Superfan

My beloved Coke Zero cans have been hijacked by Avatar! This stupid logo makes it appear as though I'm consuming a hyper sugary energy drink, when I'm really drinking a sugary soda. Avatar is everywhere, but I have zero desire to see this movie. I seem to be in the minority if you pay attention to the box office... or to my fellow employees.

I recently had to attend a silly "leadership" type of class. One of the many ridiculous activities involved dividing the class into pairs and assigning each group a particular management concept. Our task was to come up with a way to visualize this concept that would help the class remember it. (Yes, this was a colossal waste of time). My group's concept was "share thoughts, rationale and feelings."

Me (wanting to get this over with): What if we picture someone laying on a psychiatrist's couch sharing his feelings?
Her: What about the Wizard of Oz?
Me: What about it?
Her: What did the tin man want?
Me: Um, a heart.
Her: Maybe I'm thinking of the scarecrow.
Me: He wanted a brain. But what about picturing someone on a psychiatrist's couch?
Her: Or maybe something related to Avatar. Have you seen that yet?
Me: No.
Her: Would you believe my husband went without me the first time? I swear... I'm raising an 8-year-old, and 9-year-old AND a 40-year-old.

It went on like this for approximately 5 minutes. She referenced Avatar no less than 4 times, none of which had anything to do with "sharing thoughts, rationale and feelings." In the end, we settled on a mental image of kindergartners sitting around a show-and-tell circle. I still think the psychiatrist's couch would have worked just fine.

Later in the class, the instructor asked for a volunteer to share an example of a bad day. The point, I think, was to show that people have personal problems that can potentially interfere with work and you need to find a way to separate those parts of your life. (This is high level stuff we're learning, people.) My Avatar partner raised her hand and rattled off the following (hopefully hypothetical) BAD day:

• "Your cat is pregnant by the dog. Your husband is in bed with a man. The refrigerator is broke. Your dad is a transvestite. And your kid was killed in a car accident."

Yipes. Think about that the next time you're tempted to complain about your life.

I wish you all a GOOD day, dear readers!

No Use Crying Over Spilt MILK

Figures that as soon as I reveal my MILK secret (money.id.lipstick.keys) to the world, the whole acronym falls to shit. I was a few hours into Saturday night when I came to the sad realization that I had forgotten my ID and credit card at home. This is what I get for making a hasty switch from my giant work purse to my slim "going out" purse without going through the MILK mental checklist. But Marilyn wouldn't let that little snafu hold her back! Quick detour to pick up her ID, and she's back in the game! Gotta keep on keepin' on.

Seeking validation, I said to the bouncer: "Hey, funny story. See how I just got out of that cab? Well, I was already downtown earlier in the night, but I had forgotten my ID. People told me I couldn't get in here without my ID, so I went all the way back home to get it. Is there any way you would have let me in without the ID?" His stoic response: "Absolutely not." He was clearly uninterested in my backstory, but I babbled on: "Okay, so you're saying I definitely made the right decision?" He had already moved on to the next person in line, and barked at me, "It's $5 to get in." Ouch... in my FACE.

This leads us to an examination of the MILK hierarchy. Clearly, I is the most integral component. You can't play the game if you can't get in. M & K are a toss-up. Both are important, but if you play your cards right, you can probably get away without them. What about L, you ask? That's recently been knocked down a notch.

You see, Marilyn's life started out with a serious weight problem. Please stop feeding me! I can't move my face. She seemed destined to be plagued by body image issues.

However, by age 3, she had slimmed down a bit and started looking to cousin Kelly for make-up tips. I'm in awe of your beauty. Teach me how to apply lipstick.

From that day forth, L became an important part of the equation. (Okay, maybe not that day forth, but you get the point. There's a reason a lady goes out with MILK, and not just MIK.) All that primping and preening and coiffing. Does it really matter? Apparently not.

Because you know what, Marilyn? Even when the lipstick wears off... you're still pretty :)

South Cakalackey

Marilyn had an honest-to-goodness southern/redneck experience this weekend. Friday night involved wings and beer at Hooters. The only other time I have been to a Hooters was in Ocean City, MD immediately after high school graduation. At that point in my life (having only lived in Ashland, PA and being under age 21), the Hooters experience was somewhat risque and daring. This weekend, it was just sad. Wings: tasted bad. Beer: tasted like any other beer. I spotted the following sign handwritten in sharpie marker on an 8x11 sheet of paper : "Try our cheese sticks and Bud Lite." Mmmm... delectable!

The Hooters experience was followed by a sweatpants-mandatory house party. This initially sounded super cozy and casual. Upon changing from "real" clothes into sweat clothes, Cousin Patches observed, "I'm only marginally more comfortable than I was before." Come to think of it, I agree. Sure, sweatsuits are soft and all, but are they THAT much more comfy than your daily clothes? If so, consider whether you might be buying too-small pants (BTW: I'm not buying too-small pants. I'm simply not buying pants because I refuse to acknowledge that I may have gone up a size since I last bought good dress pants.)

The sweatsuit cannot boast about its comfort NOR its warmth. Sure, I see the insulation properties of a form-fitting fleece top. However, an XL sweatshirt or hoodie provides no such benefit. Without direct material-to-skin contact, there is no warmth advantage. Refer to my past analysis of the NZ burrito vs. taco sleeping method for further explanation. What is the point of swimming in a giant poncho of a sweatshirt?? None, unless you're trying to conceal a figure flaw.

In the aftermath of the sweatsuit party, I found myself in the parking lot of a South Carolina gas station at 1:30am. Three young big-boned girls wearing daisy dukes (in January) with cowboy boots were being oogled by an old man who held the door open. Exiting out of the same door was a sweatsuit-clad man carrying a newly purchaed case of Miller Lite. "Geez, this place is full of white trash," I thought. Then I looked down and saw that I was wearing an XL sweatshirt emblazoned with the Miller Lite logo. Ehhh... Marilyn's judgments exclude present company.

For the love of comfort and sweatsuits, here are a few of my oldest and dearest girlfriends: Nic, Erin, and Kel.

This picture was taken on New Year's Day 2005 on the beaches of Atlantic City. This would be a natural segue into my thoughts on Jersey Shore, MTV's new hit reality show... except I am the only person in America to have not yet seen an episode of this show.

Complete and Total Mystery

I got a chuckle out of this article from The Onion:
"Roommate's Work Schedule Remains Complete and Total Mystery"

I've had my fair share of roommates over the years. Some were great and some made me wish I was homeless. Take, for example, a girl I lived with my sophomore year of college. We will call her T. I blame that entire miserable year of life on my friend Jess. We were supposed to live together sophomore year, but Jess decided to transfer schools at the last minute. I had no one to room with and was forced to enter the housing lottery on my own. The housing gods matched me up with T, a freshman who had apparently never done a single thing for herself other than shop. To make matters worse, we were in the smallest dorm room on the entire campus. To make matters even worse, that wishy-washy Jess didn't transfer after all but those housing gods would not let us change room assignments. (By the time Jess and I finally lived together in senior year, I had almost forgiven her).

T was having a torrid love affair with her 26-year-old chemistry lab supervisor Grant (cannot believe I still remember his name). I got to hear all the details via her tearful phone conversations with her friends... and her mom. Seems like an odd conversation for an 18-year-old to have with her mom, but this family was weird. Her older brother was a Blue Man. That's just not natural.

T's nighttime routine involved stumbling into the room drunk, banging into furniture and turning on all the lights. At least I had the common decency to stumble and bang in the dark! T's morning routine included a blowdryer and CD player (typically India Arie) 5 feet from my sleeping face when there was a full bathroom 15 feet down the hallway. She would often comment that she didn't have enough "alone time" and college was hard for her because she didn't have to share a room with anyone back at her parents' house. Me either, bitch.

I was pushed to my breaking point when T asked if we could make a schedule to allocate room time. For example, if she wanted to hang out alone from 1-3pm on a Thrusday, I should simply find another place to be. HA. HA. HA. I pointed out that my weekly schedule was always taped to my desk, available to peruse at her leisure. This schedule included a full-time course load and 2 jobs, so you can see that I must have spent loads of time "hanging" in the room and breathing her air.

In some cases, the "complete and total mystery" is the bratty roommate, not the other roommate's work schedule.

Busy Bee

Gosh, it's been almost a week since I last wrote you, dear readers! Time flies. I've been busy... a good busy.

1) Marilyn has been enjoying the weekends!

2) Maureen has been work, work, working. As of January, I think I'm officially done my moonlighting job... a job I originally tried to quit in July 2008. They kept sucking me back, which was mutually beneficial. It is with mixed emotions that I finally say goodbye. The additional money was nice, but man it sucked to come home from work and keep working. The end of job #2 comes just as job #1 is really starting to pick up.

3) I'm suffering from a combination of writer's block, time constraints and guilt. My job in NZ was such a joke that I always blogged at worked. No can do now. Sadly, I have real duties to fulfill. Don't get me wrong; many aspects of this new job are joke-ish and it gives me SO MUCH material. However, it is a good career opportunity and I must tread carefully. Mama needs to keep her jobby job.

Always a Bridesmaid

Here's an oldie but a goodie for your amusement. This is me as a junior bridesmaid in 1992. Thanks to this atrocious photo, I was a 2007 People magazine finalist for "Ugliest Bridesmaid."

What a pastel disaster! God knows you couldn't buy this mess of a dress off the rack. The bride had these dresses custom made by a tailor. I clearly remember going to the tailor's house... and going into his bedroom for a fitting... and, uhh, sitting on his water bed. In retrospect, this seems suspicious. I can't remember if there was wood paneling and a home video camera, but it's possible. Perhaps the "tailor's" glaring lack of fashion sense should have tipped me off that his design business was a front.

The devil is in the details. The dress features a giant 3D pink rosette flanked by puffy sleeves the size of my head. It was like wearing football gear. Each car could hold only two bridesmaids due to our large wingspan.  The bodice had pink piping that went up around the hips and came to a point right where it matters. Gotta accentuate the positive! Oh right, I was 11...pervy tailor. The look was completed by baby’s breath in the hair, white stockings, and white boats on my feet.

If I looked awkward as an 11-year-old girl, imagine the grown women forced to wear this dress. Brace yourself.

Raindrops on Roses and Such

From time to time, I will share some of my favorite things with you, dear readers. How exciting! Maureen might be on a budget, but Marilyn's money is burning a hole in her pocket. How exciting! Let her help you spend your discretionary income.

At some point in every girl's life, she learns never to leave home without her MILK. I first heard this term as a college freshman and I still use it as a quick check before a night out on the town. As concerned as I am about the health of my bones, osteoporosis is not my main concern on a Friday night. The MILK I'm talking about is...

•  Money
•  ID
•  Lipstick (Or, more likely, lip gloss. Lipstick is often too Aunt Ethel for my taste.)
•  Keys 

Unzip your purses, ladies, because I'm about to throw a new weapon into your arsenal. Drumroll please...

COLGATE WISPS!

You'll have to come up with your own acronym. I can't think of a catchy way to add a "C" or "W" to milk.... KWILM?

These mini disposable toothbrushes are the cutest oral hygiene product I ever did see! And, bonus, they're highly useful. Each wisp comes pre-loaded with a dollop of toothpaste, and the end of the tiny handle is fashioned into a toothpick. Each is individually packaged so you can slip it right back into its foil wrapper if you don't have immediate access to a trashcan. I keep at least one wisp in every purse and I've also added them to the emergency supply kit I keep in my desk. (Note: Said emergency supply kit was assembled to address a bad hair day or hangover, but not an earthquake. Just one way in which South Carolina differs from New Zealand.)

I'm not the only one who has taken notice of the Colgate Wisps. I was recently watching The Tonight Show, and Jay Leno made some crack about how Americans are too fat and lazy to squeeze out their own toothpaste. Now, come on! No one is suggesting you use the wisp as your primary toothbrush. In fact, that would be gross. Jay is so obviously out-of-touch with the young demographic that NBC is booting him right out of the 10pm time slot.

Perk up your ears, Jay, and let me tell you why the wisp is perfect for a gal on the go.

• Say you've been drinking coffee all morning, ate tuna for lunch, and have an important 1pm meeting. No worries. Whip out a wisp!
  
• Say you're out at the bar and need to slip away to "poke yourself in both eyes at the same time." No problem. Whip out a wisp!
• Say you can't quite make it home on Saturday night and have to crash at your cousin's house... No cause for concern. Whip out a wisp! (And by "cousin," I mean... cousin. Sadly, this is not a euphemism.)

Noon, night, and morning needs for a convenient disposable toothbrush. You'll soon be wondering what you did before the wisp. Okay, maybe you used those Oral-B Brush-Ups finger cover things. Whatever, this is better.