oh johnny.

it's kind of staggering how hot johnny damon is with his beard and the hair. i mean, sure, jesus-y, but in that fucking hot, who's-your-daddy way. i am fine with that way. in fact, i like that way best. sort of dirty, and scruffy. he's been playing for the red sox, which really means he's a scrapper. a real live sports movie come to life. and well, look at him. it's not just me, right? the red sox means nothing to me beyond the fact that i have a couple friends that are red sox fans, and when the red sox lose, i feel their pain inasmuch as they feel the pain, well, because generally, we all suffer when the sox blow it. still, now they are a success story, and johnny damon's hot form really represents that.

but generally, the kind of venom i have for the yankees is a little akin to what i feel for the cowboys. i would root against the yankees on any given day of the week, if they were playing anybody. but i have so much more fodder now that damon has signed a four year, 52 million dollar contract with the fucking yankees. let's spell that out, shall we? damon helped the red sox, sworn, mortal enemies of the yankees, win the world series for the first time in however many years, and now, johnny damon, mr. red sox, is playing for the FUCKING YANKEES. which whatevah, i would drool over him in pinstripes or red, but the yankees go too far. they have to kill everything beautiful and good in the world. i hate them. H-A-T-E. it's not right. they are making dude shave and get a fucking flat top. it's not right. why not kill puppies and cavort with clowns while you're at it yankees organization? you already scare the fuck outta me with your shenanigans. shit ain't right.

humbug.

t minus 6 days until we celebrate the birth of our saviour baby jesus and all the angels sing and we celebrate by going to the gap for that one unique heartfelt gift that says, 'baby jesus died for your sins and all i got was this lousy t-shirt.'

current mood: a little george bailey at martini's bar, pre-clarence.

i spent yesterday trying to wrap up the shopping and the joy and fa-la-fuckin'-las. i'm almost done. i know i am forgetting people. i am forgetting things. it all seems so forced finding gifts, and tokens of your love. right now. and despite my pledges that i wasn't going overboard, i feel overboard. it doesn't seem enough. and yet it seems too much. why are gifts for my mom so hard to buy, for example? i mean besides the fact that she is ubershopper. she always gets what she needs, and inevitably says she wants nothing. or she says, sure get me slippers. and when you talk to her a week later, she says, "i just got the cutest slippers." anyway, just say something, am i right? like, yeah, for example, i have always wanted a marionette. a really creepy marionette that i can learn to do creepy things with. i am currently obsessed with scott radke's work. anyway, this would force people to look for one weird thing and not buy me a bunch of crap i don't need or want. i am bitter. i want it all to be easy. instant gift that gets my loved ones teary-eyed. it's not going to happen. i buy off of wish lists. i am just that kind of person.

it other scroogey news. santa wars as deposed father christmas fumes. this whole article is incredibly interesting. i am especially fascinated with the competition for santa of the world itself:

At the Games in Gallivare in Swedish Lapland, Santas sled, race reindeer-drawn sleighs, eat porridge -- with a splash on the beard earning instant disqualification -- climb chimneys and deliver presents under the watchful gaze of a panel of judges.

Horniblew said it all came down to the reindeer sled race.

"You go up two at a time, head-to-head," he told The Mail on Sunday.

"I was up against the Estonian and I won the race. He actually fell off his sleigh. But he got awarded extra points for falling in a particularly Santa-like style.

"I was pretty miffed at that, I can tell you."

holy shit, that's funny. but this is what upsets me, because most of you know, i really enjoy the seeing santa at the bus stop, drunk with a cigarette.

Uniformed Santas must not smoke, drink alcohol, or swear.

what?!?!? that is what christmas is all about in my family. merry christmas, you wonderful old building and loan!

the 6th level of hell: abercrombie & fitch. at christmas time. in a new jersey mall.

it's not that i particularly hate the young, beautiful and skinny. granted, i am old, ugly and fat, so there is a sense in which i have an almost existential sense of the fuckuppedness of it all now. a grander understanding of the huge cosmic joke which is a becoming a 30+ year old woman in a world that makes prepubescence and anorexia sexy. friday afternoon, my sis and the kids and i headed over to the cherry hill mall to fully grasp what hell is like, all its circles. it's divine comedy, so to speak. no, it was fine. fun to be with the family. but you know, i really am afraid of teenagers. i cross the street. look at the tops of my shoes, pray to sweet baby jesus that they don't steal my credit cards and then mock my sense of style and my lack of understanding of the crazy shizzle that comes out of their perfect little mouths. so imagine my horror and surprise when walking by abercrombie and fitch, i see in the doorway a male model with no shirt on, and a female girl, both hot teenagers posing. here is my sister and my exchange:
"holy fuck." i said, "i hate those people."
"oh, it's much worse than you think. they charge 15 bucks to get your picture taken with one of them."
"WHAT?!"
"yeah, 15."
"you'd think they'd get a prettier model for that."
"she's okay, i think the thing is she is young."
"who would do that?"
"teenage girls, i suppose."
"man, i should do that. that would be fucking hilarious. and when i go up and say, 'yeah, i'd like picture.' and they put the hot young guy next to me, i say, 'no, no, with her' and wink at her. perhaps i would get arrested for pedophilia though."
"that would be hilarious, but really really creepy."

ny times think of this hilarious practical joke with pig's blood at the senior prom.

i'm reading this article on the NYTimes with the headline: doctors removing growth from teen's face, because, well, i'm morbid like that, and read any article that sounds like it might have a freaky picture on it. article reads and i quote:

A 14-year-old Haitian girl underwent a rare operation Wednesday to remove much of a 16-pound tumor-like growth on her face that all but obliterated her features.

This is a sad, inspiring story of american medicine. a heroic one, one where obstacles are overcome. A 14 year old girl whose features are obliterated by a tumor the size of a three month old child is SO not getting a date for the spring formal. she is incredibly thankful. everything is going well. somehow my sympathetic false memories of having a carrie-like high school experience exude from my pores, and i think, i would be friend with you 14 year old haitan girl. i wipe a tear, sort of. seriously, i am touched, and then out of the corner of my eye i catch a moving ad, you know, how they are on every fucking page you click on these days. and i see this:

the nytimes is just fucking mean. ha ha, growth girl! in your face, ha ha. they are like junior high school boys, que no? can't find a better fucking page to put that ad on? not only that, it is a microsoft ad whose tag is something about evolution. can we be a little more sensitive, you fucking nation galaga shit head assholes. is this not the premise of like every john hughes movie. so, just for shits and giggles, i click on this story: the face of the future in thursday style section, and the ad on that page is for cartier's bridal collection. GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK. so the article about how extreme plastic surgery with a picture of a seemingly attractive woman covered in plastic surgery stuff gets a cartier ad, like you TOO can get married if you have extreme plastic surgery to make you look like a stepford wife. i have not the words to describe the levels in which this rubs me up the wrong way, and yet seems like something that would only make me mad. and you don't want to see me angry.

if i were a little pony, i would be this one.

yeah, i am currently all about the candy canes. i mean, i have a self-imposed limit of one candy cane a day, and during lunch hour, after downing like an andre the giant size meatloaf lunch with this wicked good gorgonzola sauce, asparagus and sweet potatoes of pain, i went a lookin' for my one allotted candy cane. no. where. shivers. shakes. it was no place to be found. i eventually recovered it from the pocket of my jacket when i was headed out to buy a box. why am i so so insane? i mean, it's christmas, yes. it's shoved down our throats and everything, and i am totally shepeople. a perfect marketing target audience for santa and all his clauses, que no? i can't get enough. ubermensch has got the ray coniff singers crooning their stupid saturday night special on abc crap on infinite repeat. i am wearing red everyday and currently on the prowl for some rocking holiday ribbon for my homemade wreath. if i buy anything with a snowman on it, and say, it is so cute, y'all have officially earned the right to buy me a pack of cigarettes, a fifth of j.d., and tie me to a christmas tree beating me incessantly with wrapped gifts until i get bitter and angst-y again.

all that being said, i am going to get HUGE. the fact of it is that it was minus 1 degree out there this morning with the wind chill factor (read: i haven't been riding my bike). i mean, my ass is not getting any smaller with all the candy canes. AND then, starbucks, the bane of my existence and my only source of joy, begin the death march of chub. egg nog lattes. yep. a venti egg nog latte contains 530 calories. FIVE HUNDRED AND THIRTY. in case you care, that's almost six glasses of wine or five shots of bourbon. my current second addiction right now: petite cookies. OH, they seem innocuous enough. and only 40 calories per ccookie. look at them. little powdered sugar vixens. how they mock me. but they are the devil. i can't get enough of them i heart them. i want to tongue kiss them. i know there are all kind of them gingerbread, chocolate (blech-y), raspberry, but no, i am currently obsessed with the peppermint ones. and only 40 calories sure i can eat a couple. i just ate 8 of them. all at one shot, with an egg nog latte and followed by the candy cane.

the shizzle. i'm telling you. i'm a fucking cow, but i am in a zen-like state of happy christmas world.

i know you want to mock me relentlessly. go ahead, skinny head, you better do it now, since i am fat and complacent, and currently unable to chase you kids down with a candy cane in my mouth, egg nog latte in my hand, and powdered sugar will leave finger prints on your pummeled form, you lucky bastard, but just so you know, i am bitter and angry about being not bitter and angry. and i will sit on you, if i catch you, you skinny biatch. word.

i want crazy ass pigtails, too.

though preferably not a monkey whose face looks like ass, neither do i want some mutant white kid gene that makes my teeth way too big for my mouth, or freckles, which just would look weird on me as a brown girl and stuff, but definitely i think the sentiment is there. i want a monkey. there i said it.

et tu, anthropolgie?

i admit i like anthropologie, even though it's owned by republicans and the clothes are clearly sewn by three-fingered blind people in ecuador who hate americans (yeah, the quality isn't worth a crap, i've gotten some better made things at the sleezy pickin's on chestnut), and tailored to fit 6 foot, rich, anemic vegan hippies who weigh 100 lbs wet, and pray to the all mighty thor, god of thunder. still, i like them, if only because i strive to wear my glasses and look sexy in old lady/librarian clothes. it's my thing. it's your thing. it's everyone's thing.

most of the time, when i see an anthropolgie outfit i think. boho. chic. funky. it defies planet gap. so, there have been times when i, angie k., have been know to spend an inordinate amount of money on a sweater i will more than likely wear only once, because the fucking catalogue made it look good. i am a marketing target audience. sad but true. in the end, as you can well imagine, the sweaters themselves generally make me look like a homeless, pudgy, dwarven freak with a big ass. and lawd knows, i have the anti-ass, so if it's making me look like i got some junk in the trunk, the problem is with them, not me.

but my point is, have you ever gotten a look at the catalogues, though? i mean, the women look awesome, even if they look like schizophrenic kennedys. you almost forget that nothing they are wearing matches, or is even in the same decade of cool. if you went out of the house wearing any outfit in the anthropologie catalogue, your partner would walk ten steps behind you, or use the relationship blow gun, meant only to be used in extreme circumstances of embarrassing.

whump.
ouch, what was that in my neck? mmmm, feeling sleepy.

next thing you know you are in gap jeans and a black tee. thank god, for the blowgun. but, really, i am currently drooling over these five hundred dollar boots, which, let's face it, i would never wear. i acknowledge this. they are cool as fuck. and i would try them on with every outfit determining that they wouldn't work with ANYTHING. so, this is why i fucking hate anthropologie inasmuchas i love anthropologie. blame genetics. blame my ability to put a fucking chic outfit together. whatever. i. fucking. hate. them.

so, what do i do, even though i know this about my tenuous relationship with anthropologie clothing? i wait for it to go on sale, then buy it on line. everyone at work aaaaaaaaaaahs, and ooooooooooooohs, because, let's face it, they are stylish clothes, that look good on sticks, and in say, plastic. then i take it home and try the items on daily to make sure they still don't look good on me. and never wear them. this interesting, and clearly dysfunctional, relationship i have with the anthropologie people has gotten out of control, because since i order on-line, i have two addresses on their mailing lists: one for delivery, one for billing. so, imagine my chagrin when i receive yet another catalogue from these people yesterday.

let's count them, shall we? i get fall, then late fall, the accessories, then holiday, then gifts, now i get a fucking SOLSTICE catalogue. solstice? only the marketing geniuses at this stupid ass place would send a solstice catalogue and charm me. damn you, anthropologie. and i don't just get one, i get one at home AND at work. two, i get two. of each. i'm sick of being stalked by these assclowns. really. because i have now looked through the same catalogue i looked through this morning, at my desk, because it was in my work mailbox. i know i am encouraging them, but it's haunting and hypnotic. and why have i decided to rant today, because this stupid ass outfit looks good to me, and i blame them. i blame anthropologie for whittling my sense of fashion and style down enough that this ac/dc short pant, suede green huge boot uglyass outfit looks good.

i'm not even going to go into the levels of pain the urban outfitter catalogue causes me--i've never even ordered from them, but seeing twelve year old hipsters staring at me with their methadone-induced pallor makes me rabid. ugh, i need a coffee and a cigarette, and clearly, a therapist.