Posted By startswithanx on July 1, 2009

Three years ago this weekend, a guy named Jake saw fireworks. The kind that get lit after a good three movie dates and launch when a chick named X finally agrees to spoon with the guy who’s been crushing on her a year and then eventually burst into beautiful sparks after the spoon starts to feel more like a fork. That’s right, the Fourth of July is the first time Jake hit the snacks.

After that, we were pretty much inseparable and, even though I made him wait a few months before bestowing him with “the title,” we kind of think of Independence Day as the real day we lost our freedom.

To celebrate, we’re heading to L.A. this weekend and spending a night in Newport Beach, too. We are both in dire need of this short little getaway. So much so I’ve been planning out the freakin’ road trip and what I’m gonna chow down on during lulls at work. Funyuns, Starburst and Smart Food, for anyone wondering. I know, I know. Jake told me the same thing three years ago: My snacks are the bomb.

Basically this post was to get all you guys to think of Jake and I when watching those fireworks on Saturday. Or when biting into a hot dog. Alright, I’ll stop. Seriously though, I hope everyone has a great, safe Fourth!

I love you, Jake, and can’t wait to celebrate three years of “forking” this weekend!

Category: meme, relationships, this happened | 13 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By startswithanx on June 30, 2009

Jake says he feels like the kids on “Jon & Kate Plus 8” every time I blog about him. If I was getting free tummy tucks, trips to Hawaii and $75,000 for every post, I might see his point.

**********************

Ever noticed reality stars have a bad habit of interviewing themselves when they go on talk shows? Example: “Was I the one who exposed the book? Yes. Would I do it again? Absolutely. Do I think Danielle has negative intentions? You bet your ass I do. Will I ever let an interviewer get a question in edgewise? Hell to the no.”

They might as well throw stuff like this in there: “Who’s a more creative whacker, my husband or Tony Soprano? That’s none of your damn business! Can you feel my breasts to find out if they’re fake, like Dina says? How dare you make me ask myself that. Do I want to end this interview right now? You’re damn right I do.”

**********************

While I’m on the reality show kick, I posed this question on Facebook the other day so I might as well ask you guys. How is it that, this late in the game, people can still go on “Intervention” and not know the intervention is coming? It’s to the point I’m kind of feeling ripped off, like there’s no more holding your breath when the interventionist asks if they will “take this treatment today.”

I want the junkies back who don’t think they want help, dammit. People who feel ambushed when they see their family and friends waiting for the group hug. Like, “Oh, hell no. You aint gonna get me with this love bullshit. Uh uh. Shee-it. … Not unless you got some love I can shoot up?”

Give me THOSE guys back.

Category: pop culture, question, random thoughts | 12 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By startswithanx on June 28, 2009

I’ve discovered the female sex’s answer to the mechanic rip-off. It’s called a maid service. You know how shady mechanics will take one look at a customer with a vagina and immediately decide the engine needs to be replaced in order to fix the brake pads?

Turns out maids do the same when there isn’t a single vagina in sight. It’s not extra charges, though. It’s called slacking. Slacking because they know damn well the male customer is going to do three things when they say they’re done. Pause ESPN, get the cash and show them the door. No questions asked.

The past two times we’ve used a maid service, it’s been on a Friday, when I’m at work and Jake’s the only one home. I walk in the door and find the place surface clean, but not maid service clean. I’m not a white glove kind of girl, but let’s just say if I was I’d be wearing a grey glove by the end of that test.

But don’t get it twisted. This isn’t a post about shitty maids. Nope, this post is about my poor Jake being exploited.

He can’t help if he’s not an expert in the cleaning department. He can’t help if the first time I saw him “sweeping” I thought he was assaulting our broom. He can’t help if he loads his white socks, dark dress shirts and towels together (“What? Do you know a faster way?”) in one happy bunch. He can’t help if he thinks of the greezy George Foreman grill as an appliance that should be displayed at all times. And, most of all, he can’t help it if Sports Center’s on.

So, give a guy a break already.

**Now to address the big beautiful elephant in the room. And I said I’d never have work done. Well, Mama’s eyelids were drooping a little and her booty was saggin’ a lot so you know how it goes. Big ups to my “plastic surgeon” Laura Heymann for giving my Web site its fresh new look. I’m still in the recovery phase so the whole package will be complete in a few weeks. Look out for a “Best Of” section (you didn’t hear I went platinum?) and a few other extras soon. I finally feel comfortable in my own blog skin!

Category: house, men, this happened | 18 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By startswithanx on June 25, 2009

When I fell in love for the first time my mom said it would never last.  He’s too old, too Bad, too weird. The fact every girl in my school wanted my man didn’t help matters, either. But I wasn’t tryin’ to hear that shit.

Never mind the fact that some bitch named Billie Jean claimed he fathered her child. And if you’re not going to mind that then you sure as hell better not care  that I was six-years-old at the time.

But don’t get lost in the details.

Michael Jackson made the hair on my arms stand at attention and the heart in my chest drop to the pit of my stomach, where it played with the pretty butterflies that fluttered at the mention of his name.

I can still see the poster Venus, Serena and I shared of him. The one with the yellow sweater vest and bowtie to match. Now it makes me think of soda jerks and root beer floats, but then? Then it made me whisper “I love you” just before kissing his lips every night with a tear in my eye. No shit.

And then I’d go to school the next morning in downtown Salt Lake City, about a half hour before the bell, and watch the kids moonwalk and backspin on their cardboard boxes-turned mini dance floors. All of them either sported the white glove or red, zippered leather jacket.

And I sincerely believed I was the only one whispering sweet nothings to MJ before bed.

Fast forward to my senior year in college. My favorite journalism professor came into class with a bone to pick the morning after the VMA awards.

“Do kids really think Britney Spears is a performer?”

He shouted that question and then stood staring at us as if one of us whoopy cushioned his chair and he was gonna find out who, dammit. When no one was replying he laid into us again.

“You want a performer? You want someone worthy of selling out arenas? Someone who deserves the title ‘superstar?’ Who can dance and I mean really dance, nothing like what Britney Spears tried to do last night.”

We all sat there, waiting for the answer and all I remember thinking was “Oh God, here we go. Yeah, let’s hear how great Elvis was.” And then my 50 year old professor shocked the shit out of me: “MICHAEL. JACKSON.”

Hair on the arms: Stood straight up.
Heart in the chest: Dropped straight down.
Butterflies in the stomach: Fluttered all around.

It’s the same feeling I’ve got right now as I watch BET’s tribute, an MJ video marathon. You know it’s major when videos make a comeback.

I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna be blastin’ my first love this weekend and dancing my ass off. I can’t think of a better way to honor the King of Pop.

Category: memories, pop culture, this happened, tribute | 23 Comments »
Tags:

Posted By startswithanx on June 23, 2009

We’re all familiar with the guy we know and refer to as the Douche Bag. His hair could win honors in art sculpture exhibits. A sudden smile from him leaves the same blind spot in your eyesight as a camera flash. And, his car’s spoiler should come with hovering abilities it’s so space age.
Yes, he could be your neighbor’s son, the neglected nephew or the kid bagging your groceries. Whoever he is to you, to the rest of the world he is the Douche Bag. But what about his female counterpart, the Douche Baguette? Have you met her? Allow me to be the first to introduce you:

• DB loves to color her hair, but insists on one of two styles. Skunk streaks — those are the “highlights” that are actually just stripes — or the lovely pitch black bottom layer on a head of hair that otherwise resembles pee-stained snow.
• Juicy Couture sweatsuits, preferably just above the pubic bone, make DB giddy. But lopsided Ed Hardy hats? Oh, she’ll trade in her supreme deluxe tanning salon membership for one of those.
• Flower designs, crystal thingies and fun stickers, DB believes, should all just be included in the price of a standard pedicure. The only add-ons should be, like, that one time she had them airbrush Nickelback lyrics on each nail.
• DB’s MySpace page boasts 78 photos of the cleavage under her breasts and a mere 3 pictures of her 4-year-old daughter, who is her “world.”
• DB signs all her text messages with “Rock out with your cock out!”
• At parties, when DB has a mostly male audience, she likes to rub up on her close girlfriends and occasionally pinch their nipples. The Douche Baguette community as a whole refers to this as “dancing.”
• She used to like Disney characters on her ankles, then got into tribal work on the small of her back, but now DB’s settling on arm sleeve tattoos.
• She doesn’t speak French, but DB’s acrylic nails are always in a French manicure and she’d like to know if that counts.
• DB thinks of her life in two phases, Before Silicone and After Silicone.
• Last but not least, when the Miss Hawaiian Tropic judge asked DB what her proudest accomplishment was, she wanted to know if he meant, like, what VIP lines she’s gotten into.

And, there you have the Douche Baguette. I know, I know. You know her, you just never knew her name. Isn’t it great to finally put a name with a face? You can thank me later.

Category: pop culture, tribute, women | 20 Comments »
Tags: