Sunday, March 25, 2012
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
I went on to inform him that I would not be meeting the artist in person because artists who draw caricatures for a living are cynical and judgmental. Instead, I asked that he find a good, skinny picture of me for the artist to work from. His response?
“We don’t have any.”
I love you too, honey.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Really, Internet? I dare to take a minuscule nine-month break from blogging, and upon my return I’m greeted with links to incestuous porn sites, propaganda for the Ohio Lottery, and a lot of 効率 的に優れている (which, I’m assuming, means cheap Viagra in Chinese)? Not exactly a proper welcome, if I do say so myself.
Although, I suppose there’s an argument that I deserve it. Running off like that! Without a word. Getting married. Having a child. Buying a house. And making a major career changing move. If that doesn’t earn me a little Megan-Fox-in-a-Bra-Spam, I don’t know what will.
Aside from Chron’s, the limp caused by my knee tumor, and my struggle with HPV; life these last couple months has been good.
In short (with details to follow, I promise (read maybe))…
- The lovely and obnoxious Rey and I finally tied the knot. We eloped in Tahoe, Valentine’s Day weekend, then broke the news to our family with customized M&M’s. Needless to say, not everyone was amused.
- I am pleased to announce that I am the proud mother of a beautiful baby girl named Ming. She is 20lbs 2oz with an incredible fawn coat and a penchant for eating toilet paper.
- Behind the curve as usual, we bought a home; two blocks from our previous dwelling. And while one might think that that might make moving easier, one would be incredibly wrong.
- Lastly, I accepted large bags of cash to leave my cushy job at America’s snobbiest law firm for a quasi-government job (and I'm kicking myself in the ass for it everyday).
So there you have it, nine months summed up in four bullet points. Who said life was too short?
To all of you who took the time to write, my apologies for being too rude (and drunk) to respond. For those of you who took the time to spam, this middle finger’s for you.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
...that really pisses me off.
Here I am, minding my own business, trolling the internet for the newest headlines (on company time, of course—I'm all about full disclosure), when BAM!, my mind is suddenly flooded with the image of a mangled 737 plummeting to the ground.
The woman in seat 9B catches my eye. With sheer terror on her face, she coddles her screaming toddler for the last time. The Dora coloring books the girl scribbled in moments before fly to the back of the plane, as the elderly businessman in the seat over holds his blackberry firmly to his ear. Oxygen masks swing violently overhead as he informs his wife of 49 years, on their answering machine, that he won't be returning home. He whispers "I love you," tears streaming from his ice blue eyes, then asks that she hug each of their children for him. She doesn't retrieve the message until later that afternoon. The groceries for their dinner fall to the floor.
The United Airlines plane, or what's left of it, crashes into the middle of suburban Utah, killing not only all 211 passengers on board, but also the 16 year-old girl in the yellow, two-story house they crash into—the girl, tragically, had returned home just moments before, after taking her 3 year-old golden retriever, Eppe, for a walk. Eppe, now deaf and somewhat skittish from the explosion, survived the crash.
The woman in the neighboring house was severely maimed by the shrapnel that rained down on her as she pruned her roses in the front yard. After being med-vac'd to the trauma unit, the 52 year-old, breast cancer survivor died. Not from the loss of blood caused by two severed legs, but by an overdose of tramadol, administered by a seasoned anesthesiologist, who, incidentally, had too many glasses of scotch the night before, after learning his oldest son—married with children—was gay.
Okay, wait. Let's be honest here. There was no toddler or golden retriever named Eppe; it was me I saw on that crashing plane and pruning those roses. But my narcissism is besides the point. You, you darling little ad maker, put me through all of this just to tell me tort reform is bad? A little melodramatic, don't cha think?