I've Always Known That Girls Are Bitches...

...But I think it's reaching an unprecedented level. I saw on the Today show while I was getting ready this morning that school administrators are having to crack down on bullying...by middle school girls. To the point that they're taking up camera phones because real-life "Mean Girls" are taking pictures of dorky girls changing for gym class and emailing them to all of their friends.

[At this point, I swiped my mascara wand across my cheek.]

I just couldn't believe it. Granted, there were plenty of bitchy snits at my school, but none of whom would stoop to this level of humiliation. I can deal with talking behind my back, maybe even insulting me to my face...but the minute you send naked pictures of me over the internet...that'll get a bitch slapped. (To risk sounding like an old school marm: why do they have cell phones at school anyway? I wasn't allowed to have mine.)

I know middle school is a tender age (or as my dad so eloquently puts it, a "hormonal shit storm"), and lots of drama ensues during this life-stage, but that doesn't mean it's a free ticket for cruelty. It's not that hard to be accepting and get along with a myriad of people.

Speaking of bitches, I met a raging one the other night (who does not have a "tender age" excuse). Several of us went out for Jennie's birthday Tuesday night and ended up at The Red Door (hoping to see some stars, of course). Sara was playing the DD and politely asked the (overly-made-up-hoochie) bartender if she could have a Diet Coke with several cherries in it...to which the woman replied, "What do you think we are, fucking SONIC?"

[No...but unlike the carhops there...we might have actually tipped you.]

Lesson learned: just because a 13-year-old has yet to warrant the need for a training bra doesn't justify putting her naked picture on the world wide web. Unless she grows up to be a raging PMS whore bartender with a sassy attitude.

Gee, You SHOULD Have!

Now that Christmas 2005 is in the memory books, I might just manage to resume normal posting. Things have been so crazy that I'd totally forgotten about my blog. It wasn't until reading "Women who Blog" in the January Glamour that I remembered I even had one. Talk about an "Oh shit" moment.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to say that things were crazy in a bad way--I freaking love the Christmas season and all the hecticness that accompanies it--but this year was completely different from years past. The culprit: having a job.

In my previous 21 Christmases, I could leisurely shop for hours at the mall, lay around until Christmas parties started, help bake in the kitchen whenever I arose to start the day...

This year: total 180. I found myself grabbing store visits on lunch breaks, frantically flying home from work to get ready for parties/dinners, cleaning house and wrapping presents long into the night.

But despite not really feeling like I've had a vacation, it was fun as hell. I wish it wasn't over. Especially since I've finally mastered the art of wish lists.

If you tell relatives, "I don't really want anything", they'll (bless their hearts) get you crap. That you probably couldn't sell on eBay. So this year, I got organized and made a small list of things that I actually really wanted but haven't/couldn't buy for myself. And got every dang one of them. Including an iPod. My years of mastered fake "Oh, how wonderful!" reactions are a thing of the past. Because I've figured out that with a little direction, even the most gift-challenged person can get you something amazing. That you won't have to worry about them stumbling across on eBay...

Climbing the Walls

Wow, it's been slooooow at work today. It's the first day I've actually sat and watched the clock and it's miserable. I've been trying a plethora of means to keep myself entertained:

1) Online crosswords
2) Looking up random things on eBay
3) Obsessive Facebook checking
4) Addressing Christmas cards
5) Swapping email banter with coworkers

But nothing is working. I've still got an hour left. So I'm giving once last go at filling the time...with the blog.

Then I get to go to the gym. Yay. My most recent embarrassing moment there: upsetting the shelf of HUGE exercise balls and having them all crash down on my head. And then roll over all the people stretching on the mats. I'm an absolute disaster. But despite my deficiencies, I'm finding that I really like going to the gym. There are TVs, loads of magazines, and really interesting people to watch. Plus I feel a hell of a lot better after going.

Luckily, my night ahead is chock full o' Thai food, couch snuggling, wine and FOX. Oh, hell yes. If the clock would just hurry the F up.

I'm Dreaming of a [wet] Christmas

Get your mind out of the gutter...

Southern winters are such a tease. On the days it's cold enough to snow, it doesn't rain. Yet it definitely does rain the second the temperature creeps above freezing. So all we have is cold, rainy nastiness. I've all but given up hoping for snow before Christmas. It's just not going to happen.

It'd be more realistic to hope for Santa to bring me Adam Brody covered in whipped cream.

Besides snow, my Christmas will also be lacking a vacation. I've suddenly woken up to the fact that I'm no longer just a (salary-earning) college student. I'm in the real world, and our greedy capitalist society considers "time-off" synonymous with "apocalypse".

I've been graced with a glorious TWO DAYS off to celebrate the holidays...compared to my fellow Ole Miss compatriots who get a blessed SIX WEEKS of unstructured holiday cheer. Is this fair? I think not.

If any one sees my boss, please convince him of this.

On the (singular) plus side, I actually have cash flow to buy good gifts this year...ain't no rinkydink presents coming from me! And it feels so good to be able to pick out things that I know people will love. After all, selfless giving is an important part of this season. So maybe working through the holidays is worth it for the opportunity to give back to others.

(At least until my alarm goes off tomorrow morning...)

The Tenth Circle of Hell

I've done it. I've sucked it up and joined the (hated) gym. I can no longer deny the fact that it is absolutely too effing cold to run outside. The turning point being the day I decided to scrub our bathtub rather than exercise. I'm not a smoker, but running in 36 degrees sure as hell makes me feel like one.

I feel completely out of my element in the (hated) gym, like everybody there knows how to operate the machines better than I do. Case-in-point: my very first day there, I got on a futuristic-looking elliptical machine and immediately whacked myself in the forehead with the moving handles. While the portly man wearing workout goggles next to me giggled. I so badly wanted to say, "I don't think the fatty in sports-eyewear has much room to laugh!" If my head hadn't been throbbing and my face flaming, I would have.

But I've decided that I need to make the most of my gym membership and really whip myself into shape...by taking a spinning class. Now those people are hardcore. And I want to eventually be able to hang right there with them.

Even though the two times I've tentatively glanced into the room, half the people there look about 3 seconds away from cardiac arrest.

I'm hoping that in the next few weeks, I'll be peddling my heart out and handling the equipment like a pro. And maybe even laughing at some newbies. While preening in front of mirrors wearing sweat-soaked biker shorts.

Assuming that I don't die first.

Blow for Blow (oh, the irony)...

The other day I watched a hilarious/disturbing documentary about real life hookers in NYC. They gave them clip-on microphones and followed them around on their "shifts". Fortunately (or unfortunately, however you want to look at it) you couldn't see what was going on inside the cars...but you could HEAR it. *shudder* And it was graphic. Then the ladies (using the term loosely) took their "lunch break" around 2 a.m. at a local diner and swapped stories about all the sick stuff they'd encountered recently. Like the man who pays $10 for each safety pin inserted into his testicles. Yes, you read that right.

I sat there half of the time with my mouth open while giggling through the other half. Because "hooker speak" is really a phenomenon in itself. They'd start telling stories and completely lose me with the sheer amount of slang/racial terms/cuss words. I think each 5 minute story averaged about 3 coherent sentences total. But not only did they suffer from poor grammar, these women were flat fug-ly. Most had guts and missing teeth. But business was still booming. Which speaks volumes about the male gender...

The most shocking part of all--the prices. Now, I've never been with a hooker, nor do I plan to, but I've always assumed that it's pricey. I figured that for these girls to be doing what they do, they'd have to be making a lot. But NO. The standard was "20 a blow, 30 a lay". Which I don't understand because (chaste-in-comparison) lap dances at strip clubs cost more than that. I just feel like these women need to set their sights a little higher. Maybe become an escort or something. Because $30 bucks just ain't worth it, darlin'. That can barely pay the rent, let alone your cocaine habit.

But the most priceless quote came from Crystal, the middle-aged mother of two: "Some of my girlfriends are just as much of a ho as I am...I'm just smart enough to get paid for it." Now there's an entrepreneurial spirit if I've ever seen one...

Tempting, No?

My friend Stacy came in town this weekend for a visit (although I'm hoping she'll move here eventually). Having visitors is the greatest motivation to visit cheesy hotspots and have some fun. Because it's a rule that if you have a visitor, you are obligated to get off your couch and show them (and yourself) a good time. (So, to all my out-of-townies: I'll be more than thrilled if you come visit...)

Saturday, after finishing an Ali G marathon and heading to Mafioza's for some much-needed pizza and fried ravioli sticks, we arrived at Broadway & 2nd: the mecca of neon & tassles. The fringe kind, not the booby kind (that would be Las Vegas). At Wannabes, we got coerced into dragging a soon-to-be-groom onto the dance floor...where he awkwardly stood while we gyrated against him. Later, after apparently having had several more drinks, he asked if we could try it again...and was flat turned down.

At Decades, I got dared to dance with a 300 pound guy. Not being one to ever turn down a drunken challenge, I sidled up to him and told him that if he didn't dance with me, I'd die. And to be honest, it was a refreshing change--you can't feel a youknowwhat with a stomach in the way. AND I got a complimentary drink to boot.

Our final destination was the Red Iguana, which I'd never been to before. It is obviously the place where all the rave-loving Asians hang out...and that's all I'm going to say about that. But there is definitely some good (light-up-floor-style) dancing to be had there.

All-in-all, the night was successful. The gauge being that we had at least one good belly laugh at every place we went. So...if you come to visit, this is what Nashville possibly has in store for you: more men (who'll offer you drinks) than you can handle, more interesting dance floor experiences than you thought possible, more trashy fun bars than you can possibly visit, and maybe a star-sighting thrown in if you're lucky. (Although...if it's the Bachelor...let's just not mention the fact that I emailed him.)

Stalkers-in-Training

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm getting a little tired of The OC. That's right. It's getting completely unrealistic and hokey. The show goes into these dramatic montages (Ryan hitting the punching bag until his knuckles bleed) and all I can do is giggle. Or yell at the TV. Now, the main thing I look forward to on Thursday nights is the girls coming over and us laughing at it together. They too agree that it's getting ridiculous (ex. Marissa being a reformed-lesbian rehabilitating-alcoholic attempted-murderer all before the age of 18). But we keep watching it...mainly to see what insane story line will happen next. And so we can get a good belly laugh.

Last night, instead of going to bed like responsible adults, Jennie and I decided to cast our pride aside and...emailed the new Bachelor. It was hysterically funny. The new season of the Bachelor starts in January and he (Travis Stork) is from Nashville. He's a doctor at Vanderbilt University Medical Center and because Jennie is in nursing school there...she has access to his private email. So, being the complete goobs we are...we invited him to a holiday party. Sadly, by now he's probably a bachelor no more (at least for another 6 months until he and his chosen-one "split amicably"). We even marked the "Read Receipt" box so we'll know for SURE if he read the email. And we definitely marked it as "urgent" just to make sure. I laugh just thinking about it. (I'm just glad we used HER email...if he files a restraining order, I can't be tied to it.)

Hell in a Handbasket Part II

My nosiness has reached an all-time high. And I'll probably be punished for it eventually. But for right now, it's providing me absolute loads of entertainment.

So last night Jennie and I had just cooked dinner and settled down to watch a movie (like the old, married couple that we are) when we heard yelling coming from the other side of our wall.

The "engaged" couple were at it again...

Instead of doing the nice thing and turning up the volume on the TV to ignore them, we MUTED the TV and pressed our ears to the air grate to better hear what was going on. We could only hear snatches of the fight and then the heat came on and muffled it all out. We were a little bummed... Then Jennie went down to get a load of laundry out of the dryer and came running up to tell me that she could hear absolutely everything from the basement.

We basically got comfortable on the basement floor, presumably right underneath them, and listened to them cuss the hell out of each other. For an HOUR. God, it was so much fun. We discovered that she'd lied about a previous marriage and he'd never told her he'd been to rehab and that he made her pay for her own engagement ring. It was like a soap opera on steroids. We had to bury our faces in towels to keep from laughing out loud. Needless to say, we never went back to our movie...it just wouldn't have been able to compare.

On a brighter note, we've been decorating our house for Christmas and I love it. I'm thinking our Christmas tree might stay up until February. It's just that pretty. Christmas music has started playing on the radio which I definitely sing along to...in the car...while other motorists stare. But hey, it's just part of having the Christmas spirit. I'd much rather sing my heart out about the wonders of the season then cuss out my dead-beat fiance a'la the folks next door. Ain't no "merry and bright" going on over there...which is why I'll be spending a hell of a lot more time in the basement.