Previously on OBG... The Pilot

(for those of you a little slow on the uptake, the following should be read with Dallas-esque levels of drama and theatrics) 

Although inspired in part by a true incident, 

the following story is fictional 

and does not depict any actual person or event.*

When we last left OBG... 

...she was wallowing deep in the self-pitying depths of the deadly Swamps of Sadness, discouraged by the lack of job prospects and by life in general. Landlord Dude had just confirmed with OBG that he had, in fact, already rented her room out for July and that she would, in fact, be without a home in less than a month. OBG, dismayed by her future, or lack-thereof, was quickly drinking her way through a case of Magic Hat, suffering from a bout of insomnia, and wondering how, OH DEAR GOD, HOW would she make it to her eye appointment on time?

We now join OBG at her eye appointment, which, with the help of her iHome and the wonders of Google Maps, she made it to on time...

Doctor (scribbling on his notepad): Well, it seems your left eye is weaker than your right...and you seem to be slow to focus...

OBG: Okay...
Doctor (looking up from clipboard): It appears... you have... (dramatic pause)... astigmatism.
OBG (wringing hands): But what does it all mean, doctor?
Doctor: Basically, it means that your eyeballs are football shaped when they should be baseball shaped.
OBG: Oh. But, I don't even like sports. Doctor, (dramatically drapes hand across forehead) is it... curable, doctor?
Doctor: I'm writing you a prescription that should help and give you better than 20/20 vision.
OBG: Oh. But, doctor, what about driving at night? I'm practically BLIND at night. (throws self dramatically across the chair) Whatever can be done?
Doctor: Well, this prescription should help with that.
OBG: Oh.
Doctor (all serious and shit): But I must warn you, you should probably... avoid driving at night.
OBG (gasps): But... I'm...  a night owl! Nooooooo......

After surviving the trauma of the eye doctor and his evil tools of torture that puff air into your unsuspecting eyes, OBG began her weekend adventures with a trip through the evil state that is... New Jersey...

OBG (all sweaty and disheveled from spending five hours stuck in Jersey traffic): DAMN YOU, JERSEY! DAMN YOU! Now I'll never make it to Happy Hour on time!

After her harrowing trip through Jersey and, subsequently, Delaware, the OBG finally arrived at her destination, the dreaded NOVA, where she had plans to attend a wine festival the following day. We now join her at said wine festival...

OBG (dramatically dragging herself across the field towards the crowded ice cream stand): I must... have... ice cream...
The G-Man (heroically picking OBG up off the ground): You can't handle the ice cream! Don't you know?!? It's made with... eggs!
OBG (throwing hand across forehead): {Gasp} No! Not all of it! Soft serve isn't! I'm sure of it! And... (alternates hand dramatically thrown across forehead)... I'm... PMS-ing! And... (alternates hand dramatically thrown across forehead)... it's soooo hot here! We don't have these levels of humidity in New York (dramatically relaxes body and collapses into the G-Man's arms) I... want... ice cream... now...
The G-Man (desperately shaking OBG by the shoulders): Get a hold of yourself, woman! Look at that line! That's a 30 minute wait... at best! And with these temperatures, and with your white, white skin... (shakes head)... well, I can only imagine...
OBG (whimpering): But... but... I want it...
The G-Man: What if we get another bottle of wine?
OBG (dramatically standing): {sigh} Okay. (thinking to self) But I'm on to you. Oh yes, I am. You may have won this time, with your distracting, tempting offer of sweet, sweet wine, but I will get my ice cream. Oh yes, I will.

Next time on OBG...

... will OBG ever get her ice cream? (Editor's Note: OBG never got her ice cream, but she did get two more bottles of wine and pizza.) How did OBG end up in DC at 1905 eating ravioli that she didn't even want? And why were there peas involved? Are they following her? Will OBG ever learn her lesson? Will OBG ever stop wearing white skirts to parties in fields? Will OBG survive her drive back through New Jersey? Will she ever find employment? Will OBG take the G-Man up on his offer and move to NOVA? Or will her Prince Charming finally rescue her from the Swamps of Sadness and whisk her off to Never, Never Land where she will never have to grow up?** And whatever did happen to that earring? And furthermore, did anyone know that Courteney Cox was in Masters of the Universe?

Stay tuned for the next episode of OBG, where all of these questions will be answered. Or none of them. It could go either way.

* In other words, I embellished a little. But only a little. Real life is boring and less dramatic. But not much.

** Yeah, I know. I'm mixing fantasies and fictional characters here, but it's my story, dammit, and if I want Prince Charming to take me to Never, Never Land on the wings of Falkor, so be it. Thank you very much.

A Cross Between Sweet Valley High and Ginger Snaps*

                   
I've got the bloat, the bitchies, the munchies, the crankies...

I'm consuming disgustingly vast quantities of popcorn, chocolate, potato chips and french onion dip (contrary to what you think, dip isn't always eaten alongside chips. It can be eaten straight out of the jar. With a spoon. Not that I know anything about that...)

Parts of my body are currently 5x their normal size. You know, my butt, my gut, my boobs, my ankles and my cheeks.

I have lost all sense of personal hygiene, meaning, I may or may not have stopped showering, brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, shaving, wearing deodorant**...

I may or may not be wearing these pants (click to enlarge)...

...holed up in my room and avoiding going out in public at all cost (hello! Did you see what I was wearing?)

If you don't know what any of this means, I can only assume that you are male. And not having sex on a regular basis. Meaning you must not have a woman in your life right now. Or else you would totally understand.

You're probably wondering what this all means to you, right? Well, not that much, but I thought I would mention it. I also thought I should mention that in a few days I will be venturing to my sisters house for a week. We have big plans. Mainly, the LOST series finale on Sunday (yeah, I'm driving 5-6 hours for a TV show. What of it?). There will also be tons of nephew bonding, a game night, and a party for a 3rd birthday.

Unfortunately, my sis does not have wireless internet, which means I can't use my laptop there and am limited to her desktop that lives in the upstairs hallway. Which means, I can't promise much in the way of posts for a week beginning on Sunday. I'm trying my hardest to pre-write and schedule some posts, which is going well seeing as I have no intention of venturing out into the real world until the bloat is over (one of the only bonuses to being unemployed).

Can someone please remind me that I've got shit to do on Friday. You know, that whole you're-a-smarty-pants award thing? Thanks.

For your entertainment, I present to you, my toe wound (you're going to be tempted to click on this image to enlarge it. For the love of god, don't do it! You've been warned.):

Incidentally, the toe is starting to smell a little. And it no longer looks like this as I took this pic on Monday. I'm slightly concerned. Especially since the skin flap is starting the shrink away from the edges of the gaping wound, which, although you can't really tell from this pic, is quite deep. I'm thinking I might have to preform some surgery here in the near future. *sigh*

UPDATE: I just managed to drop a knife on my toe (yes, that toe) while making toast. I am, by far, the most consistent uncoordinated person EVER. 

UPDATE ON THE UPDATE: And then I proceeded to trip across my bed (yes, across my bed. Don't ask) on my way to post this update and dragged my toe across the bed. That skin flap is so toast (haha).

So, in conclusion, my gut feels like Mount Saint Helens***, my toe smells like Limburger, and I'm on the verge of becoming a super-hairy, super-smelly, hermit/recluse. Or maybe something more like this:

(Original source)

And furthermore, what is up with the world being sans PMS-meds right now? Seriously, that shit should be handed out like candy to every woman anytime we walk into a drug store/grocery store/post office/coffee shop/liquor store...

* See here and here if you didn't catch the meaning of this post's title.

** If you're new to this blog, at this point you're probably imagining how seriously freakin' hot I am, right? And you would be right. I am smokin'!

*** This site says Mount Saint Helens is a volcano that "erupted in 1980 and wreaked havoc on the people once again." I was born in 1980. Coincidence? I think not.

Screw the couch cushions, check under the dryer!

  

... because apparently this is where money goes to reproduce. Let me explain.

I skipped work today so I could stay home and do laundry. True story. Before you judge, understand that my job isn't a real job, I only work 20 hours a week, I make up my own hours, and when I go into work, there's never anything for me to do anyway. Really, truly, there's not. Plus, it was either do laundry today or go into work looking like this:

(I call this look post-90s college-grunge. This is something I would have worn to the studio in college back in the day. I dig this get-up out only for really special occasions. And laundry day.)

Yeah, good decision, right? (For those of you interested, I AM available for fashion consultation, but only on Tuesdays and Fridays, but not this Friday because I skipped work today and will have to make up the hours on Friday). Anyway....

Laundry day. I haul my laundry down to the basement with my $10 roll of quarters. It costs $3 to do one complete load of laundry, therefore I'm counting on being able to do 3 out of the 5 loads worth of dirty laundry I have strewn across my bedroom floor. 

So I load up the washer, put my bottle of detergent and roll of quarters on top of the empty DRYER and head back upstairs to work on transcribing some interviews I'm behind on. (I know, if you only had my life, right? Be jealous.) Twenty minutes later, time to switch the laundry. Back downstairs, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Yeah, an empty quarter roll and my detergent on the floor. 

If you've been paying attention, you should know that 1. I've only done half a load of laundry, costing $1.50 which means I should have $8.50 left in my quarter roll and 2. I put my quarters and detergent on top of an empty dryer, not the washer. Therefore, you're probably wondering the same thing I was wondering at this point, what happened to all my quarters and how did my detergent get on the floor? These questions shall forever remain unanswered. Well, except that I did find my quarters. They were UNDER the dryer. Not kidding. WTF?

After pulling out the washer and dryer, digging out the dirty and grimy quarters and wiping them off on the throw rug, I count them up to make sure I have my entire $8.50 (quarter rolls are hard to come by in this town. Maybe someday I'll tell you the story of that adventure). Well, what to my wondering eyes should appear this time? $10.50 worth of quarters. Whoa! Jackpot! I cannot , however, explain any of this.

I may never find out how my quarters ended up under the dryer (did I mention the empty quarter roll was still on top of the dryer? Yeah, it was. Creepy stuff), but I do know that 1. I can now do all 5 loads of laundry, 2. money is alive and multiplies under basement dryers and 3. I'm headed back downstairs to stuff some $10 bills under the dryer as soon as I'm done with this post.

UPDATE: If you're any good at quick math, you probably noticed that even with the additinal $2 of quarters, I still don't have enough to do 5 loads of laundry. Yeah, I'm not good at quick math. Somehow, in all the excitement, 5 x $3 = $12. I am stupid.

I crack myself up...

    

I came across this pic as I was uploading photos for a post on my alias blog, The Bitter Blonde. I had completely forgotten I took this! 

Last week, we actually got hit with some snow (about 6 inches. I know, extreme, right!? Someone call a state of emergency, stat!). Being the ever-ready, Adirondack-born, mountain girl that I am, I have been storing my winter gear in my car. I know, I'm super smart. 

In my defense, the last "blizzard" we got here resulted in about three inches of snow. In the Adks, I still wore my flip flops in three inches of snow* (and I still have all my toes. Amazing.)!

Well, I took it upon myself to go outside about midday and shovel the steps and walkway to our house (my housemates are all, what we 'dackers would call, city-folk and can't be trusted with this task).  Being sans winter boots and winter jacket, this is the stylishly fabulous outfit I doned for the job. 

Please take particular note of the jeans tucked inside the thermal socks (the longest pair I own). This was to prevent the bottoms of my jeans (which are no strangers to mud and puddles, mind you) from dragging in the snow and becoming sopping wet all the way up to my knees. 

Really, I should be ashamed to call mysef an Adirondacker or a mountain girl or claim roots in the North Country. I can feel the slickerness of the city slowly taking over...

* I have a very funny story of a time when I had to help my step-father haul buckets of water from our house to his garage in order to put out a chimney fire. It was the dead of winter, I was home sick from school, and I was barefoot. To be continued...

I submit to you, Exhibit A... my ass.

True story. I was taking some pictures of myself wearing the new shoes I bought today. Why? Because that's what I do. Not really. I was taking them to show my sis who lives about 6 hours away. She likes shoes and shoe shopping and all sorts of other girly stuff that I am no good at (I like to think that along with my right eye, she also stole my half of the girliness during gestation, but that's neither here nor there). I'm convinced I have some sort of condition that makes it impossible for me to find shoes that fit me. They fit fine in the store, but the moment I take them home they're either too loose and fall right off my feet or so tight my toes scream bloody murder every time I try to put them on. My closet is full of shoes I've worn once, but I digress.

I thought my sister would be proud of my recent purchases because, not only did I buy pointy-toed shoes, I bought pointy-toed boots. (I have to admit, this is only the 2nd time I've photographed my shoes for my sis to see, but after she was flabbergasted by my purchase of T-strap sandals! I felt I needed to show off my boots too.) So, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, snapping away at my feet when I was struck with a moment of brilliance. OMG, I wonder if my butt really looks the way I think it does when I look in the mirror!?

We've all been there at some point in time, right? You're in the fitting room, trying on the perfect pair of jeans, and your butt looks fabulous! and you just HAVE to buy them, right? Only to get them home and realize that your butt looks nothing at all like you thought it did? (I believe dressing rooms are secretly equipped with magic mirrors that make your ass look good in everything. On the flip side, they make your thighs look hideous in every single bathing suit you try one. I think it's all part of some man's conspiracy to keep normal women out of bikinis. There. The secrets out. You're welcome.) My perfect jeans are from H&M and have back pockets with flaps that make my butt look cute and high and round and perfectly grabbable. And the best part, they continued to look that way once I brought them home. Score! (Let me just add that nothing ever looks good in an H&M dressing room, so I felt like I had literally struck gold here.)

So, in typical What Not to Wear secret footage style (you know, that awful video footage they show to the women, who up until this point thought they looked good in what they were wearing until they saw themselves on film? From behind.) I photographed my butt. I submit for your consideration, my ass, or as I now like to refer to it, the-ass-that-never-was.

(sigh) I can just hear Stacey and Clinton now...

Clinton: Where's your tushie? There's no tushie here.

Stacey (as she waves her hand in circles over my butt):  Look at how flat this is. These are not flattering.

(SIGH) and the quest for the perfect pair of jeans continues. I'm sure hitting the stairmaster couldn't hurt either.