my love affair with "so you think you can dance" was a slow burning ember that erupted into an all out wildfire that has now been peed on by poor performances.

i was told by about fifteen different people that i should watch "so you think you can dance." i don't take direction too well and i refuse to do exactly what i'm told so i proceeded to ignore those fifteen people - mostly gay men and the women who love them. then one day, my very straight male friend told me to watch it. he raved about how it was so captivating to watch these trained dancers really show their stuff. i found it very hard to believe that he watched a show that was MULTIPLE HOURS LONG about dancing and berated him about it for a good twenty minutes. he was undeterred. so then i had to watch, if for no other reason than to make fun of him. so i did. i jumped in mid-season.

within two weeks, i was hooked.

who is this cat deeley and why is she so damned adorable?
why do i care about these adorable kids?
how was jonathon's butt SO FREAKING HUGE?
does tabitha know napoleon is into dudes?

the only thing i can do without - mary and her screaming. seriously, who let's this woman keep her tongue? but, that's why god made mute buttons.

"so you think you can dance" is now back on for season five and i've realized why i hate these contest shows. the auditions. i don't give a crap about how important it is for this girl to be a dancer because her dad committed suicide. IT'S A DANCE SHOW. don't bog me down with pain and emotion. and why does anyone find it entertaining to watch people perform horribly? if y'all think it's so damn great, you can come over to my house every day and pay to watch me sing and dance (at once!) with no commercial breaks! i'm a people pleaser. it's what i do.

so if one of you watches this show, can you remind me when it "officially" starts so i can forego all these sob stories and auditions that make my eyes bleed? thanks.

yes, yes i know it's been a while. i've been busy with wedding planning and life and travel and such. i went to visit brenda in north carolina (c'mon and raise up!) and came back with what my coworkers claim is a flaring southern accent. which is quite ironic, considering i visited a bunch of native bostonians. but anyways, so i'm all southern n shit. then i came home to CA and went to shoot guns. that didn't help my case, i'm sure.

my dearest friends are quite surprised of my fondness for shooting guns. it's kinda funny that i, myself, have not been fond of shooting guns (despite my southern heritage) until very recently. i think i thought of it as a kind of dare.

"oh, you don't eat meat? freakin hippie."
"i'm no hippie! i'm from GA!"
"prove it!"
"hand me that assault rifle."

i may have paraphrased that.

at any rate, i've been to the gun range in the bay area twice now. yes, they actually allow guns here! i've shot an AR15, sig-sauer mosquito (22-caliber) and beretta (9mm). while i do love the AR15, the beretta proved to be a pretty sweet ass gun. and being a child of the 70s, i totally imagined a cockatoo on my shoulder as i shot off the rounds.

while i can say that i actually enjoy going to the range and shooting off a few rounds, i am not in the market to purchase a weapon. i mean, really, with all my angst it would be a matter of minutes before i popped a cap in some random gay as he sauntered down my street whooping and hollering and stripping himself of all earthly clothings. "i'm trying to watch LOST, dammit! shut the hell up!"

so yeah, no one needs that. i am not a fan of the death penalty or capital punishment in general. one has to know her limitations. my limit is this: purchase ammo for someone else's weapon.

and no, that's not a euphemism, rod.

mike: do you think mayor mccheese was elected?
ang: yes, he's a mayor.
mike: but who voted for him?
ang: the fry guys, the hamburglar, ...
mike: not the hamburglar. he's a criminal. he can't vote.

~~~~~~

ang: go through this bin of stuffed animals for the yard sale.
mike (in a voice two octaves above normal): the babies?! you want to sell the babies?!

it was a very painful half hour for both of us. him, giving up babies. me, realizing i live not with man-child, but man-baby.

~~~~~~

mike: isn't it weird when two femme gay dudes get together? you'd think one of them would need to be the dude.
ang: yeah, every couple needs a more dudely one. like us. i'm the dude.

(see case in point above.)

I've hurt my big toe. No, not in a small stubbing-it-while-traversing-the-bathroom-in-the-dark kind of way. I really hurt it. It doesn't hurt all the time but when it does....YOWEE. You realize how critical the big toe is in the whole balance equation when you're not in the mood to walk on it. And let's face it, I didn't really need any help being clumsy.

At first I thought this toe pain was due to these horrendously uncomfortable boots I have. I vaguely recall wearing them more than a month ago and thinking my toe was displeased by day's end. Given my propensity to wear cheap shoes, this is quite common so it's hard to recall just when the incident occurred.

Then I thought maybe some big lug stepped on my toe. I hang around a few big lugs and more than one of them has been known to step on my toe. But since I don't know how this happened and it does hurt, I have been known to whine about it randomly throughout my work day. Tired of hearing the whining, my coworkers have had a field day guessing what I could have done to myself.

Who did you kick?
Did you get drunk and black out? (That from my boss, the VP. Nice.)
Did Muffin put you in a toe hold?

None of these options are particularly far fetched. Well, except I haven't gotten incredibly inebriated since NYE and I'm pretty sure my toe was okay for the first month and a half of the year.

I honestly have no idea what happened. But instead of making an appointment to get things checked out, I've decided I will wear comfortable shoes instead of grumpy heels. Only problem is now it's angry even after wearing Chucks all day.

Guess it's time to get some x-rays. Or just keep whining when it randomly hurts and hope it rights itself. I'm contemplating the latter. It's less work.

dude. why am i getting cougar catalogs? have you ever seen a "boston proper" catalog? it's not right. it's not normal. it's in some realm of cougar-dom that most of the free world is not meant to see. so, why. WHY, i ask, am i getting a mother truckin' cougar catalog?

does this look like something i would even contemplate thinking about wearing?


i mean seriously. what on earth did i buy that put me on some cougar mailing list. if anyone has any ideas, i'm happy to hear them.

a little while ago, there was a 30 rock episode in which the reformed nerd, liz lemon, was coerced into attending her high school reunion. she fought kicking and screaming because everyone at her school was so rude to her. as flashbacks from the other reunion attendees started coming in, they showed lemon as the bully not the target. she would go straight for the jugular whenever she felt folks were coming after her. turns out, they were just trying to be nice.

ever since this episode, my coworkers have called me liz lemon. apparently, i'm snarky and mean and stuff. i like to think that i'm perceptive and being so perceptive, it's their fault that they have flaws. i merely point them out in a comical manner. it's really hard being this entertaining and perfect. truly.

since these dorks in the office have started calling me lemon, i have given a lot of thought to how mean i really am. and like any decent red-blooded american, i'm looking for someone to blame. here goes. i am the eldest grandchild on both sides of my family. on each side, the youngest child is an uncle about 12-13 years older than me. so although i had no older brothers, i had these two brats pissed off because they were no longer the center of attention ready to torment me at any opportunity. my uncle tom would walk by me, place the palm of his hand on my 7-year old forehead, and say "douche!" as he pushed me down by my head. lovely. my uncle alan had a huge poster of KISS on the far wall of his bedroom. knowing i was terrified of clowns (and therefore KISS), he once pushed me into his room, closed the door, and locked me inside. nice. needless to say, i developed a thick skin and a quick reflex to start fighting back at any hint of impending torture.

fast forward to high school. i was friends with some of the sweetest girls in school. i remember lying awake at night after getting into an altercation with the jerko in english class.

"mary anna is prettier than you."

"yeah yeah."

"and nicer."

"bite me."

i should have outed him right there in 4th period english. see, i'm not completely brutal. so i'd lay awake that night thinking, "man, maybe i do need to be nicer like cathryn and mary anna." then the next morning, i'd get on the bus and within five minutes, get picked on and revert back to my old ways. it's like a have a bulls-eye painted on my forehead or something.

now i'm one of very few females in a male dominated industry. i'm also a person who tells them what to do even though they don't want to be told and most of the times don't want to do it. my thick skin has come in handy.

"you need to check that bug in before the end of the week."

"you're not my manager. go away."

"i may not be your manager but i am a pain in the ass and i'll come back every day until you commit to having that bug in by the end of the week. your choice."

*sigh* "okay." *sigh*

so yeah. i'm lemon. after 29* years of trying to be something i'm not (sweet), i'm owning who i am. so suck it, whiners! thank you, uncle alan and uncle tom!




*don't even go there.

well, i've finally gotten off my ass and started the new blog. i was gonna mix it in with this one and move the whole shebang to a new location but i'm lazy. like this is news to you. what might be news to you is the degree of my laziness. i'm a level four lazy ass. i'll rest on anything that casts a shadow. i'm not picky.

so because i still hold firm in the belief that anyone who doesn't watch television is a frickin frackin weirdo, i'm keeping the LJ going just to get that out of my system. the new blog is dedicated solely to the bittersweet hell that is wedding planning. see above: lazy ass.

hope you enjoy the new outlet and understand why my posts on here are even less frequent than they used to be. it's HARD to be me what with the socializing and beer drinking and laziness of it all.

cheers, bitches!

i am not a conformist. this caused me a great amount of torture as a young one when the rest of the sixth graders were wearing bobs and i refused to cut the long stringy mess that was my hair, parted down the middle with a barrette on each side. hot.

over time, i've learned to revel in my ability to veer off the beaten path and find my own way. but there are times when it can be a curse. you see, i am a pretty staunch nonconformist. people loved "something about mary" so i loathed it. without even seeing it. turns out it was not all that, but that's not the point. what the masses love, i pretty much immediately despise. tv shows, movies, music, books. clothing, which saves me a lot of money when everyone is off buying the latest trendy thing and i'm stocking up on $9 tees at target (because that's pretty much all i wear. like you're shocked.) so what's the big deal, you ask. sounds like a time and money saver to me, right? well, sometimes. other times, it can be a real pain in the posterior. here are some prime examples.

music. there was once a time when i loved coldplay. then everyone else was all "omg, i love this new band, coldplay!" now, chris martin can go name his kids stupid names for all i care. his music is not good. i just can't tell if it's really not good anymore or if my brain has made it sound like shrieking cats knowing that he is worshipped by thirtysomething females the world over. this theory holds true for so many bands i held near and dear and consequently broke up with when they made it big. i will say, however, that my ability to enjoy music that most folks listen to has improved over the years. i no longer get snide comments from my friends that "you only like that because no one has ever heard of them" or "you would like this band if i didn't." the response to the latter was generally, "yeah. so?" there is one thing i am and that is self aware, folks. ironically, i am marrying the one person in the world who is more of a music snob than i am. i never thought it was possible. i now see why everyone found it so annoying. poetic justice, you're a bitch!

book club. i created a san francisco book club after our first failed attempt at book club in the south bay. ironically, the birth mother of that book club NEVER ONCE came to one of my book club meetings. but i'm not bitter. anyhoo, so yeah, book club. see, if i am the one to choose the book, there is no problem. because i always like what i choose unless it royally stinks (and sometimes it does.) but if someone else chooses the book, it is all i can do to muster the strength to get past the foreword. it seriously pains me to get through it. i have found this to be the case no matter the book and it doesn't matter if i *wanted* to read it prior to their suggestion. when the suggestion was made, my desire waned. this probably makes me the worst book club creator in history. i should have just called it "let's get together and read what angie suggests" and been done with it.

maybe i should make changing my elitist ways a resolution for 2009. just think of the books and music and movies and shows that would potentially light up my life! to make sure this isn't one bellyflop of a resolution, i should probably enlist some folks with opinions i trust to test this newfound conformity. otherwise, i'll only be proven right.

As I was waiting for the bus this morning, a very punky "kid" rode by on his very low trick-bike. A lightbulb went off in my head as I realized my fiancé has the same bike. I loathe that bike. I have never seen air in the tires nor has his derrière warmed that seat since the day I met him 6.2 years ago. It's an eyesore we move from home to home, each time with me saying, "Are you ever going to ride this thing?" and him replying, "Of course! It's my bike!"

But I digress...

When this over-tattooed angsty youth strolled by, a flood of memories washed over me. Not the super happy fun memories of when I would ride my own bicycle, but all those humiliating memories of how awkward and geeky I felt whenever I tried to be something darker than the pert smiley blonde I was destined to become.

I wish I had a scanner and ample time to sift through boxes of pictures to find the sad attempts I made to be edgy in college. My roommates were both brunette and dyed their hair often with all these pretty purple and burgundy shades. Being a total chicken, I lamented that a blonde cannot dye with semi-permanent shades of jewel tones without her pate turning pink and looking more like a preschooler who got in a fight on the playground and ended up with tropical punch CapriSun in her hair than the super tormented alterna-chick she was going for. But that didn't stop me from trying despite being too chicken to approach Miss Clairol.

The salon I frequented for many moons in college was inside a swanky (for Auburn, AL) dept store. I found the one male (Straight. I know!) hairdresser who had long jet-black hair and adopted him. The whole point in choosing him was to make me look less cute and more disenfranchised. He failed at the former but my hair looked awesome and the failure was cushioned by the copious compliments I received from mall shoppers as I manned the cash register at the shoe store. So what if they were visiting their kids who were attending the university?! I was furthering my friend's career.

After moving here, I found a stylist who I had been seeing the last 10 years until about a year ago. I found Willie (Gay. There ya go.) through a friend at my first real job after I moved here. Over the years I followed him as he moved around and eventually opened his own place. Every salon held a half dozen stylists who were so many shades cooler than me in that they showcased so many shades in their hair. It actually gave me a complex to be the only fair-haired soul without tattoes when I sat in his chair. But each time, I thought, if anyone can make this happen, it's them. Yeah. No. See, at that time, it didn't matter what they did to my head because the rest of me still thought baggy jeans and Chuck Taylors were gonna make me hot and tortured. I hadn't figured out that OMG I HAVE A WAIST and What Not To Wear hadn't yet taught me how to de-emphasize my badonk-a-donk. So when I left Willie, the upper quadrant would be smokin but the rest resembled an 11-year old boy.

I recall the day around this time period when I waltzed into my beloved's office. A rash of nerves, I was swimming in baggy jeans, a long-sleeved Auburn basketball tee (War Eagle!), Airwalks that had seen more miles than a freshman dorm room's twin bed and blonde locks pulled tight into a very dirty ponytail. Hot. Yet, he still asked me out. So this morning, as all of these memories flooded over me, I realized that although the edgy girl I'd always strived to become in my youth had never materialized, I had managed to bag one of those hot angst-ridden brooders I'd thrown myself in front of since 1992. And the grown me, who still has to work hard daily not to have Mom Hair, wishes she could go back in time, pull that girl's pants up and high-5 her. Go me!

while it took me many moons to get over my utter hatred of meredith grey, i've somehow weathered that storm. now i can actually tolerate meredith and kinda like the "ugly-insides sisterhood" she has with christina. i have stood by grey's anatomy through good times - george and callie doin' the nasty in the basement - and bad - what was UP with that house made out of tealights? seriously, how did she light all of those without the first one going out before the last one was lit?

but my friends, i'm afraid i'm having a hard time sticking with grey's through dead-boyfriend-returning-from-the-great-beyond-to-torment-pouty-doctor-while-she-moves-on-with-the-most-dysfunctional-man-in-the-world-who-just-so-happens-to-have-turned-a-corner-and-has-become-all-squishy-and-sweet-now storyline. yes, i am actually saying that despite how nice it is to look at this man...



...and hear his sexy growl of a voice, i cannot get into the whole sex with a ghost thing. so mark my words, they let this crap die (for real this time) or this might just signal the beginning of the end (for real this time.)