what doesn't kill ya

London, Munich, everybody talk about Pop Music

Last night I binged on a buffet of music downloads.  Noelle has been asking me, over and over, then again, and WAIT, ONE MORE TIME - until she asks again in five minutes - to make her a cd.  I ran out of good reasons to keep postponing it, except that I have a moral opposition to Ashlee Simpson downloads, which Noelle just doesn't understand at her tender age.

After trudging my way through the Backstreet Boys and JoJo, I was ready to burn Noelle's cd.  The playlist actually wasn't all that bad.  She has some Gwen Stefani and Black Eyed Peas in the mix.  Although, I had to say no to anything referring to "all that ass inside them jeans" or "this shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S."  I could get away with telling Noelle's preschool teachers that "No, really, she doesn't know what flipping the bird means!" after she's flipped off the entire pre-K class and half the staff.  (She honestly didn't know what it meant; she was copying a developmentally disabled child who was sticking her middle finger up and didn't know any better.  And Noelle, being in the midst of a "monkey see, monkey do" phase, was all too eager to take up what she thought was a new version of a thumbs up.)  I could not, however, explain to the teachers and parents that, yeah, you are TOTALLY right, these lyrics are inappropriate, and I'm sorry my daughter has been singing them to the kids all day, over and over, but hey, at least they can spell "bananas!"

After Noelle's purple cd ("Purple, mama! I want PURPLE!") was finished and handed over to her in - what else - a PURPLE jewel case, I scoped out some downloads of my own.  It was the least I could do for myself... you know, after all I'd been through.

A couple of hours later, I was reviewing my finds.  A truly wide range of musical tastes had emerged.  And I do mean WIDE.  I'm thinking I'll pass on putting Notorious B.I.G. and Patsy Cline on the same cd.  Somehow, "Big Poppa" just doesn't transition to "Blue Moon of Kentucky" all that well.

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen songs that would seriously make me yearn for Chinese water torture, if played on a continuous loop:

1. "Foolish Beat" - Debbie Gibson:  Oh, excuse me:  Deborah Gibson.  The name change totally tricks us into forgetting her 80's teeny bopper days.
2. "Locomotion" - Kylie Minogue:  I'm having flashbacks of the video:  something about a spandex jumper, slouch socks and a side ponytail?
3. "My Immortal" - Evanessence:  I actually like this song, but the depressive factor is wayyy up there.
4. "Kokomo" - The Beach Boys:  Have I mentioned this one before?  I'm sorry.
5. "It's A Heartache" - Bonnie Tyler:  Forget the heartache.  Her voice gives me a headache.  But, whatever.
6. "Cheeseburger In Paradise" - Jimmy Buffet:  Wuh?
7. "I'll Be Loving You Forever" - New Kids On The Block:  Oh, man.  I have no words.
8. "Macarena" - Los Del Rio:  I had to Google this one to find out the name of the rat bastards that tortured the country for what seemed like infinity plus one.  And don't even MENTION the dance.
9. "For Your Eyes Only" - Sheena Easton:  Just:  BLECHH.  Pretty much anything this little priss sang gets my gag reflex going, kind of like the eating segments on "Fear Factor."
10. "Mandy" - Barry Manilow:  The musical version of "Old Yeller." 
11. "Mmm Bop" - Hanson:  There seems to be a correlation between the popularity of this song and frontal lobotomies back in 1997.
12. "You Light Up My Life" - Debbie Boone:  Ha! Innocent my ass.  Does she really expect us to believe she was singing about THE LORD??  I prefer the parody: "You... light up my pipe, you give me dope... to carry onnnnnn..."
13. "Ain't Nobody Humpin' Around" - Bobby Brown:  Just try to convince me that this dude's not a total headcase.

Suddenly?  I'm in a very foul mood.

She thinks the Pledge of Allegiance is that stuff she cleans her coffee table with

Not being one to ignore good advice, I have refrained from mentioning the "W" word here.  No, not Dubya.  This time I'm referring to (pssst: work).   Shhhhhhhhh!  I KNOW.

Let me just say:  I have this friend.  And this friend may or *may not* have had the following exchange while at a place that could easily be confused with a place of employment:

Friend:  Welcome to your first day of work here at [employment-like place.]  As required by the federal government, I will need to verify your identity via approved forms of identification.

Some Other Chick:  Sure.

Friend:  A driver's license and social security card will work just fine.

Some Other Chick:  Okay, here's my driver's license.  I can't find my social security card though.

Friend:  Okay... can you bring it tomorrow?  We need to have it right away.

Some Other Chick:  Yeah, sure thing.  I'll track it down tonight and bring it on in tomorrow.

Fast forward, two weeks later.  Still no social security card.  Corporate A central big-wig type place is barking at my friend to get the positive ID already.  Some Other Chick keeps forgetting the damn card, and now she has been MIA for a few days.  Friend decides to call her at home.

Friend:  Hey, have you found your social security card yet? 

Some Other Chick:  Oh... no, not yet.  I forgot.

Friend:  I see. Okay, well, here's the deal.  If I don't get that card, [employment-type place] can't pay you.

Some Other Chick:  But I have to get paid!  You guys have to pay me!

Friend:  Well, it's been two weeks and you keep forgetting it.  As I've explained to you a couple-three-dozen times, we haven't legally identified you so technically we can't pay you.  Do you have some other form of ID?  How about a birth certificate?

Some Other Chick:  Well, I haven't seen it in awhile, but I can look...

Friend:  NO!  Uh, I mean no, no... that's okay.  How about a passport?

Some Other Chick:  Passport?  Did you say PASSPORT?

Friend:  Yes.

Some Other Chick:  No I don't have a PASSPORT.  I am a GODDAMN US CITIZEN. 

Friend:          *Blink* 

Some Other Chick:  Hello?

Friend:  Yes.  Um, alrighty then.  I wasn't implying that you aren't a US citizen.  Plenty of US citizens have passports. 

Some Other Chick:  Well I don't.  I was BORN HERE. 

Friend:  Um, YEAH.  Okay.  So was I.  But some of us have passports.  Some US citizens travel.   You know, like OVERSEAS.  And they use their passports to do so.

Some Other Chick:  Not me!  I never travel!

Friend:  Duly noted.  I was just asking, you know, because you can't seem to locate any other acceptable forms of ID.  And like I said, without another form of ID, we will be unable to process your payroll.

Some Other Chick:  Jesus!  Well, what about one of those... what are they called?  Green Cards?  What if I got one of those? 

***

If you would like to send cards, flowers, or well-wishes to my friend, just let me know.  I can get you the address and her room number on the psych unit. 

Thursday Thirteen

Thirteen places and/or gatherings I will never go to, unless I am gagged and bound, or really just in the mood to torture myself and/or kick some ass:

1. Nordstrom.  They've been on one of my lists before.
2. A sushi bar.  "Fish" and "raw" do not belong in the same sentence.
3. A nursing home.  If I get to the point where I have to live in a nursing home, please promptly spike my Ensure with a deadly poison of your choice.
4. A concert headlined by anyone with the last name Simpson.
5. A bible study.  For me, this would be akin to studying Kathie Lee Gifford's memoir.
6. A Republican Party rally/convention/ass-waxing/what-have-you.  "W" is my least favorite letter.
7. A showing of a Tom Cruise movie.  Dude has issues.  Star power?  Gone with the wind, baby.
8. A country club.  Silicone + Designer Activewear + Men Wearing Loafers with No Socks = MUST HAVE XANAX.  NOW.
9. A "salon" for dogs.  Because:  Come ON.  Don't get me wrong, I adore pooches and all, but I'm not paying for a polish change for anyone with more legs than me.
10. A WWF wrestling match.  Admittedly, I wouldn't be doing any ass-kicking here.  This would fit nicely under the bound and gagged category.
11. A golf course.  Especially in Arizona.  I saw Alice Cooper ordering fish tacos at Rubio's after he had finished a round or two.  He was wearing a golf shirt and white pants.  It wasn't pretty.
12. A Hummer dealership.  Hummers?  Me no likey.
13. A body-piercing establishment.  Lesson learned.

Trimming the tree

A while back I talked about how I had gotten my nose pierced.

My nose is no longer pierced.

I had a sinus infection a month or so ago and was blowing my nose like crazy. In the aftermath of one particular nose-blowing session, I wiped my nose with a tissue and dislodged the little stud from my nose. I saw it go flying through the air, all slow-motion like, and thought I had seen the vicinity of its landing spot. I searched on all fours, to no avail.

Several days went by, and still: no stud. (This is the prevailing thought of many women I know. Hmmm.) I decided I had better get my happy ass to the nearest Body Jewelry Retailer (read: lame-ass piercing kiosk in the mall.) I picked out a – dare I say? shnazzy - little number for my nose. It was the corkscrew kind, and as the name suggests, the post part of the stud is corkscrew-shaped which means YOU MUST SCREW IT INTO YOUR NOSE. I felt it necessary to go with this option so that during my next Snotty Phlegm Fest I would not dislodge it. Smart cookie, am I not?

Not.

I attempted screwing the damn thing in my nose, only to be met with defeat. First of all, the hole had partially closed up. I had to kind of re-pierce it with a french wire earring of mine. After conquering that, with blood and cursing aside, I thought I was out of the woods. "I’m going in!" I told myself.

I stuck the end of the corkscrew (which by this time reminded me of a pig’s tail poking out of a hefty piggy ass) in the pierced hole and began working my way in. I got like a whole nanomillimicrometer into my nose and was at an impasse. I twisted clockwise. I twisted counter clockwise. Soon it was clear that I was essentially hollowing out the cartilage of my nose. I could not find my way out of the hole. Instead of a sparkly little diamond chip on the side of my nose, I had an inflamed bloody mess. It looked like a couple of gigantic red ants had tried to burrow into my nostril and set up camp.

I realized that in order to get this done the right way, without further blood and carnage, I would have to slug my defeated ass back to the dude that had pierced my nose in the first place. No big deal, really… I mean surely, it couldn’t hurt as bad as it did the first time. I decided I would take care of it that next weekend.

"Next weekend" turned into next week, which turned into the week after that, which turned into…

…a piercing that is no more.

The hole has totally closed up. (Which reminds me of many women I know... Hmmm.) The nose piercing has lost its appeal. Maybe that’s because my boss was right after all, and I did it because I was having a mid-life crisis. Naw. Jesus HIMSELF knows I don’t need to be a mid-lifer to have a crisis.

Or maybe, it’s because I have this friend, you know? And he’s kind of a smart ass, right? And he said that me piercing my nose was like decorating a Christmas tree.

No. It definitely couldn’t be THAT.