________________________________
Thanks to Moonrat, I saw this CraigsList ad, attempting to enlist people for time travel. Because I’m self-loathing and irrationally mean sometimes, I responded to it.
My letter in response:
Dear Time Traveler,
I am considering joining you on this quest. I am a currently unemployed 24 year old female, 5’1, 110 lbs. I have no weapons to bring, but my last name is Katana and if we were to make a detour to 1991, I could grab the Katana swords my family had hanging over our fireplace (unfortunately in 1992, my brother and I broke these swords when we were pretending to duel…and apparently we did not do such a good job with the pretending part). And really…what is more intimidating to those in the past than a Katana with a Katana? We’ll be unstoppable. But in the case that this is not good enough for you, or if you consider me with a sword as intimidating as an ant with a toothpick, let me assure you that I do know how to fire a rifle, thanks to my boyfriend’s father, New England’s hillbilly woods, and about half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Will there be vodka on this trip? It helps my aim.
I was also wondering what era we were traveling to? Are we talking prehistoric times here or will I perhaps find myself in the center of a Gettysburg battlefield? This would greatly affect my choice of whether or not I participate. If I had my choice, I would like to travel back to the 50s or 40s…the clothes were pretty back then and it would be awesome to bring back some true vintage hats and dresses!
And my last question for you…I just finished reading The Time Traveler’s Wife. In this book, the protagonist always ends up naked after every time travel experience. This will be a deal breaker for me. While I do consider myself pretty fit, I am still extremely modest and in no way would ever be caught naked in public.
Please clear up these things for me and I look forward to hearing more about this trip.
Thanks,
Colleen
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