Seeing Merlot.

Usually when people get angry they remark that they're seeing red. The color of bulls and matadors. Of heat and fire. Of oxygenated blood cells.

Of passion. Hearts and bullshit. Valentine's Day. Ugh.

Well friends, I'm angry right now. Livid. Appalled. Malcontent. Effing pissed. And, truth be told, all I can see is the juicy insides of my companion glass of Merlot. Merlot and I are sitting on the couch, t-shirts and boy shorts, just exasperated.* Merlot and I are seeing each other.

Merlot, the "other" man if you will, calms me down when I receive weekend emails or chain letters from my mom, who is recently retired and remarked that "every day is like a Saturday!" In my world today was a Tuesday, it felt like a Tuesday and Wednesday through Friday are a puddle at my feet. I'm wearing socks.*

Merlot gives me leave when a drunken gentleman, peddling his way through Boys' Town, slams into my rear tail lamp and cracks the glass. Merlot is there for me when I learn that parts and labor will cost the same and my boyfriend expresses that it's probably NOT good idea to buy the part and replace it myself.*

Merlot provides solace when I learn that True Blood is taking a two-week hiatus to get me into a frenzied and panicked state awaiting the finale of the BEST. SHOW. EVER. He is also there for me when I learn that the Vampire Queen and Eric are officially dating.*

Oh, and Merlot is the bomb diggy when ANY of the ladies on More to Love complain that they never got male attention because of their weight. Cry me a river ladies, womp.

Footnotes:
- Truly friends, I can think of a million words to express my emotions at the moment. And not one of them is nearly enough, for fuck's sake.
- Seriously, HOW GROSS are wet socks on your feet? Seriously.
- I was thinking it'd probably be awesome to wear a bikini while doing the car repair, upload the video onto YouTube and become the brains (and beauty) behind "Girls Fixing Cars in Bikinis." Cool, no?
- If she has dated both Marilyn Manson AND Eric, Sherriff of Area 5, that pretty much means that Evan Rachel Wood is a super freak? Super freak. She's super freaky, yawl. (Thanks Rick James you said it best for sure.)

Numerically Speaking

Just some little things hopping around on the moon bounce of my brain. Tiny things, insignificant things.

1 . Dry shampoo to me sounds like some white people ish. Everyone else uses water, you should too.

2 . As mentioned in a previous status update, a lot of my friends have thrown their backs out. While it’s funny, it’s also very very sad because it means that they now have to have very careful and orchestrated sex. And very careful and orchestrated walking. Which sucks.

3 . In similar body deterioration news, I think I am developing carpal tunnel in my right wrist. Computer injuries are lame and basically scream “I never work out.”

4 . Which I totally do, sometimes twice a day.

5 . So I’m not thinner with a rockin’ body because what? God hates me?

6 . My new filing system at work involves taping important emails to the wall in front of me because I am too lazy to order a corkboard from Office Max. My office looks like the cramped apartment those serial killer psychos that tape up old newspaper clippings about random stuff. Like abductions they know they did.

7 . Recently, my bellybutton ring was completely ripped from my flesh. While this sounds gross and terrible, it’s not as gross and the ER cartarizing the wound with silver nitrate. Basically my belly button ring was RIPPED OUT and then BURNED SHUT. And this was before 8 am on a Saturday.

8 . Now accepting your sympathy.

9 . Remember in college when you could call someone at 11pm, talk for an hour, then decide to go over to their house to watch a movie until 3am and then wake up and go to an 8am lecture? Now all my friends fall asleep at 10:30pm. Coming over after 11pm is blasphemous and a phone call after 10pm means “it’s an emergency.” No it doesn’t. It means I’m bored and my boyfriend in on the computer or watching anime, TALK TO ME.

10. It’s really hot. Thanks for showing the fuck up, Summer.

Shudder.

There really aren't a lot of things that gross me out.

I will openly discuss flatulence, loose or especially stubborn stool, sexual deviance, and our ex-president without batting a pretty little, almond shaped eye. I like watching horror movies* and surgeries, I do not faint at the site of blood. I enjoy popping, ripe, taunting whitehead zits on myself and others. I even love extolling the virtues of the fruit and vegetable detox diet which result in amazingly awesome Armpoops.*

I’m a guy’s girl.
I don’t bullshit.
I am not squeamish.
For serious, I am not to be fucked with in the gross-out game. You won’t win.*

But, oh my dear Lord in heaven YOU GROSS ME OUT. And I seriously cannot decide which is worse:

• Your body odor. Even after showering, it’s widely known that any anti-perspirant is no match against your wonderfully potent, eye-watering ethnic musk. I do so admire your sweat glands’ stubborn petulance to witholding your George Clinton and Parliament-level of funk from the rest of us. Please shower more often. I implore you.

• Your vurp* inducing, ever-widening girth. WORK THE FUCK OUT and DON’T tell me how you’ve eaten 3 cupcakes at the office party today but you’re “getting your body right.”

• Stank breath. Super hero stank. Octo-mom stank.*

• Your incessant need to be up-in-da-club. I’m not one to judge but you’re a FATHER and if you’re breeding your little one to think that putting a hand up some girl’s skirt completely UNSOLITICED is cool then . . . Ew. That’s all, just ew.

• I mean . . . Everything.

I can’t. I just can’t.

Will someone hug me? Nonononononononono NOT YOU.

Cause you’re gross.

Footnotes:

• Usually hidden in Chocodonis' shoulders or barely hiding my face behind splayed, frigid, and terrified fingers. But whatever, I am THERE.

• Ridiculous, record-breaking poops the size of my freaking arm. I could run a marathon and STILL not feel as fucking accomplished as post-Armpoop.

• TRY ME.

• Vomit/burp. Word I made up that’s awesome.

• I just don’t know, something about her just makes me think her breath is as stank and her huge vagina.**

Footnote footnotes:

• Which I’m pretty sure will never be the same again. EVER. I do wonder if the last one just kinda walked out with an ipod and a gogurt after some quick cardio in her uterus. With all the space in there and all.

Strategic Bulemia

*This entry is graphic, I'd apologize but I'm not really sorry. If anything, I'm pissed. Ugh.

I just threw up at work.

5 times.

Do you know how incredibly tough it is to stealth barf? Hovering over the porcelain, shuddering, shivering and trying to see your reflection in the toilet cover dispenser through watery, bleary eyes? Listening with the precision of a blind person* for the click-clack of heels sure to discover your session of digestive dysfunction?

And for what? What is worth it? Did I get to erase 1000s of calories of a poor eating choice?

Hell to the no.

I got a rip-roaring case of food poisoning from the GRILLED VEGETABLE PLATE at the Daily Grill.

I don't think you heard me, y'all.

I didn't throw up something worthwhile, like a churro filled with cinnamon toast crunch, or a bucket of Popcornopolis Caramel Corn*, or a meat ship*, or even a burger from The Counter.
I hurled a GRILLED VEGETABLE PLATE.

The involuntary, yet appreciated, abdominal crunches caused by stomach clenching.*
The watery eyes.
The fear of getting caught and labeled "the bulemic girl in the office."
The rancid after-breath of zucchini and balsamic vinigarette.
The shame.

All for fucking nothing.

I swear that the next time I experience a digestive dysfunction where my food intake travels north against my will, I will have eaten a Bacon Explosion,* so help me God. I vow to be much more strategic with my bulemia - I mean, if you're gonna throw up that shit BETTER BE WORTH IT.

Grilled vegetable plate. Really? I mean, I just . . .

I am ashamed of myself.

Footnotes:
- And you KNOW their senses are heightened like superheroes and stuff.
- Truly, the BEST caramel corn in the land.
- You MUST visit thisiswhyyourefat.com and behold the meat ship. And yes, it's an edible ship made out of meat.
- And I already ran 3 miles this morning, what a bonus this extra workout is! Score!
- This delicious dish involves a mat weaved entirely of bacon. And then filled with sausage. And then sprinkled with more bacon. And then smoked and covered in BBQ sauce. If the NY Times says it then it MUST be true http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/dining/28bacon.html

Workout Lady

You.

Yes, you.

Lady in the peach athletic tank top and clearly unsupportive, non-athletic bra bouncing around anti-rhythmically in front of me. Making a significant and voluptous mockery of cross, cross, hook, knee, jab, cross.

You're killing me.

While I am glad you're here in Jada's cardio-kickboxing really following through on your '09 New Year's Resolution, getting healthy and all. . . you are a hopeless flailing mess. I believe in you and I honor your pursuit of a healthy lifestyle. No doubt you'll reward yourself with a tasty cup of sugar free pudding after an appropriately portioned dinner of brown rice and veggies, just like me. No doubt you'll leave class sweaty and self-satisfied, all full of that "can do" attitude that pounds the fat tissue out of the blubbery cast of "The Biggest Loser."

No doubt, I'd love to accidentally kick you in the head.

Please oh please, workout lady. Stay in your personal space. Get ON beat. And wear a bra that will hold your out of control mammaries.

Thanks.

Back to the Future

Go Big Green: Back to the Future

There are a few things that people don't tell you when you graduate from college: a) Entering the workforce is beyond terrifying.* b) Your consumption of wine will seemingly skyrocket to where the term college graduate could easily be the equivalent to that of a run-of-the-mill wino. c) It is almost imperative that you attend your 10-year high school reunion. (Please note that this is especially important if certain class enthusiasts tried to organize a 5 year reunion that may or may not involved go-karting, but which certainly and utterly failed. Of course now, THE PRESSURE IS ON, right?*) And so I suit up. And by suiting up I mean get mentally ready to see people I haven't seen in more than 3,650 days. Do you KNOW how weird this is? I suppose anyone who has experienced any type of reunion can relate BUT a) I had a MUSHROOM CUT. b) I was COLORGUARD CAPTAIN. c) I was on YEARBOOK STAFF. d) Obviously, A-C make me completely uncool. It's clear that there's a LOT that I'm up against. Shit I brought against myself. Ahhh, but I have more depth of personality, right? Like when I used to drive a Ford Tempo that smelled like Black and Milds*, with a driver's side window that was permanently stuck about 4 inches down (which, when it rained, was AWESOME), and an engine that was on its last, feeble legs.* It wasn't pretty, but gosh darn it it gave me loads of personality. But I digress. . . So . . . 70 pounds down, unmarried, childless, sexy ass chocolatey boyfriend I set out specifically to kill 'em. And let me tell you, no amount of alcohol can ease the awkwardness of seeing people who knew you at your most . . .green. A few observations: a) An MBA does not a success story make. b) Somehow those with children and married seemed the least fulfilled. While the singleton clan seemed the happiest.* c) Most Likely to Succeed does in fact mean Ph.D. in Biophysics. d) The quiet people ALWAYS turn out the coolest.* Myself, included. e) Even people's whose bodies didn't increase in mass, experienced fat faces. I'm not sure if anyone else has ever experienced this, but dude. A mighty percentage of my class has coke bloat face.* It was like before showing up people lathered on a thick layer of time. f) Filipino people LOVE breakdancing. LOVE LOVE LOVE it. g) Anyone who says that they "do a little modeling" but still rocks cornrows in 2008, probably doesn't "do a little modeling." And the most important observation, I believe, is spending a few minutes of conversation (or drunken bathroom heart-to-hearts) with people you never talked to in high school and realizing that your dumb ass missed out. John and Melody, I'm talking to you. I'm skipping the 20 year reunion because, my friends, I won. Footnotes: - I ran away to Australia for 6 months to avoid exactly this. Only to return to LA to sell office supplies door-to-door for exactly 5 days.** - Of fucking course it is. - Oh dear Jesus, I used to date a loser that encouraged me to smoke these hobo cigars. For shame, Miss Hershey, for SHAME. - I mean, at stoplights people were staring. Then frowning. Then staring some more at the sounds that my poor little Toaster was making. - I don't know about you, but to me happiness = drunk cripwalking. - Or the craziest/most psychopathic. You'll have to tread lightly with this one as its a potentially deadly toss-up. - And I totally mean coke bloat face in the nicest way. Footnote footnotes: - Where I sold exactly 1 ream of paper. Office supply peddling doesn't seem to be one of my strong points.

Oxymoronic Shopping

Okay, I am the FIRST person to go ape shit if someone says the word "same difference."

Why?

Because it is annoying and because it SIMPLY DOESN'T EXIST. Each term cancels itself completely out, creating a gaping hole at the beginning, middle, or end of a sentence. And, the word is usually employed to make a certain point or win an argument, ultimately rendering its user a complete dumbass. *

Because I am so passionately against this word and all it stands for* . . . Please y'all, never use this word again.

I have to give you my personal stance on oxymorons and how much I hate them so we can all enjoy the irony that is Miss Hershey McJones. You see, dear readers, the ultimate hater of all things oxymoronic (particularly the term 'same difference') is . . .

An oxymoron. I am a SHOPPER who does not want to be sold.

Let me paint you a picture:

I'm in the mall with my good friend, Asal, shopping for the dress that will perfectly swaddle my newly, svelte figure as I am the maid of honor in her upcoming wedding. Clearly, a dress like this should be classy, but sexy, beautiful and stunning but not in any way direct attention away from the breathtaking bride and HER DRESS*.

With high standards and a clear directive (and not to mention a size 6 body and size 12/14 boobs, which sounds totally cool but I can assure you is decidedly NOT), clearly I am on a Level 5 Alarm Shopping Trip. I am here to shop, but people try to SELL me shit all the time while gallavanting from mall to mall.

Kiosks trolls, mostly of African-American and Middle Eastern descent, trying to sell me hair extensions and cellular phones and hand lotion.

Anorexic sales girls trying to upsell shoes and telling me about the latest discounts and sales.

Cash register matrons fervently pitching the store credit card hawking a measly 10% discount which will surely do more damage to my Sallie Mae-slashed credit rating than it's fucking worth.

Pockmarked, angst-ridden teenagers in severly ill-fitting skinny jeans trying to get me to sample Auntie Anne's pretzels. (Double fucking ew because those toothpicks look RECYCLED)

Gay dressing room attendants "checking in to see if I'm okay with the size." Their voices through the dressing room partitions and curtains grate my very soul.

I HATE YOU ALL.

Which is no wonder I ended up buying my dress from ebay.

Footnotes:
- Or a fucking third grader.
- Namely abject stupidity and the lack of a solid vocabulary, an ailment that I am blessed not to suffer from as my vocabulary is extensive.**
- Seriously, I've seen the shit and it's a PROCESS getting into it. She deserves any and all eyes in the room to be solely on her due to the amount of labor we'll both expend just getting it ON.

Footnote footnotes:
- Owing mainly to my father's need to impress his friends with his "super kid's" private education and the ability to memorize a shitload of flashcards.