Obviously, there are many Things I Don't Understand. That's a given. But one thing that really gnaws on my nerves is baggy pants on guys. It's so annoying. These guys have what I call the ABCs: Ass Butt Crack Syndrome.
I mean, seriously. WTH?!
Baggy pants do not a fashion statement make. And surely Coco Chanel would agree.
I know I may be old. And I don't exactly keep up with the fashion trends of the day. But I mean, come on, people. What is cool about your exposed underwear? Or worse yet, in some cases, your butt crack? It's NOT cool! It's not, I tell you. It's weird. It's sloppy. And it's ass-inine.
Let's face the fashion reality that even un-trendy old gals like myself can understand: baggy pants are S-T-U-P-I-D! They don't make you cool. They don't make you hip. And I can prove it.
Exhibit A, Elvis: Cool King (Never wore baggy pants!)
Exhibit B, James Dean: Cool Rebel (Never wore baggy pants!)
Exhibit C, Johnny-You-Wish-You-Were-This-Cool-Depp (Oozes cool even when he's a pirate and doesn't wear baggy pants!)
If that's not proof enough, answer me this, guys. Are you trying to hide something? I mean, back in the day, lots of men used to wear tight pants. And their tight pants, you know, showed stuff. And people thought it was just so tacky to just flash your jewels, so to speak. But at least we knew they had some jewels then. With baggy pants who the hell knows? So are you trying to just disguise the fact that you are, um, short-changed in the jewels department? Because honestly, that's what I think when I see baggy pants on a guy--he has to be hiding his shortcomings.
Newsflash, guys: girls like to see the shape of your ass; they don't want full view of your underwear. And they certainly don't want to walk beside a guy who is so "cool" that he has to hold up his pants while he walks. As if.
Girls want a guy with SWAG. Not bag or sag. And if you have baggy pants on you cannot have SWAG. E-V-E-R.
I just want to say that I was never really an Amy Winehouse fan...but I did appreciate her talent. It's not shocking at all to me that she has passed away. When you live your life on a path of self-destruction, it's rare to not end up where she did. But that doesn't make it any less tragic. Or sad. I don't like to see any young person leave this earth so soon, especially when they have so much potential. But I hope her tortured soul can find some peace now.
There's a wonderful quote from Amy that I want to share, regarding Michael Jackson. I love that she was a fan.
“You know how you either grow up in a Michael Jackson house or a Prince house?” says Winehouse, whose accent reveals her north London roots. “For me it was Michael Jackson. I could never decide whether I wanted to be Michael Jackson or marry him. I don’t care what people say about him now because he’s a fucking genius. That’s it – the end! He was robbed of his childhood, which is why he surrounds himself with children. When you’re around kids you can be a little kid yourself and pretend that life is magic and you don’t have to be one of those sweaty people going to work every day. I completely see what he’s doing.”
OK, I'm gonna start off by saying that I'm kind of obsessed with all things Hollywood and celebrity. It has fascinated me ever since I was a little girl. It just clicks with me, who knows why? But it does. So I'm all about the celebrity news of the day, whatever that might be. And I'm not just talking about Robert Pattinson here either, folks. ;)
I also want to preface this all by saying that as much as I'm into celeb news and such, I don't ever often get lucky enough to meet any real live celebrities. The closest I've ever really gotten to a brush with fame was when Harrison Ford flew his small plane into the local county airport in need of some slight engine repair, when a friend of the Hubs' worked there. Did I meet Harrison Ford? No, dammit!. But hey, I was within 10 miles of him, which is closer than most regular folk ever get to a star of his stature, no? So it counts. Sort of.
So imagine my elation surprise when I heard the story about a friend of a friend, who was at an airport recently (and it's totally coincidental that this story also involves an airport--though not the same one). She was minding her business, passing the time, looking around, as anyone would when sitting in an airport. But she soon realized that she was sitting next to someone quite famous. And not just D-List-famous like Kathy Griffin, mind you. We're talking seriously big star here. And when he got up to walk away, she managed to get a picture.
Care to take a guess?
I know, I know. It's difficult to recognize him, considering he's photographed more often with his shirt off (thank you, God) than with it on. Give up? If you haven't figured it out, maybe this will help you...
Yes. That is Matthew-freaking-hot-McConaughey. Matthew. McConaughey! Why doesn't this kind of thing ever happen to me???!!! Wahhhhhh.
OK, I'll calm down. And I'll take what comfort I can in the fact that it was Matthew, and NOT Robert Pattinson. Because if I know someone, who knows someone, who sat next to Robert Pattinson in an airport, I think I'd just sort of die a little bit inside.
Still, you have to admit that Matthew is H-O-T. Even with his shirt on. And I sure wouldn't complain if he was sitting next to me in an airport. Hell, he could spill something all over me and it probably wouldn't phase me at all. That's just how I roll. Well, when I'm sitting next to a celebrity anyway.
So anyhoots, post title aside, I guess this wasn't really exactly my brush with fame. But at least I can say I know someone, who knows someone, who sat next to Matthew McConaughey at an airport one day. And that's probably as close as I'm ever gonna get.
Really, just because I am a completely obsessedfan of Twilight and Edward/RPattz, it doesn't mean I can't enjoy a good laugh at their expense on occasion. Sometimes I come across the funniest Twilight-Edward-vampire jokes, so I just thought I'd share some of my favorites. Hopefully you'll get a chuckle or two yourself.
Of course, all the Harry Potter, Interview with the Vampire, Blade, and Star Trek fans will probably thoroughly enjoy some of these jokes. But as a Twihard myself, what can I say. If it's funny, it's funny. :)
Yes, folks, it's that time again. Time for another nauseating episode of The Freak Next Door. I'll keep it short and anything but sweet as possible though, because he's hardly worth the space he takes up on my blog from time to time. I just tend to feel the need to vent where the Freak is concerned, and this blog has to listen whether it wants to or not, so I take full advantage whenever the need arises.
So the Hubs and our grandson and I were out playing ball in the back yard the other day. You know...the Hubs would pitch, Dylan would hit, and I would run and fetch (I always seem to get crappy end of the game, but whatevs). And we were using a rubber sort of ball, rather than real baseball, since it's likely to do less damage if a nearby window tries to jump in its path or something. Because, you know, windows just do that sometimes.
What I have to note here too is that we live in town, on a 60x120' lot, much of which is filled with our home and a few small buildings out back (the Hubs' workshop/office, my studio, and a new storage shed). So there's really not a lot of room for ball-playing, but we do the best we can.
Now mind you, when I play ball with Dylan, I tend to do it in such a way that if he hits a grand slam home run (of sorts), it can't go into the Freak's yard. I'm just sorta smart and semi-OCD like that. But since the Hubs was kind of in charge it didn't exactly roll like that, which was OK...for most of Dylan's hits.
But naturally, as my championship-winning-team-playing grandson has occasion to do, he finally hit an epic, screaming fly ball--that decided to travel all the way over into the Freak's yard. And as any of you who have followed my tales of The Freak Next Door can guess, you know what a crap-our-pants moment it was to have Dylan's ball land in the Freak's yard. I swear it all happened in slow motion too, like a bad episode of TJ Hooker.
The Hubs wandered over to try to retrieve it, but then thought better of it and called the Police to get assistance because, yes, we have to do stuff like that where the Freak is concerned. We actually had to get a police escort to go and knock on the Freak's door to ask him if we could look for our grandson's missing ball.
And what was the freak's reply, you ask?
"Uh, no, I don't think so."
And that's was that. Waste of our time (though no shock there). Waste of the policeman's time. Waste of taxpayers' money to waste the policeman's time. Waste of space on the planet? That title clearly goes to The Freak Next Door.
And so now the Freak gets full and sole possession of our grandson's ball to do with as he pleases. Which I'm sure will result in the disposal of the ball into the nearest trash receptacle as soon as he comes across it, all because he's too much of an asshole to let a 7-year-old have his ball back.
He's got balls all right. But not where most men want them.
OK, these two macros have absolutely nothing in common. Well, except that they're both filed under Meme Mania, and they're both funny. Hopefully you'll agree. Hope everyone has a fantabulous 4th of July! Be safe!
OK, so Friday nights are usually dining out nights for The Hubs and Me. It's just a ritual, since we always go grocery shopping that night, and since I don't wanna have to grocery shop and cook. As if! So we eat out before we hit the grocery store.
Well this past Friday night we went to a great Italian place in town, one that really has the best prime rib around. An Italian place? With the best Prime Rib? Yeah, go figure. But it's really, really good.
So as I was ordering, I couldn't remember if I usually get the small or large cut of prime rib. My mind was leaning toward the small, but since Friday night always includes specials on prime rib, the larger cut actually works out to be the same price as the small. So I figured I'd just get the large cut and take home any leftovers.
As we waited for our meals to arrive, I ate a lot of their fabulous garlic bread, which is the best garlic bread around. No joke, I could sit there and eat just the garlic bread and be quite a happy carb-filled girl. It's that good. But I was anxious for that yummy prime rib to get to the table too.
Well, I wasn't anxious for long, because when it arrived it was so damn big. I mean, huge. We're talking jumbo sized beef here, people. I immediately knew I'd never gotten that large cut before. I sure as heck would have remembered getting a monster portion of meat this size. And I would have just as easily remembered that there would be no way in hell I could have eaten something that big.
Reasonable Facsimile of the Prime Rib
I immediately told the waitress, "the next time I come in here, do NOT let me order the large cut again." Seriously. It could have fed a small country. I actually felt sorry for the cow that was sacrificed so that I could have that meat sitting on a plate in front of me. Just what I need: cow guilt.
I knew going in I wasn't going to be able to eat even half of that damn prime rib, but I was definitely going to enjoy whatever I could eat. And so I did. So I was eating some prime rib, and alternating with the pasta Alfredo that came with it--which is actually NOT the best around. Sorry, but Olive Garden still holds that title for me. So I'm cutting and chewing and trying to decide when I was going to be full, and wiping the Au Jus that was running down my chin, as Au Jus is wont to do.
And then out of nowhere, so very randomly and matter-of-factly, the Hubs looks at me and says, "I think we should have sex tonight."
Hold the phone here, mister-I-love-my-wife-but-she-could-stand-to-lose-a-few-pounds! Because this really begged the question, "Are you telling me that watching me consume large quantities of prime rib, pasta and garlic bread...is some sort of turn on to you?!"
He just laughed and kind of shook his head no and said, "no...just wanted to give you something to think about."
Men are seriously weird creatures. One minute they're conjuring up as much sensitivity as they can in their completely inept male way to tell you that your weight "is an issue" sometimes [while they stand far enough away to be out of striking distance]. And the next minute they're watching you attempt to eat the biggest hunk of prime rib on the planet and telling you they want to have sex with you.