October 2009

This is a great question.  One that you can ask about so many topics.  How early is too early to break out your fall gear?  How early is too early to get up on a weekend?  How early is too early to put up Christmas decorations?  Or, if you had the day I had yesterday, your question would be this:

How early is too early to drink entirely too much and get on an airplane?

And before anyone makes any snap judgements around here….no….we are not talking about me.    We are talking about a crazy woman I had the absolute pleasure of sharing a flight with and the answer, in case you are wondering is 9:30 AM.    (Unless, of course, you are flying to Vegas, at which point all bets are off.)

So yesterday, I get to the airport only to find out my flight to Austin had been delayed by an hour and I would probably miss my first appointment.    I was in a fairly crabtastic mood already and the only saving grace when we were finally allowed to get on the plane was that it was pretty much empty.    I took a seat on a row by myself in front of a guy who looked fairly safe in terms of noise level…sort of vanilla looking and mousey.

You can imagine my shock when my intense reading of US Magazine (Jon and Kate split up???) was interrupted with the shrillest and most valley girlest (if that is a word)  “OH MY GOD!!!!” I have ever heard in my entire life.  Also, these words were shouted directly into my ear as she fell over the back of my seat trying to get to what I can now only assume is her mousey boyfriend based upon the wet slobbery noises I heard immediately after.

Yeah, so…we weren’t off to a good start.   It got worse though.  She started talking.  Really loud and without pause.    Apparently, she was on a 7:00 am flight that had some engine trouble and demanded a beer that she immediately slammed because she was scared.    Having actually been through an emergency landing myself complete with a row of firetrucks and guys in hazmat suits, I can sort of understand her emotion here.   However, upon landing she headed directly to the bar (it’s now 8:00 am…which gives new meaning to the old saying “It’s 5:00 somewhere!”  because really, it’s not) and proceeds to down a Bloody Mary.   Deciding that it was yummy, she upped the anti with a Spicy Bloody Mary.   And proving that you can never  have enough alcohol early in the morning, she capped it all off with a Vodka Tonic with lime…because after all that tomato juice, you want to make sure you get fruit into your diet as well.   It’s all about balance people.

How do I know all this you ask?  Because she was having a slurring stream of conscious conversation that was a verbal trainwreck and I was powerless not to listen.  That’s how.

Here’s something I didn’t know, early morning drunkenness leads to an excessive use of the word “like”.     Like this:

“So I was all like, give me a beer, and the flight attendent was all like whoa it’s only 7:00 am and I was like, do you think I, like, care?  And so she like gives me the beer and I chugged it in like a minute which OMG gave me a total buzz.   Also, did I tell you I like talked to my sister yesterday and she was all mad at me, and I was all like WHAT-EVER, so I like called Mom and was like O…M…G… what is with her attitude?  Oh wait, here comes the flight attendant, ‘Hey, do you like have any cold white wine????’”

So now you have a visual in your head of a drunken teeny bopper chugging wine at 9:30 a.m. right?  WRONG. Girlfriend was 40 if she was a day.

The rest of the flight continued on in much the same manner and I quietly prayed for God to take my hearing so I wouldn’t have to listen to anymore.  Thankfully, He did not and the flight was only an hour so I escaped with only mild emotional trauma.

Sure I could have moved, but miss blog fodder like this?   No freaking way.

Hope you guys all have, like, a totally fab weekend!

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Dear Karl,

You suck. A lot.

I’ve never liked you that much. Sure you design for Chanel (which incidentally was one of my daughters first words…true story), and some of your clothes are just to die for but they don’t fit me so much. There are reasons for this but first, let’s visit a few of your designs and why they don’t work for me.

The First Look: Slutty Nanny McPhee Hits the Beach

If I were to wear this, and go out with my son looking like that? Well, let’s just put it this way, neither one of us would be welcome at the Cub Scout meeting we went to tonight (intead of me going to U2…more on that moment of FAIL in a future post).

The Second Look: The Squirrel Whisperer

I kind of like the shirt and possibly the pants as well, but I can only imagine upon walking outside that  squirrels everywhere would fall silent as their tiny mouths formed an “Ohhhhh” shape and they salivated and plotted an attack on that necklace that appears to be made out of tasty acorns. Note to readers in NYC: You DO NOT want to try this look in Central Park…could be deadly and you don’t want to make headline news by being the fashionista taken out by cute, furry animals.  Embarassing.

The Third Look: Janet Jackson Nipple Gate Waiting To Happen

First of all, I’m mad at you for this one because of the google hits I’m going to get from the title I made up for the dress. Secondly, that dress?  Just NO.

But here’s the thing that really pisses me off Karl, because I know your crazy German ass is just on pins and needles waiting to know. It’s your stance that women must starve themselves to be beautiful. As America and countries around the world strive to create acceptance of women of all shapes and sizes, today you came out with this gem of a statement:

“No one wants to see curvy women. You’ve got fat mothers with their bags of chips sitting in front of the television and saying thin models are ugly. Fashion is about dreams and illusions.”

Really Karl with a K? REALLY? Let’s talk about a few improvements you may consider as well, SHALL WE?

• Conditioner, Karl…it is your friend.   Also, a visit to the barber or stylist should be top of mind for you.  If this fashion career thing ever fails you, I’d like to offer you a job as a brillo pad to scrub my dirty pans…keep it in mind.
• We have this thing called dentists these days.   Look it up on Wikipedia…these people can also be your friend.
• Those glasses?  NO.

With disdain,
TSM

PS: Also? Lose the fan, jackass.

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For all of you who have complained that magazines never feature “real women”? Playboy has officially broken out of the pack. Go figure.

This is the real cover of an upcoming Playboy magazine. Marge in all her hotness. My official position on this one is, “I don’t want to know.”

I think, as usual, I’ll skip this issue…how about you?

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This week? Not so much. And it’s only Tuesday. I am doomed.

Let’s start with Monday when both kids stayed home sick, but they weren’t really sick.

Let me explain.

On Sunday, Mr. C awoke complaining of general neck pain and had a fever of 100 degrees. Down he went for the day and he could not go to school the next day. Upon awakening Monday, The Man took Miss G’s temperature only to find it slightly raised at exactly 99 degrees as well. Both kids, home for the day, AWESOME.

Except, except…Mr. C’s temperature had disappeared overnight and an hour later so had Miss G’s. It wasn’t the Swine Flu we feared, it was more of a Poultry Cold as best I can tell. So basically, it was a vacation day for them because The Man and I adhere to the regulations the CDC has set forth about fever….and I would like to fly to Atlanta to kick their asses right about now.

Both kids morphed into warring hellions and spent the entire day fighting. At the end of the day The Man and I dreamed of wrapping them in blankets and leaving them on a kindly neighbors front porch for adoption, although that would get us in trouble with CPS, and since we are such rule followers of the CDC…well, we just couldn’t go there. Tempting as it was. Because we? Are a couple of rule following pansies.

But then there was today. Huge proposal due for a client for all of their 2010 advertising and of course, it went down to the wire trying to come up with crafty solutions for all of you wonderful consumers to purchase their tasty products. (Which they are, really.) At the end of the day, after two days of hell and about to collapse on my keyboard, Mr C comes in and tells me he has to draft a play about rock formations.

Rock formations.

At 5:30.

Really.

So I have spent the past hour helping him to write a play wherein Rock White (formerly Snow White, catchy huh?) turns from her present state of a sedimentary rock into an igneous rock through a process of fire courtesy of a pissed off dragon during her wedding (wherein ALL of the dwarves were present…and with speaking roles) to the Prince, who happens to be metamorphic rock.

Still with me? I didn’t think so. And also, I don’t blame you.

Five pages later, with stage direction no less, we are in possession of what may be one of the greatest plays ever written.

Exit stage right. Trust me, run….

The great news is, I can add playwright to my *cough cough* impressive resume as a writer.

So I’ve got that going for me.

Long story short, my brain has now turned into a igneous rock itself, and quite frankly, I need a drink.

Anyone want to join me?

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