Slovenly

The lack of blogging has been due to a sudden cold that came out of nowhere and is kicking my ass. I came to work because it was of the utmost importance that one of our authors have his signing advance processed i-m-m-e-d-i-a-t-e-l-y, but now that I'm here I just want to crawl under my cubicle and sleep. I spilled hot and sour soup on my yellow t-shirt and must now wear my gym hoodie in the office to cover the disgusting mess.

I'd create a link to Get Set Go's "Sleep" if I could find the bloody thing online.

Like lambs to the slaughter

This day can go to hell. While boss #1 is in DC hobnobbing with Democratic presidential candidate, Bill Richardson, I have the great pleasure of treading water with 25-pound rocks shackled to my ankles. Oh, I mean, keeping things afloat while he's away. Lovely.

Yesterday was the torturous publicity meeting where I sat in the hot seat and thoughtfully bobbed my head as we discussed the dismal state of affairs of boss #1's publicity opportunities--or lack thereof--for B-movie extraordinaire's autobiography and the even more dismal state of affairs of even more books. Outside of humiliation, I'm not quite sure what the purpose of the meeting was.

Today was the cover meeting where I was supposed to launch a bunch of books for cover designs, none of which I was prepared for. That went something like this:

Marketing Manager: Okay, so Bluenana is here to launch Boss #1's entire Fall list of book covers. Where would you like to start?
Me: Umm, (incomprehensible mumble).
MM: What?
Me: Well, (insert miscellaneous hems and haws here), we didn't actually discuss launching covers before Boss #1 left for DC.
MM: Oh (looks of malice, scorn, hate, and fury). I guess we'll have to discuss this offline.

At that point, I'm ushered out of the room like a 16-year old pregnant Catholic girl being sent to Wichita, Kansas to "visit her aunt." Sigh.

And furthermore, I hate that word, "offline." In corporate speak it just means, "I will chastise you privately, away from the prying ears of human resources."

I wanna go home. I have disc 4 of The 4400 season 3 and disc 3 of Veronica Mars season 1 waiting for me.

To the guy who called me a bitch on the subway,

I squealed "ouch" when you sat down because not only did you crush my leg, but your keys, cell phone, switch blade, and whatever else you keep in your pocket gashed my thigh and I thought I might be bleeding or worse, have a tear in my dress.

Mind your shit and fuck off,
Blue

I won a fake vacation

Sigh and double sigh. I received two voicemails on Thursday and Friday from Simplicity Gourmet congratulating me that I won a vacation from a raffle I entered at the March liweddings.com wedding show. I tried to call back late on Friday, but it was way past office hours and I knew I had to wait till Monday to find out what this was all about.

I called back this morning and was told that they'd call me back when they were in the NY-area again because I have to attend a 90-minute cooking show in order to qualify for the prize: an 8-day condo stay in the U.S., Europe, or Mexico. That should have been a red flag for me right then and there, but I needed HB to clear my head and help me realize this is just a pyramid scheme. Fuck.

I guess it was a waste of time to daydream about spending our honeymoon in Aix en Provence, or some such beautiful place like that.

Sigh.

Damn you, Netflix!

Once again, Netflix has completely ruined my weekend. This weekend's menu should have been:

1. The 4400, Season 1, Disc 2
2. Dead Like Me, Season 2, Disc 1
3. Dead Like Me, Season 2, Disc 2

However, I devoured The 4400 on Thursday night, so that's back in the mail, and then Dead Like Me, Disc 1 arrived with the disc snapped in half. Fuck! That means that I can't watch Disc 2, therefore I have NOTHING TO WATCH THIS WEEKEND.

Now my weekend will consist of eBay selling, which is emotionally painful and incredibly time consuming when your computer is 5 nanoseconds away from completely dying, and doing work work. Ugh, I hate doing work work at home. For some odd reason I used to like it, but I think that being older and wiser has allowed me to come to my senses. That, and the whole not giving a shit anymore about career development probably has something to do with it.

When does it stop?

Being out of the office for a week is enough to set you back a month in workload. Am I ever going to have a day when I don't feel like I'm still trying to catch up? Fuck, man. I'm tired, can't breathe, am exhausted, and I can't do everything by Friday.

Sorry, needed to let it out.

(sob)

The St. Louis Wrap Up

So, I missed my flight, scrambled like hell to build a booth in 2 hours when I got to St. Louis, had my two camera memory sticks stolen, thought I lost my cell phone, had my return flight to NY cancelled on me (and then rebooked), the plane going to NY was "broken" so I had to wait 3 hours in the airport for them to "find a new one," and St. Louis gave me a cold, which made me stay home from work today.

All in all, a fairly crumby trip. Was it worth all this effort? Hell no. In three 8-hour days manning the company booth, we sold 51 books. Not even enough to cover my food and airfare for 5 days in St. Louis.

Cough cough. Sigh.

On the bright side: I ate lobster, delicious Brazilian and Vietnamese food, and I saw a robot play a trumpet. YouTube link is tk.

Missing Memory Stick

Have you seen my memory stick? It's a bit smaller than a stick of Wrigley's chewing gum and it's full of pictures and video from a recent Decemberists concert and of HB's adorable niece. Oh, and it's a 2GB memory stick that can hold around 800ish photos and was a gift from the HB. Yeah, well, I ask only because I know that I HAVEN'T SEEN IT LATELY.

Well, I guess I should just chalk this up to the growing list of shit that I've lost on this trip. Not that I lost it because I never take it out of my camera. It was stolen. That and the 512MB card I had in my camera case. Though, these were kind robbers, so they let me keep my outdated camera and the 32MB chump change memory stick that came with my camera.

If I had my memory stick, I would have been able to record an awesome Toyota robot playing a trumpet today and take pictures of my absolutely amazing Brazilian dinner.

Fuck St. Louis.

I hate St. Louis!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You may be wondering, where in the world is Blue? 'Cause she certainly hasn't been around the Forest lately.

Seriously, my bad. Between the photographer hunt and the AWESOME DECEMBERISTS concert last weekend (more details and YouTube links soon) and having whole stretches of days with the HB, I've had very little time to come 'round these parts.

Of course, now I'm stuck in the ass-end of the United States (aka St. Louis), so I guess you can consider this my punishment for not being a good blogger.

[Insert name of large company here] sent me here for the National Science Teacher's Association conference so I can basically stand in a booth for 8 hours, shake hands, smile, sell books, and be an overall chipper reflection of our fabulous company. Sigh.

The only problem is that there ain't shit to do in St. Louis. Luckily I have 3 episodes of Prison Break, 2 episodes of 24, 2 episodes of Lost and discs 4 and 5 of season 3 of The Wire. Now I have plenty to do.

By the way, should I mention that I arrived at the airport at 7:15 this morning (for my 8:30 flight) only to discover that my father and I had a miscommunication and my suitcase was NOT IN THE TRUNK OF THE CAR!!!??? Should I also mention that despite driving like a bat out of hell back home to get my suitcase and back to the airport that I didn't make my flight? Does it also need to be said that I had to be in St. Louis before noon and the next flight was leaving NY at 1:30pm? OH, and I thought I lost my cellphone, but apparently I left it at home. Without this blessed internet connection, you might as well just consider me completely not in this universe anymore.

Yeah, my day completely stunk, I'm exhausted and smell about as bad as my day, I have no interest in taking a shower because that would require me to NOT be horizontal right now, and my room service pepperoni pizza tastes like ass. fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Grrrr!

Oh, did I mention that I'm stuck in this hell hole until Sunday?

Kicking my ass

So, I met with a trainer today at my gym to create my new fangled 12-week workout routine. I have to commit 3 days a week and I have to login and record all of my cardio, chest and shoulder presses, bicep and tricep curls, and cruches. Sigh.

Oh, the embarassment of running a gaspy 1/4 mile while someone's watching you. Thankfully Max is a very patient and genial guy who doesn't frown upon you when you're not doing chest presses in the correct form.

I'm sure you're wondering, "Gee, Blue. Why the sudden burst of exercise energy?" The correct answer would be that I want to look hot wearing this:

Frenemies

Earlier this evening, Lexi spoke some seriously true words: women get dressed up for other women. When you find yourself in an office full of men (ahem, Moonie), you're no longer compelled to glitz up your outfit because, seriously, who are you trying to impress?

As I was getting up to leave my train tonight, I literally bumped into someone I went to high school with. "Oh, sorry" I mumbled, then we recognized one another and made the obligatory hello.

Not so sure where things went sour (well, I have an idea, but nevermind), but over the years, each time we bumped into each other her greetings to me became increasingly dry. A simple "oh, hi!" out of her mouth reached my ears sounding like an "oh fuck."

Well, whatever. I don't care to go into the details of why I think our relationship--once tightknit, friendly, and bestfriendsforever--became this shitty hello, but I do care to say this: I get dressed up everyday not only to impress other women, but for the slim offchance that I'm going to run into one of my frenemies.

Did I feel insecure wearing my super cute herringbone flats, tights, black sheath dress, olive coat with large off-center silver buttons and stand-up collar, coach duffle bag, AND my platinum and diamonds engagement ring? Umm, no.

The Long Island Tea Party (the bitchy review)

As some of you have already heard me bitch and moan about, I wasted an entire evening yesterday attending a "tea party" thrown by Perfect Wedding Planner. Truly, I didn't know what to expect. I was told that there'd be tea, petit fours, finger sandwiches, and other teensy weensy nibblies all for free. Obviously, I was sold, so our banquet manager made all the arrangements for my appointment.

My mom and I arrived 30 minutes late because no one believes me when I say exit 36N on the Northern State Parkway. Eventually, we apologetically enter the pristine halls of Fox Hollow and are quickly and quietly ushered up to the PWP office. Inside is a room of 6 women sitting around perfectly modern glass tables with fancy teapots and Viennese trays of untouched caloric goodies. Of course, I'm surrounded by fuckin' size zero Long Island princesses who only consume hot water with lemon.

James, a PWP wedding planner/coordinator and our speaker for the evening, is animatedly waving his arms while he talks about the importance of planning your wedding just so and doing things just like this and using just these vendors. I quizzically look around the room to see all the ladies bobbing their heads in perfect unison to the beating of this bitchy diva's wedding bible.

Up goes my arm.

Me: James, if you're having an outdoor cocktail reception, how is the sound of a single violin player going to carry in the open air and with the commotion of a crowd? According to Wedding Chic, it's always too animated and noisy during the cocktail hour for music, so you should either skip it or have your DJ set up a speaker for some background music off a CD.

Pure disdain as he looks at me (for the first time since I entered the room) and says,

James: Well, I always position the violin player at the entrance to the cocktail hour. Even if you can't hear it throughout the space, you'll enter to a lovely sound.

Me: Well, obviously my reception is here at Fox Hollow and the entrance to the cocktail reception area is not all that far from valet parking. Won't it be too noisy?

James: In that case, I'd highly recommend a steel drum band.

I could have said, "Are you fucking kidding me? A steel drum band during the cocktail hour prior to a formal reception?" but I didn't. It became clear to me who I was dealing with.

Later in the presentation James talks about how there's only one style of wedding photography these days and the key word is "photojournalism." "Oh, what's that?" one silly, retarded bride says as I snort and chuckle under my breath. Up goes the arm again.

Me: "James, photojournalism has been a popular style of photography for several years now, so I think it would be more helpful if you could explain how one should go about choosing between photographers. Everyone calls themself a photojournalistic photographer these days, but there are dozens and dozens to choose from."

James: "Well, it's simple. Just choose from the four photographers we recommend in our brochure."

Ding! It's become perfectly clear to me now that this is all one GIANT SALES PITCH. Well, in that case, I'm not going down without a fight. I proceed to ask a series of more difficult questions, all of which make him look like a flustered buffoon, and his answers for me become more dismissive. There were a few moments when I felt minor victories, but all in all the evening felt like a losing battle. I hate that I'm so desperately approval seeking because if I weren't, I probably wouldn't be so worked up about this.

Had I known that this was going to be like sitting through a presentation for a time share, I wouldn't have bothered. And, had I known that I would be in a room full of Other Brides (or Stepford Brides, as Nikki so cleverly dubbed them) who made me feel like a beached whale salivating for chocolate covered strawberries and sugar for my rancid Lipton tea, I most definitely wouldn't have bothered. And finally, had I known that the presenter would take every opportunity to shame me in a room full of women with skating rink diamonds on their left hands, I would have run screaming for the hills.

In closing...

Dear James:

You took the wind out of my sails, you pompous, arrogant queen. Just because you have a surface knowledge of the wedding industry does not mean you should take it out on me and make me feel like the bad seed in the class, the upstart with the questions, and the geek with the pocket protector. GRRRRR!

Screw you,
A Bride with a Brain

My foul mouth

I think I have Tourette's. Every other word out of my mouth is 'fuck' these days, for a number of reasons:

1. I have a pimple and I think it's my job's fault. Last week I was a faux Senior Editor working with agents and authors, and ponying up $200,000 offers for books, and this week I've reverted back to my ASSisstant role, which these days is basically as a retarded coder monkey. This experience has so greatly upset me for the last week that I believe it altered the pH balance of my hormones, thus causing this pimple to explode across my cheek. The pimple started to form on President's day and is still here two weeks later. It's starting to subside, but it's taken on a decidedly purple hue which upsets me to no end. Hmph.

2. I hate my job and I'm starting to hate myself for still being at my job. I had an uncomfortable talk with my boss today, which included (but is not limited to) me calling his skills as an editor "used car salesman skills," telling him he's a liar, and telling him that I've been dumb and blind for being so loyal to him. WTF is wrong with me?

3. I'm broke. So, so broke because every penny I make must now be "saved for the wedding." I can't buy this, this, this, or this, and this only adds to my upset. I bought this, but I'm going to return it because I can't afford to buy $160 boots when it's now March.

I'm at the end of my tether, but I can't quit my job because I'm getting married and can't afford to lose a regular paycheck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fuckin' Flickr

What the hell is wrong with the Uploadr tonight? Now I need to manually upload and tag each individual picture instead of my insta-drop and tag that I've gotten spoiled by. Hmph.

When Flick decides to cooperate with me tonight, I'll be able to finally post about delicious desserts and extra special company. Stay tuned...

Any Flickr users out there cursing under their breath too?

Mount Bluenana

K2, Mount Rushmore, and Mount Everest ain't got nothin' on Mount Bluenana...the fond name I've given my ginormous pimple.

Thanks to my mom's genes, I've been blessed with fairly clear skin. Once in a while I'll get a teeny tiny pimple, but it always disappears after I take a shower. This time around, the shower didn't make it go away. I ran my face under scalding water and that did nothing either. (Yes, I've been told that this won't help at all.) For days it felt like it's been growing little roots under the skin of my cheek and unfortunately I am 100% clueless about what to do with it.

Nikki was my big sister today while I woefully scanned the aisle at CVS looking for keywords like mask and clean & clear. I am a preteen.

If this thing doesn't go away soon, Jon Krakauer can write his next New York Times bestseller about my face.

The sad, sad guest list

With this whole wedding business, I'm getting exposed to new wedding jargon that I find myself using in everyday speech. Here's the term that's bothering me the most these days:

Guarantee: the minimum number of guests that you agree to pay for at your wedding reception. This is a number that you have to be confident about because if you slip below your guarantee on the night of your reception, you still have to pay for the minimum number of guests. Also, you can't just pick a number out of thin air. Ballrooms have a maximum number that they hold and a minimum. Usually the site will pick the guarantee number and you need to meet it. Argh, it's all a tricky business.

I find myself completely depressed because I don't know if we'll be able to meet the guarantee to use the super pretty, big ballroom at Fox Hollow. What happens when two antisocial wallflowers get married? Their families use up a majority of the guest slots because Wallflowers 1 and 2 don't have enough friends. It's a sad, sad situation. The difference between The Garden Terrace and the Colonial Briar Fox is like the difference between Jacques Torres and Russel Stover. (That was for you, Moonie.)

Sigh. I want the pretty pretty room.

8:57 P.M.

...is the time I am leaving work and 10:30 P.M is the likely time that I'll get home. Bleh...

So. Effing. Tired.

Fuck. I'm in the yellow.

So, back in October '05 when I had the worst asthma attack of my life and poor hugguhbear had to rush me to the emergency room (where I didn't have to wait a second before they threw me on a bed and stuck a tube in my mouth), I was given a couple of newfangled gadgets to help me prevent that from ever happening again.

One is a peak flow meter and, when I blow into it, it tells me what my current maximum ability is to expel air from my lungs. There's a green, yellow, and red zone, which is basically self explanatory. I'm supposed to be in the green. If I get into the yellow, something's wrong. If I'm in the red, I need to go to the hospital.

So, tonight, I find myself laboring to breathe and I'm in the yellow. The low yellow. The yellow part that's painfully close to the red.

I really don't want to go to the hospital. Aside from the fact that I haven't shaved my legs in weeks, and it's effing cold outside, emergency rooms are so damn expensive. It's a $100 copay, and then if they can't control my breathing, they'll admit me and then that's at least $1500 a day. I just can't afford that. Not when I'm saving for my wedding and trying so hard not to buy pretty things.

Yes, I know I'm being ridiculous. I'm hours away from a full-on asthma attack and I'm blogging about how expensive emergency rooms are and how much that sucks because that will prevent me from paying the cake cutting fee at the reception hall and buying a pretty bag.

Perhaps the lack of oxygen in my brain is causing impaired judgement.

TGIF

Seriously, I didn't know if I'd make it to Friday. Finally, FINALLY, I can just rest and shake off this cold.

Hell hath no fury

like a diehard Celine Dion fan scorned.

Holy shit, is my sister pissed. Celine Dion's final show at Caesar's Palace is on December 15th and the presale for the tickets took place today at 1pm. I was charged with buying her tickets (at the highest VIP price level) using her "Team Celine" member code. The tickets sold out on ticketmaster.com in a matter of minutes and I wasn't able to get a single ticket.**

I think she's creating an eighth level of hell for sisters who are unable to secure final show Celine Dion tickets.

**Note: In my defense, when the ticket sale went live, there was no place on the order site to input a Team Celine member code. I tried everything, but the field for Team Celine members didn't go live until about 10 minutes after the presale began. Once that happened, the tickets were sold out. Not much more I can do.