Hold the Elevator

Remember the MTV show Daria?



There was an episode once where Daria and her pal Jane are going door to door selling chocolates. They stop at a house and knock on the door. They hear distant footsteps and some banging about. When the owner of the house finally opens the door, it's a large, sweaty woman in a moo-moo who is breathing rather heavily.

"Sorry girls," she says in a deep, mannish voice in between gasps of air. "I just came up from the basement."

Daria and Jane exchange looks and then offer her a chocolate bar. Because she's a hefty and, one can only assume, hungry woman, she agrees.

I don't remember the rest of the episode, but I'll always remember the way the big lady in the flowered moo-moo talked. My brothers and I cracked up at that and years later it still swims around in my head.

Today at work I was in the basement filling my water bottle. I usually make a bee-line to the elevator, but today I decided that I would spice up my morning routine and take the stairs. My office is on the 6th floor and each floor contains 2 flights of stairs. Including the stairs to get to the first floor, that's 14 flights of stairs.

Since I'm a masochist, I dropped a mental f-bomb to the stairs and started to climb.

2nd floor rolls around and I'm thinking, This isn't too bad. Not breathing too heavy and I can feel my heart rate climbing a little.

3rd floor comes into view and I'm thinking, Maybe I can bail here and take the elevator.

4th floor and I'm thinking, Shit! This was a bad idea. I haven't even broken in these shoes yet!

5th floor and I'm thinking, If I die in the stairwell, I wonder how long it'll be until someone finds my body. Is this why everyone in early America was fuckin' ripped, because they had no choice but to take stairs? No wonder they went and got themselves polio.

Finally, the 6th and final floor and I've never felt such sweet relief. I drag myself to my desk and make a mental note to burn down the stairwell.

"You alright?" my co-worker asks, amused.

"Sorry," I say between some heavy breathing. "I just came up from the basement."

Oh shit. At least I wasn't wearing a moo-moo.

The heck is this?!

Today I come home from work to find my mother, my own flesh and blood, entertaining the bane of my existence: Tyra Mother Effing Banks. I DO NOT CONDONE TYRA BEING IN MY HOUSE AND ENTERTAINING MY MOTHER.

I hate her so much (Tyra, not my mom). But since my mom frowns upon me telling her what to do, Tyra "Plague Upon The Earth" Banks is still using our television set to transport herself into our living room. That's right, my home, the one place of comfort and safety, is now filled with the loud sounds of a shrewish banshee woman. And who does Tyra think she is? You know what I hate, when she tries to "open people's eyes" to the injustice in the world. Like when she dressed up in a fat suit and lived a day like a plus-sized girl.



Hey, guess what? I didn't need Asshat VagWeiner to dress up in a fat suit to tell me that being fat sucks. I've pretty much been able to figure that out myself. And of course because she's Tyra and a fart face she was all up in people's business about it. Like she would walk up to random strangers and be like, "I'm fat! Why are you judging me?!" and then when they looked at her strangely, she would be like, "People treat you so badly when you're overweight." No, people treat you badly when you're a crazy D-list celebrity dressed in the worst fat suit I've ever seen.

There was just a preview for another episode of her show where they make a little white girl drink dirty water from a water bottle so she can know what it's like to "live in Africa". Puh-lease, Tyra. You're no Oprah.

For Christmas, I'm going to ask Santa to please expel Tyra banks from the face of the earth by any means possible. Or at least cancel her shows. Or a pony.

A Plague Upon Thee!

I am having quite the ass day. I went to bed in a terrible mood and it's like while I was sleeping, my mind was all, "Hey body, let's be super achy and lame tomorrow just to piss her off." So I woke up this morning even more angry and my body does indeed ache. Bleh. I feel like I'm on Grumpers Isle, population 1. But even when you're a Grumpy Angryson, you still gotta make that paper. So I'm here at work listening to my dance party music (that's these guys if you're interested) trying to shake myself out of the funk that is trying to smother me. It's not really helping. Although I should point out that in addition to being in a bitch mood, I do feel like dancing all my troubles away.

Also, Flickr refuses to upload the pictures I'm trying to work with. ARGH! What the hell, Universe?! That's it. A war is waged upon Flickr. And upon my work computer. And Tyra Banks, just because I can't stand her. So for those of you keeping track, my own personal Axis of Evil now looks like this:



I need to be doing some of this:

It's On

Gah! So here I am, minding my own business, having a good day. All is well and I'm happy. My mom called to take me out to lunch and everyone knows that having your parents take you to lunch is pretty much the best thing ever. I'm serious, it's right up there with finding a long lost $20 in your pants pocket and waking up Christmas morning. I sometimes forget how awesome my mom is, so I decided the least I could do for her is buy her a delicious, super yummy sandwich from Baggins.

Now keep in mind, it's been a good day so far. Work is going alright, my iPod radio is working today and I've got some good evening plans. We're at Baggins and I pull out my debit card, looking smooth and saintly for buying my mother lunch, and my card gets declined. DECLINED. What the eff just happened?!

Wells Fargo has once again screwed me. They wait until I get paid to charge me like a gazillion dollars in fees that don't even make sense. In fact, I'd like to take this opportunity to formally annouce that I am waging war on Wells Fargo. Next time I'm at the bank, I'm taking all the deposit envelopes and not telling anyone. And I'm going to steal all the pens and maybe even knock over a fake plant. My chewed gum is going beneath every hard surface in that joint. And those mint candies they have at the tellers counter? I'm stuffing all of them in my mouth. Then Wells Fargo will know what it's like to feel loss.

I'm going old school, ladies and gents. I'm getting a vacuum sealed bag, stuffing all my money in that, and then stuffing that bag into an old mattress. Because I truly believe that The Bank of Old Stained Mattress will be better than The Bank of Let Us Rape You With Our Fees.

You just wait 'til Christmas, Wells Fargo. I'm tipping over a Christmas tree. Mark my words.