Listen, I have something to tell you.Â It’s important.Â It can save your life.Â It’s just this:Â If you walk away from your desk, and leave your cell phone behind, make sure you set it to “silent”.Â Otherwise, the phone will ring, and then whoever called will leave a voice mail, and everyone who sits around you will have to hear your totally annoying voice mail notification going off every 30 seconds until you manage to drag your lame ass carcass back to your desk and then you will giggle all sheepishly and turn your stupid notification off and then the rest of your co-workers will jump your ass and beat you down with steel bars.
I’ve seen it happen.Â It’s not a pretty sight.
DESECRATING THE TEMPLE
I left work early yesterday to meet Vicki at the bridal store so she could pick out her bridesmaid’s dress.Â It was – as usual – an exercise in hilarity.Â Not so much because bridesmaid’s dresses are funny, but because the people in the bridal store have this aura like You Are In The Sacred Realm of Holy Matrimony, and you’d better be aware of it.Â These broads are sold on the idea of a wedding, and they are selling that idea to more and more women every day.Â Whereas Vicki and I have a hard time taking anything seriously, so we naturally brought our bad karma into the Hall of White Dresses.
The fun began when we went to check in with the lady at the desk.Â Some lady who looked nice enough, in an ice-cube-up-her-ass way.Â Now, keep in mind that it’s just me and Vicki here, two girls who are 26 and 25 (only for another month, sister, but I know you’re touchy about it!), and who both are at least 5’10″ in height.Â The front desk lady looked up at us, flipped through her book and said “So, you’re here for a flower girl dress, right?”
What could we do?Â We cracked up.Â Yes, Vicki is my flower girl.Â She’ll look precious in a short white dress and a teeny veil holding a darling sequined basket and strewing rose petals in front of me.Â As I tried to explain to Wedding Lady that Vicki is a bridesmaid, not a flower girl, Vicki chose that time to turn on her retard voice and say “I’m the special flower girl!”Â The Wedding Lady got a bit huffy and replied “Well it says in the book that you’re here for a flower girl dress.”Â Oh, excuse me.Â It says so in the book, hey?Â And the book never lies.Â Finally, we convinced her that Vicki was not The World’s Oldest Flower Girl, and she got to try on the dresses she had picked out.Â She found the one she wanted with relative ease, ordered it, and we went to the counter to pay.Â That’s where we infected one last dose of Disrespectful To Weddings Karma into the pristine temple to Getting Married.
The cash register is sitting on top of a display case, as in most retail stores.Â Inside the case is a “Wedding Countdown Clock”.Â Vicki asked me jokingly if I was going to buy one, and I told her that I already had one.Â I tried to explain when I got it, but I’m pretty stupid so it came out like “Well, The Man bought it for me on our pre-anniversary, or I guess. . .well you know that we were going to get married last June, right?Â So he bought it for me on the day that WOULD have been a year before our wedding if we hadn’t postponed the wedding. . . ” and I’m stuttering and stammering along and then Vicki cuts in with “Well, you wouldn’t have had to postpone the wedding if you hadn’t caught him with that cheap blonde,” and that’s when the cashier lady choked on her own saliva.Â Luckily, two seconds later she realized Vicki had merely made a Crass Joke, and so she was able to breathe again and even chuckle along, but she didn’t fool me.Â In her eyes I could see her horror and disgust for our wanton profaning of Holy Matrimony.
WORLD’S COOLEST STUFF
After we got the dress and went to dinner, Vic and I headed over to Target for our obligatory shopping trip.Â Every time we get together, we end up in some sort of store.Â And, as Vicki pointed out, we have an effect on one another that makes us buy lots of shit we don’t need.Â I went into Target for ONE THING.Â Vicki, as far as I knew, didn’t need anything.Â But we walked around the whole store, picking stuff up and throwing it into our cart willy-nilly.Â And we both ended up putting some of it back so we could afford other, cooler things we found later in the store.Â I walked out of Target with a few necessities, but also with a new T-shirt that says “Cut your mullet!” (totally wearing it this Friday to work), a pair of pajamas that say “I see London, I see France”, and a clever new purse.Â I put back a lot more crap than I bought, though.Â Target is an evil store, but last night I successfully resisted MOST of the demons who live in the fluorescent lighting.
Speaking of fluorescent lighting, we went to Wal-Mart afterwards, because Vicki prefers that bastion of evil over the much more obvious splendor of Target.Â And something was seriously wrong with the lighting in Wal-Mart.Â We were in the store for five minutes and I determined that something was amiss.Â I turned to Vicki and said “You know, I’ve never actually been in a place where the lighting was simultaneously dim and bright.”Â She agreed, and further stated that the light was giving her a headache.Â After a few more minutes of analysis we discovered the cause:Â they had the flourescents down to half power and were relying on the light coming in from the skylights to make up the slack.Â It wasn’t working out well.
WAITING FOR MAIL ORDER SUCKS
I like ordering things off the Internet, but I hate waiting for them to arrive.Â I’m horribly impatient and I’m big on instant gratification.
According to the United States Postal Service, my new bathing suit has made it to Michigan.Â Someone claims to have seen it in Allen Park early yesterday morning, but since then it’s been missing in action.Â Actually, it’s not a bathing suit per se so much as a bikini top and a pair of board shorts.Â I hate the way my legs look in a bathing suit, so I figured this would be a better option.Â Even though I have no idea how to surf, and even if I did, Michigan is not the best place to exercise that particular passion.Â I hear that there are some people who surf the Great Lakes, but that just seems weird to me.
Another package that may or may not be in transit is my wedding veil.Â I ordered it from a site called A La Mode Wedding Veils . . . although it just occurred to me, doesn’t “A La Mode” mean “with ice cream”?Â Shouldn’t it be A La Carte Wedding Veils?Â I don’t speak French or anything, I’m just going by what little I’ve gleaned off of various restaurant menus.Â Babelfish tells me that “a la mode” means “the fashion has” and “a la carte” means “the chart has” so I may be smoking crack.Â But then what is Apple Pie a la mode?Â Fashionable Apple Pie?Â It’s so confusing.
Anyway, yeah, I have two new things coming in the mail.Â That was the point of this whole little side trip into surfing and apple pie.
WHO’S PAGEANT PRETTY?
I watched the finale of “Showbiz Moms and Dads” last night on Bravo.Â Several things:
- That Shane kid is hella lucky his grandpa runs a casino or whatever, because no way is that kid’s voice good enough to get him gigs on sheer talent.Â Maybe he should stop singing until his voice finishes changing and he can manage to sing like something other than a pubescent robot.Â No inflection whatsoever.
- Mrs. Crazy Tye, your kid is not having fun at those pageants.Â And believe it or not, other parents have the right to tell you that they don’t want their kids to be broadcast on national television.Â If you gotta have a camera crew, it’s not everyone else’s business to make your life easy.Â It’s your business to make sure the crew does not make other people uncomfortable.Â Those people also spent good money to be at that pageant.
- That Jordan kid (the white one) needs a fucking spanking.Â Hey Little Missy, if you’re not willing to study your lines or practice your acting or memorize your monologue before you go to an interview with a major talent agency, maybe you don’t have the right to blame your mom for “ruining your career”.Â Which, if remember correctly, pulled in a whopping $200 last year.Â That’s not a career.Â And Jordan’s mom. . . your kid is 14.Â You do not leave a 14 year old in LA without parental supervision so she can further her career.Â Heads up, your daughter cannot act.Â Take her to Colorado, get her some lessons, and let her try again when she’s 18.
- I predict a Nutter divorce on the horizon.Â And Duncan Nutter The Older reminds me of someone.Â Like a warped Stewart Smalley.Â It’s pretty scary when you hear a father say “I don’t think I deserve their respect, but I do want their love.”
I can’t wait for tonight.Â They’re showing a special “The Aftermath” episode.Â I hope all of them are dead.Â Except for the black Jordan’s family.Â They have it together.Â Even if her mom is a little too fond of the phrase “the urban Martha Stewart”.