Maybe I had BO and didn't know it...?!?!

I don't usually post again this quickly but this one has an expiration date!

I was at work today and suddenly got the feeling that the walls were closing in on me. I work in an interior office with no windows, inside the interior of a production building (think Meg and Tom's office in Joe vs. the Volcano but with much nicer co-workers). Lunchtime was approaching and I just felt the need to avoid a case of cubicle fever and go OUT for lunch today. Not having any formal plans and not really feeling the need for company I grabbed my copy of Vogue and US Weekly (couldn't decide between the two...fashion/gossip/fashion/gossip...Reese Witherspoon on the cover of the tab clinched it) and headed for nearby Mel's diner.

As I entered I was greeted by a very sweet and adorable hostess. I think its in the job description at Mel's to BE incredibly sweet and adorable to qualify for the job. Anyway, I mouthed "just one" and we were off to my table. It was surprisingly empty for the lunchtime crowd. Plenty of open booths and tables here and there. We passed one, then another, yet another. Finally, in a journey that felt like the passage of the pioneers over the Sierras we came to my table. Cozily stashed behind a frosted glass barrier and nestled into the far corner was my home for the next 45 minutes. I sat down in the booth side that was against the wall and thanked my nice little tour guide for delivering me safely into Siberia.

What the heck!?!? What exactly is it about dining alone that makes people SO uncomfortable...even uncomfortable enough to make a hostess HIDE you away from all of the NORMAL two and three person diners! I had my precious gossip tab clutched in my hands so I obviously came prepared and was perfectly fine with chowing down a chicken sandwich and reading about who's doing what to whom in that crazy land known as Hollywood. So why should it bother her? Now I'm not taking shots at the girl and I wasn't mad...but I was very curious. Was it a subconscious action on the part of our happy little hostess or was there some deep seeded pity brewing in her brain for this crazy haired thirty something lady who can't even scare up a date for lunch? I'm truly intrigued.

For a second I thought I was being overly sensitive and was about to dismiss it when I looked up and realized I had the table in the back where they store all of the high chairs and baby booster seats. There was even a stashed walker temporarily abandoned by a geriatric but normal "two person" patron to drive home the point that I am seriously in Single Diner Land. All I needed now was to have the dishwasher take his lunch break at the adjacent table and I'd KNOW I was in exile. I giggled behind my frosted glass partition and said a little prayer that whomever had the privilege/task of waiting on me would realize that I was alone and hungry and wouldn't forget I existed all the way back there. I gave her a few moments and decided to send up a flare for rescue should it become obvious that I was going to waste away on this deserted isle.

So, I enjoyed my lunch, splurged on a shake, found out that Jake moved in with Reese, Jen joined John on tour, and Heidi is going with Spencer to Africa to feed the hungry (could I HATE those two ANY more...we'll see them in Africa fighting malnutrition when Paris shows up in Calcutta to nurse the lepers). I looked around my quiet little cove and decided to test a theory. I'm going BACK to Mel's next week, same time, same day...this time with Vogue (to change my "pathetic old lady can't get a date so she reads about others exciting lives" vibe) and am going to proudly announce..."Table for ONE please" just to see where it ends!

I know you're completely riveted right?...pins and needles time here folks. I'll keep you posted.

An insane (or maybe not) but completely random observance by sweet ass gal!

Fashion Police...You've got the right to remain hideous!!!!

For those of you who don't know...Jennifer (one of my best friends) and I used to terrorize the streets of downtown Sacramento by playing Fashion Police on our lunch hour. It typically went something like this...we would speed down J Street in Jen's Honda, music usually blaring Elton John and Kiki Dee's "Don't Go Breaking My Heart", Jen frantically hitting the car horn, while I hung out the window and SCREAMED WOOOWOOOWOOO...FASHION POLICE...WOOOWOOOWOOO at unsuspecting passersby who were in violation of our strict guidelines of fashion Do's and Dont's. It sounds mean...I know. But to get a citation you had to REALLY deserve it. I'm talking fat men in bike shorts, belly T's and knee socks. Haul him off to jail RIGHT now.

God I miss you Jen...the streets just aren't the same without us.

Anyway, though I've long since hung up my fashion handcuffs, I still find the yearning to occasionally slap them on someone for a variety of reasons. I've never made it a secret that I LOATHE people who go to Walmart in their sloppy pj's and dirty house slippers...slogging their way down the aisle taking up ALL the room with their mouths gaping open like some kind of dazed zombie with baby fish mouth. Ggggrrrrrrrr. There's also my genuine distaste for people who wear clothes that they are too fat for and shoes that just don't fit or aren't worn properly. By the way...I had a yard sale this weekend and saw examples of ALL of these things...I almost asked them to get their slacker asses OFF my lawn. If you can't be bothered to tie your shoes then wear a friggin' pair of flip flops...don't slide your feet in to dirty white sneakers and smash down the backs with your TOO BIG feet that hang over the back edge of the shoes...and for CHRIST'S sake...PICK UP YOUR FEET. But I digress...

All of these things are no-brainer faux pas. But what I saw at the gym the other day had me reeling. As I exited the locker room and made my way to my fave treadmill at the gym I saw a woman who's outfit really caught my eye. Anyone who has spent any time at a gym will see a variety of ensembles. They can range from super sporty and chic to holey t's and raggedy sweats. I'm somewhere in between as I stick to my own rule of not wearing things I'm too fat for (hence the gym membership) and I don't want to traumatize the poor guy who gets the machine behind me. Back to the lady...now I realize that there are women who go to the gym more to be seen than to actually work out but this woman really took the cake (not really...she was so skinny I'm sure she hasn't ate cake since banana clips were in). There she was, daintily perched high up on the stairmaster, lightly stepping making sure not to break a sweat or ruin her makeup, hair cascading down her bare back, and wearing...ready for this...A MINI SKIRT. Yep...a mini skirt. I thought the old man slinking as far down in his seat as he possibly could on the nearby stationary bike was going to have a thrombo.

In what INSANE world does a woman get ready to go work out by donning a washcloth sized skirt and head for the tallest workout machine you can possibly get?! The world of tramps and sluts I guess...I won't be moving there any time soon. Yes, she was very attractive and has a nice body but that doesn't mean I want an up close and personal view of her ass cheeks while I'm walking by. If that's her way of getting attention or scoring a date then I feel sorry for her and for all woman kind.

Fashion police verdict...guilty of public indecency and downright slutty behavior.

Moral of the story is...pj's and bedroom slippers (CLEAN ONE'S) belong at home, size 8 isn't appropriate when you're a deuce, your feet belong IN your shoes not ON them and mini skirts are just downright sexy...when you're AT A CLUB...not when you're teetering way up high faking a workout at the gym.

This has been another insane random observance brought to you by sweetassgal!

Begone movie critics...before someone drops a house on you!

There I stood...hair carefully coiffed, make up excessively applied, matching accessories glittering under the marquee lights, new dress painstakingly chosen for maximum "photo op" appeal and of course...the perfect pair of metallic copper and silver python t-strap BCBG Max Azria shoes to pull it all together. Lights, camera, action...I was ready for the red carpet. Limousines pulled up front as camera flashes went off in a non-stop blur, a sea of designer shoes and silicone enhanced breasts made their way through the crowds, and security was on hand to keep it all in line. When did I start hanging with Hollywood glitterati you ask? Sorry...no Oscar award winners here...it was the premiere opening night of Sex and the City in my borough (slight nod to NYC)!

I must say...I've seen a lot in my 33 years but this really took the cake. Hoards of SATC fans (myself included) descended upon our local movie-plex dressed to the nine's and giggling like school girls ready to pay homage to the four gals (and a few hot guys) that make up our ultimate fantasy life. New York apartment with a walk in closet, check...hot financier boyfriend who knows why farting is funny...check check, all the Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo's you can fit into your vintage Louis Vuitton...check infinity. It's materialistic, self indulgent, unrealistic, escapist, completely unattainable...and WE COULDN'T LOVE IT MORE!

For those SATC junkies who haven't gotten your latest fix via this FAB new flick...I won't go into the details (no spoilers here) but suffice to say it did not disappoint. It was a whirlwind of everything we've come to love and expect from the show. The fashion was drop dead gorgeous (Vivienne Westwood is a saint and Vogue is the bible), the characters were true to form, the story line was funny, heartbreaking and endearing, and the men were eye candy strutted out for us to ogle like this year's Birkin bag. (pardon me...I think I just tripped over all the labels I've been dropping...where's a broom when you really need one!) Anyway, it was 2 and a half hours of sheer SATC infused bliss and I did NOT want it to end.

So, considering the fact that I felt this way...my beautiful friend and fellow movie-goer Michelle felt this way...a thousand screaming women in the theater felt this way...$55.7 million dollars worth of ticket buyers obviously felt this way...then why is it (she says channeling her inner Carrie writing her column narrator voice) the movie critics so badly missed the mark. Could they not see the shoe forest for the shoe trees...?

Review after review (mostly male I must add) lamented about the movies social and economical (limited they predicted...who's eating Payless Shoe Source shoe now...HA!) impact. They harped on the running time and demanded Sarah Jessica Parker do something about her mole. They called it fluff, labeled it banal, and dismissed it as nothing more than a chick flick. And here's the MOST infuriating part...they said that a movie predominately starring and geared towards ...*GASP* ...WOMEN would never be able to top a male driven flick like Indiana Jones. OMFG...what century are we living in! Are you seriously, seriously kidding me. It's a movie FOR women ABOUT women so therefore it could never really be taken seriously or actually become a box office success!?!?! Hand to god...I read it in the New York Post. Not only did the post's blogger Lou Lumenick (who looks like a Jersey bridge and tunnel neanderthal) give it a 1.5 star rating (was he TRYING to be insulting) but they openly panned the movie and tried to sink it by touting the stars ages and relegating them to wearing Depends! At the bottom is the link for the movie blog and Lou's review on Page Six...scroll way down and read for yourself.

I love Page Six as much as the next gal and I realize it's not exactly the Times but can you HONESTLY tell me in this day and age that we are perfectly fine with them running comments like "Andrea Peyser calls it "an excruciating paean to Manhattan, Manolo's and menopause that should have been sponsored by Depends...time and the tyranny of the closeup have not been kind to Sarah Jessica Parker, who at 43 looks positively ghoulish as the still-single Carrie Bradshaw. Her litany of lifestyle impossibilities continues to mount like her facial blemishes.'' The fact that this statement is completely anti-woman is distressing enough...the fact that it was said by a woman is positively mid-evil.

Now...there are a few scenes in the movie where Carrie looks extremely bad...SHE'S playing a PART people! She goes through an excruciating experience that would kill the makeup lover in ALL of us for weeks at a time and the pain of her heartbreak is visible on screen. Personally I thought it was brave and brilliant of them to actually SHOW what happens to women when they have their still beating hearts ripped out of their chest. This is what we DO when MEN destroy us. We run to our friends, down some vodka, sleep for three days, forget to eat and DON'T WORRY ABOUT MAKEUP! But I forget critics...she's a woman and therefore always has to look BEAUTIFUL and YOUNG and PERFECT to keep pleasing you...oh...and to be able to sell a movie ticket.

That said, may I KINDLY point out that the lead in Indiana Jones (god love ya Harrison but this has to be said) is OVER 65 YEARS OLD!!!!! Not ONCE, ONCE in any review by the Post of the new Indy flick did they ever mention his age or suggest he wear adult diapers! Is this really where we're at? Did feminism ever even happen? Are we still being judged by the wrinkles on our skin and how we look under harsh lighting without makeup? Is that what matters SO much that we have to put it out on PAGE SIX for all young women to read so they can grow up with the same insecurities and self doubts that we have been fighting against for the last 100 years? Basically the message is that if you're over 40 and female you have no right starring in a sexy movie and expecting it to actually make money. Apparently you need a 65 year old shriveled up penis to do that.

Breathe girl...breathe.

So the point to the movie IS (are you listening critics)...women CAN be sexy at any age, they CAN be successful, they don't HAVE to get married to be worth something but if they DO they can chose to do so any way they want. They can have 10 children, no children, adopted children, they can even date children (over 18 of course...anything younger than 25 still counts as dating a fetus). They can shop and spend the money they earn without apology, they can love fashion and enjoy feeling beautiful without being vain or shallow, they can say I'm FABULOUS and mean it without being self absorbed or narcissistic. And most of all...they can do and be all of these things as long as they've got their friends by their side. More than anything...Sex and the City is just about friends.

This has been another Insane (and angry) Random Observance brought to you by an un-apologetically feminist, shoe loving, SATC watching, movie critic hating, proudly thirty something, crows feet fighting, cottage cheese ass surviving, lover and celebrator of all things WOMAN!

Love, hugs and shoes...sweet ass gal

http://blogs.nypost.com/movies/
http://www.nypost.com/seven/05282008/entertainment/movies/shooting_blahniks_112799.htm

Top 10 Ways to Better Spend Gas Money

I woke up this morning with an unerring feeling of angst. Something was plaguing me but for the life of me I couldn't put my finger on it. Yes, I had to go to work today and that in itself leaves me grumpy and yearning for the secret to a time machine...but that wasn't it. I didn't forget to pay any bills, I've sent out my Mothers Day cards, even finally got around to mailing my much delayed wedding photos to my grandmother (just under the wire...5 year anniversary on May 17th...bad granddaughter). Unable to zone in on the source of my grief I grab my keys, head for the van, turn the ignition and that's when it hits me. DONG, DONG, DONG announces my car...I'm almost out of gas. UG.

17 gallons and $66.12 later I am completely incensed...what the heck...seriously...$66.12 to fill up MY little mini-van. This is not a Hum-Vee or an Escalade for Pete's sake...it's a MINI-VAN. Now I fully realize that there are others out there (my hubby included) who pay upwards of $100 to fill up diesel gas or large vehicles and I'm sure my paltry $66 sounds like nothing to them...but for someone who prides herself on driving a car more for economy than for show, the sticker shock was just too much to take. This, combined with a funky hair bump that wouldn't smooth out when I pulled my hair back today , was just too much to take.

As a result of my trauma I've channelled my inner David Letterman and am compiling my TOP TEN list of ways to better spend sixty-six dollars and twelve cents than to give it to the god-forsaken, money whoring, planet destroying oil companies. So pop in your fake gap teeth, toss a pencil at your window and hold on...cause' here we go!!!

#10 - 20 Tall Sugar Free Iced Vanilla coffee's from Starbucks. That's right...twenty. For that much caffeine fueled energy I could push my van to work (and work off a few l-b's along the way...lets see my Chevron card do THAT for me). Of course there is always the added bonus of never being "backed up" again...see, I'd be on my way to a smaller butt AND a lifetime of regularity.

#9 - 3 months membership to Golds Gym. Three full months of exhaustively pumping iron, running like an lobotomized lab rat on a treadmill and sitting spread eagle in front of perfect strangers on some sadistic exercise machine all for the same price of ONE tank of gas. Throw in the bulimic Barbie next to me in FULL HAIR and MAKE UP not even breaking a sweat on the elliptical and even that mental rape is less traumatic than a trip to the pump.

#8 - 101 Mini Babybel Lowfat Cheese rounds. Who can resist the urge to squeeze these oh-so-creamy little rounds right down the middle exposing the treasure of golden delicious cheese within. I could live on these babies and if it weren't for my gasoline related depression I could afford to!

#7 - 66 Wet N' Wild #666 Brandywine Lip Liners. I know...haven't I grown up a little since the days of Bonnie Bell lip gloss and Luv's Baby Soft perfume?! But seriously...no matter how much I spend on lip liners I always go back to my Junior High fave. It never fails and at 99 cents I can't resist it. Herein lies the cosmetic-ological (just made that up...cross between cosmetics and cosmological) query...how is it I won't pay more than a buck for lip liner but I don't bat an eye at a $50 face cream? Who knows. It is what it is. But I do know I'd rather give the twit at the Lancome counter $50 for hope in a jar than pour my money down my tank. Besides, what's the more inflated fallacy...the fact that Elizabeth Arden thinks she can turn back the hands of time or that oil REALLY costs $120 a barrel? Hum...something to think about.

#6 - 7,049 Q-Tips. I use them for everything and I have them everywhere. I have travel packs in all three (yes I said three) of my make up bags. I have them stashed in my car, in my train case for nightly maintenance and even in my gym bag. I love them and go through them like crazy so why shouldn't I rather spend my hard earned dough on these soft little gems of cleaning perfection than on petroleum?! Does gasoline keep my ears clean, my make up in its place, and my toes free of stray polish smudges? NO...and it never will.

#5 - 16 pairs of Rite Aid flip flops. I have a basket full of these wonderful cheepies in every color with every embellishment imaginable! At $3.99 a piece why not. It's a no-brainer. Let the oil tycoons spend thousands on sand transportation...I'll surf the dunes in my hot pink flip flops.

#4 - 8 martini's after work at Mandango's. 1 martini, 2 martini, 3 martini...floor. Guess I'll have to bring my hubby to drink the others and call our kids for a ride home (yes they're both driving now and we live in a constant state of panic as a result)! Darn it...that means two more gas-guzzling consumers in our home and at the pumps. Friggin' oil conglomerates...its a conspiracy!

#3 - 1,323 tablets of Advil. I'd need them after 4 martini's.

#2 - 157 Stamps to write to congress about rising gas prices.

And drumroll please....finally

#1 - 6 co-pays for trips to a psychiatrist to find out why I actually believe congress cares about said rising gas prices!

Ba-dum-dum!!! Good night Seattle...we love you!


Luv, hugs and shoes....sweet ass gal

Celebrity Foot Crossers

I am known for telling stories...stories of my childhood, stories of a funny thing (at least I think so) that happened once, and stories about other people's stories. I tell them in great detail and with great enthusiasm which also causes them to be great in length as well. By Junior High my friends would respond to one of my tome's with a snarky "what color was the chair". This was an obvious attempt by my best gal pal's to tell me "Wrap it up chica...way TMI!" Anyway, my passion for storytelling has since sparked my complete and total fascination over absolutely nothing and yes, I will turn that into a story somehow too. Skip ahead from Junior High twenty years and you have me telling stories via my very first blog. Insane Random Observances is my way of saying I'll prattle on endlessly about absolutely nothing significant and I will do it with unbridled enthusiasm. So here we go...

Celebrity foot crosser's...they're everywhere and now that I've pointed it out you will notice it too. What is it about donning haute couture and hitting the red carpet that causes celebrities to suddenly feel like they have to stand hands smartly placed on hips and feet oh so conveniently and coyly crossed? Is this a compulsion or is it listed in the celebrity handbook as Tip #142...how to look 10 pounds lighter in a photo. I'm not sure but I know every time I see it I wonder when the first (and not so bright) one will forget they've taken this particularly awkward stance and try to walk without first uncrossing the legs. This of course leads to a precarious fall, a major wardrobe malfunction and an eventual role on another reality TV show.

I'm sure it's just an attempt to look striking and slim (and who can blame anyone...especially an overly criticized celebrity...for that) but it plagues me none the less. It's just SO prefabricated and contrived that it merits my fascination and a blog about this completely insane random observance.

Oh...and in case you were wondering...the chair was blue.

Love, hugs and shoes...sweet ass gal