Remember how I said I was getting my hair colored today? Yeah, well…I was going for the Ginnifer Goodwin color (see post below), but what I got was this. If you don’t see the difference, it’s because Nicky Hilton is super duper tan. Yours truly, however, is not.
I look a little bit like I belong in the Addams Family.
That is what I learned by watching “He’s Just Not That Into You” this weekend. According to the book/movie, it’s simple, really. Men are not complex. If they want to talk to you, they will call. If they want to see you, they will make it happen. Period. The end.
Wow. How refreshing. Wouldn’t it be fun to be a man? They don’t spend time over analyzing an event or person, obsessing over what this or that means. For the most part, they just tell it like it is. A perfect example of this just popped in my head:
My girlfriends and I were discussing my “situation” (as it’s been dubbed), and I asked them a question. It had been four days, and I had heard nothing from the other person in said situation, so I asked, “What do you think that means?” I got a lot of lengthy responses, some (ok most), that were pretty snarky in his direction. But, then, I asked a guy the same question. His answer: He doesn’t care.
Yep, three words – and no elaboration. Yowza. I quickly told him not to work for a suicide hotline anytime soon, but that I appreciated his perspective. And, really and truly…I did. It was as if a light bulb went off in my head. Maybe things aren’t always as complicated as I try to make them.
What in the world will I do with all this extra time? Purchase clothing I don’t need? Probably.
Hollywood actress Ginnifer Goodwin always has to play the frumpy-dumpy character in movies. I hate that for her, because she’s really quite pretty. And, it pleases me that she doesn’t starve herself like some actresses I know (I’m talking to you, Keira Knightly, no one is naturally that thin).
Anyway, here she is at the “He’s Just Not That Into You” premiere:
It took a bit of research, but the dress is from Bottega Veneta’s Spring 2009 collection. I covet that dress. Without the accessories, though, it would be kind of blah for a red carpet event. The necklace, the clutch, the shoes (good lord, the shoes!) – it all works without being too matchy-matchy. Love this color on her (who doesn’t love “pumpkin?”), and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m way jealous of her hair and makeup. In fact, I just called my stylist for color, and have an appointment on Wednesday.
Check out the other ladies at the premiere here. I think you’ll agree that for once, Ms. Goodwin stole the show. Well played, GG, well played indeed.
I drive a German-made car. I won’t say what kind it is, but let’s just say it contains four letters, and begins with an “A” and ends with an “i.”
I love my car. The problem is, she does not love me back. What do I mean? Well, in a year’s time, I have taken her into the dealership for one problem or another 23 times. I have been there 23 times, and been on the phone with the dealership many more times than that. I know the people who work there by name. I know about their wives and kids, I’ve seen them get promoted, they knew when I lost my job, etc. It’s not their fault that my car is problematic, but after 23 attempts at trying to get her fixed, I’m a little over it. I’ve been sweet and friendly 23 times, but when another light popped on in my car, I decided that it was time for a different approach.
So last week, after spending 30 minutes on the phone with a customer care representative (explaining to my girl Tamara that I didn’t feel like I was getting much customer care at all), she made a phone call to the dealership and told them that my car needed to be tested for issues, and the tests should then be reviewed by a factory representative. Issues? I was a little insulted, but whatever.
Today, I took my car into the dealership (where I’m convinced that they are polite because they have to be but really hate me) and left it for the “testing of issues.” To my surprise, they offered me a loaner car – this has never happened before – so I gratefully took my VW Beetle and drove it on to work. After work, I drove 20 minutes to the dealership to pick up my problem child and hear what her diagnosis was. Only when I got there, I saw the look on Brian’s face…the look of “uh oh” was written all over him.
Uh oh, we forgot to call you and tell you that your car is going to be here longer than we thought. We forgot to tell you that we don’t have the proper equipment to test your car, and we will need to keep it overnight and all day tomorrow. Also, the factory rep couldn’t make it here today, but he’ll be back on the 25th and can talk to you then. Would you like to keep the loaner car overnight, or can someone come pick you up?
Blood pressure. Through. The. Roof.
This was my response, as best I can remember: “You forgot? Ok, I’m going to make a small suggestion, and please, don’t take this the wrong way Brian, because I like you. But. GET a POST IT. And, no, no one can pick me up. My family lives an hour from here, and seeing as how you close in about 5 minutes, I don’t think that is enough time for them to get here. Unless you are suggesting that I stand outside in the cold. Is that what you’re suggesting? (Brian says, “no ma’am.”) Well then, I will be keeping that car (I pointed, for dramatic effect) overnight.”
I then proceeded to have one of the most boring conversations of my life with the service manager, who talked about oil consumption, scales, turbo and something to do with rings. Hey, I payed attention through “turbo” – what do you want from me? He apologized for the lack of communication and told me I’d have my car, and some answers, back tomorrow. I’m kind of hoping the answer will be, “We are so sorry for the year and a half long inconvenience – here’s a new one” but probably not.
I’m currently downing a coffee the size of my head. Why? Because I am ti-red, that’s why. A long workday last Thursday, followed by an early morning (alarm clocks just should not go off at 5am) on Friday, followed up by a busy weekend (in which sleep was not a priority), has me ready to crash.
But, it’s Monday, and crashing is not an option. Aren’t Mondays a bitch? I know, I know – the resolution – blah, blah. I curse. I’m sorry. I’m working on it. Mondays always remind you that you’re a grown up, and I don’t know about you, but I’m really not fond of being reminded of that.
Remember in college when you would wake up, look at the clock, and decide – nope, not going. Life was so much easier when you could skip the parts you didn’t like and just get “the notes” from someone else. Wasn’t it easier when you could go out on Thursday night, Friday night and Saturday night, and recover all day Sunday…without feeling guilty that you didn’t go to church, or that you might have a drinking problem? Didn’t life seem less stressful when the biggest problem you had was that you hadn’t done your reading all semester, and had to cram all of the information you missed into your brain (and onto a note card) the night before the final? Or when your biggest relationship issue was deciding whom you should take to the ADPi formal, and whom you could get to take you to Old South?
Now, if (and that’s a pretty big if – Benton scolded me yesterday for being anti-social as of late) I go out one night, I’m done. Two nights is just not an option anymore, and three nights is laughable. My stress level is significantly higher now that I’m a responsible employee with deadlines and accountability and such. And relationships? No comment.
So, today, as I drink the last of my coffee and am already planning to pop open a Diet Coke, I’m missing the days of my youth. Not really because I’d like them back (I’m way cuter now, thankyouverymuch), but because they didn’t involve the Monday morning blahs.
Rant:
Despite what Lindsay Lohan tells us, leggings are not pants. I’m going to go ahead and define “pants” as having a zipper, and weighing more than an ounce. I would get on a scale with just leggings on, and that my friends, means that those suckers weigh nothing. I don’t care if you have a rockin’ body, if it’s not cold outside, if you’ve seen so-and-so do it and it looked awesome, if it’s laundry day and you have nothing else to wear, etc. If someone could walk up behind you and pull them down, they are not pants. Thanks.
This weekend, while off shopping with the moms, she informed me that I’d be taking a self defense class with my cousin. You know, because there are tons of dangerous criminals in the town of 5 that we live in.
Just to make her happy, though, I agreed. My roundhouse kick could use a little fine tuning, so why not? But then, she said something that made the Democrat in me flinch. “Also, your daddy called me last week, and he’s decided that he is going to purchase you a gun. It’ll be a small one, he says it will fit in your purse. And, you’ll have to have a permit for it…oh, and…he wants you to take some lessons on how to shoot it, too.”
Um, huh? Do I have a stalker that I’m unaware of? Is someone sending me death threats? I am very confused.
Furthermore, and I don’t know that my dad will ever truly accept this, but I’m pretty much not a Republican. I know, it makes me feel less Southern just typing it, but it’s the truth. I am in favor of gun control. And you all know how I feel about gay marriage. Let ’em get married and get divorced like the rest of us, right? Right? Anyway, I don’t know how to break it to my dear ole’ dad, but I do not think I’ll have an NRA card in my wallet any time soon.
So, I’m going to work up my courage and call my dad tonight (speech in hand) and say the following:
“Hey, Dad. So, mom mentioned to me that you want me to pack some heat around town, and while that is very Sarah Palin of you, I don’t know if anyone would benefit from that. I can barely work my new BlackBerry, so the thought of me pulling out my nine and bustin’ a cap should scare the hell out of you and anyone in the surrounding three counties.”
I’ll spend the next 20 or so minutes explaining to him what a BlackBerry is, and defending why I would sign a two-year contract with any cell phone carrier. This will be followed by lengthy a second amendment lecture, and him reminding me that my brother would also be horrified by my position. Count. On. It.
Texting…
Ben: I just found the greatest name for a Facebook album.
Me: What is it?
Ben: “My Couch Pulls Out, But I Don’t.”
Face to face convo about not-so-common implants…
Friend 1: I heard that he was getting an implant in his…
Friend 2: What? How does that work? Does it make it bigger all the time or just when…
Me: Are we talking elongating or thickening?
Phone convo…
Erica: So how have you been doing?
Me: Pretty good. I mean, I have my moments. Like last week on my way home when I heard this sad ass Kenny Chesney song.
Erica: WHAT? You’re listening to country music? No, no. You are going to have to ban country music for AT LEAST a year.
In response to that inevitable “how are you?” – you know, the one with the tone…
Friend: How are you?
Me: Well, I’m not jumping off any bridges any time soon, if that’s what you’re asking.
Face to face conversation with an insurance guy at work…
Guy: Ok, we will fill out this online form. Put in your name first. Now, are you married?
Me: Er, well…funny you should ask. Technically, yes. Well, legally, yes.
Guy: Why don’t we put the legal answer down, and you can always edit it later.
Me: Great. Can’t you just add an “it’s complicated” selection like on Facebook?
Guy: I’ll look into that.
G-chat convo…
Colleen: I’d like to do something for you, but I’m not sure what you do in this situation. Do they make a card or something?
Me: Get Well Soon?
Colleen: Haha. Sorry, but the only way I know how to handle things is with humor and sarcasm.
Me: That’s ok, that is how I get through life!
The offender: Jennifer “J.Lo” Lopez Anthony
The item(s) in question: Dress, at the 2009 Golden Globes
My thoughts: While I applaud her efforts to shock the world with her bangin’ body after having twins, this takes it a bit…far. The back of the dress, if you want to call it that, was also very low. Can’t we do one or the other, Jenny? Show me the cleavage or show me the backside, but don’t show me both at the same time. It’s stripper-esque. Also, the fabric. I don’t love it. I feel like she might have been running behind, so she ran into Donald Trump’s house, ripped down a drape and threw it on.
The solution: More fabric, different fabric – but definitely not less fabric.
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