Would you invest?

The guy in the lower left corner, that's Bill Gates.

Paul Allen, the owner of the Seattle Seahawks with a net worth around $20 billion is on the far right lower corner.

Entering the weekend with a bang

I've been craving to do a survey this week and I finally found one worth completing. I was going to post this on my MySpace account, but suddenly I didn't want people I haven't spoken to in 6 years who are on my Friend's list reading this. Or Butch Walker.

And this will conclude my talk about sex for awhile because, frankly, I'm feeling a little slutty.

LOVE, SEX AND ROMANCE QUIZ
How many true relationships have you had?:	3
Have you ever been in love?:	Yes, at least once
What's your idea of a perfect date?:	Something that includes food, alcohol, and sex
Where's your favorite place to be kissed?:	stomach
How many sexual partners have you had?:	less than people think
How many people have you kissed?:	30? Who keeps track of that?
Do you like to make the first move?:	Hate it
Are you a snuggler?:	Completely
Do you kiss on the first date?:	Yes
Where is the best place you've ever hooked up?:	Movie theatre, beach, baseball bleachers
Do you consider yourself to be romantic?:	No, I think I used to be though
Would you ever pay someone for sex?:	No need to
Would you ever let someone pay YOU for sex?:	Couldn't
Do you keep your eyes open when you kiss?:	I'll peek occasionally
What was your most embarrassing sexual moment?:	Lost condom. Had to jump up and down to find it.
Have your parents ever caught you in a compromising position?:	No, an ex's brother.
Have you ever performed a striptease?:	Yes
How about a lapdance?:	Yes
Have you ever received a lapdance?:	On stage at Wild Wings, where are those photos?
Do you like sexual contact?:	Yes
Are you straight, gay or bi?:	Straight
Have you ever made out with a member of the opposite sex?:	Not in years. Good times in the dorm study rooms with Andy!
Are you a giver or a taker?:	Giver
What do you look for in a girlfriend/boyfriend?:	Good teeth, wit, intelligence
Do you think you've met the person you'll spend the rest of your life with?:	Not even close
Do you know who your bridesmaids and groomsmen would be?:	Never thought about it. No reason to.
Have you ever regretted a hook-up?:	There's one I probably should, but don't.
Have you ever cheated on a significant other?:	Never
Have you ever hooked-up with someone already in a relationship?:	Um, yes. Not proud of it.
Have you ever cried over a member of the opposite sex?:	Buckets
Have you ever had your heart broken?:	Yes
Have you ever had a pregnancy scare?:	Oh like 6, all unnecessarily.
Would you date or marry someone if your parents didn't accept them?:	All the more reason to :)
How about if your friends didn't accept them?:	Yes
What's the worst relationship you ever had?:	Hands down the last one, screwed me up.
Have you ever done anything sexual while on the road?:	Oh yeah!
Would you kiss someone if you didn't love them?:	I hope so, otherwise I'm a love bandit.
Who told you all about sex?:	"Where Did I Come From?" The best book EVER
Are you always horny?:	It's always in the back of my mind
Are you a flirt?:	Yes
Are you a tease?:	Can be
Do you prefer to chase or BE chased?:	It goes both ways with me.
Do you prefer morning or evening hook-ups?:	Night
Have you ever pulled an all-nighter with a member of the opposite sex, and woke up in each others arms?:	Yes
How old were you at the age of your first kiss?:	13
How old were you when you lost your virginity?:	19
Do you sometimes wish you could change that?:	Never
Do you enjoy being in a relationship?:	I think I function better if I'm in one.
Are you currently in one?:	No
Has anyone ever fallen in love with you?:	Several
Have you ever said "I Love You" and not meant it?:	I'm beginning to think I have, but my intentions were always good
Are you "noisy" when you get heated?:	It's not fun otherwise!
What is your kissing pet peeve?:	He doesn't stick his tongue out enough
Do you think you're a good kisser?:	Yes, and I've received confirmation on this.
CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

Stock Market Game

Brandy posted on her blog yesterday a list of things to do to "add some healthy insanity to your life." I had already done 3 of those things prior to reading the list. I can't decide if that makes me insane or unoriginal...

I'm becoming a bit obsessed with my stat counter. I've become one of those people who checks it everyday. But you learn so much! First of all, I want to prove my point about certain blog topics affecting your traffic. Here's my stat counter with the corresponding blog topics:


As I predicted, Britney Spears and sex are way more popular than Japanese toilets that send electric charges up your butt.

The other thing I recently learned from my stat counter, other than searches for "my boyfriend spanks me when I'm bad" will take perverts to my site, is that this morning the Shrinking Mokey was listed in BlogShares' top 100 hot stocks. I'm #74, but whatevs. Of the millions of blogs out there, I was #74!



My BlogShares' profile. If you're linked to me, you can find your information through my page. I don't play it, but I find it interesting nonetheless...

Where Did I Come From, Where Did YOU Come From?

I'm glad everyone enjoyed yesterday's post, I had a record number of visitors according to Stat Counter. Through experience, I have learned that talking about sex will increase your blog traffic, as will posting risque photos. Now I know I can add Britney Spears to that list. But be careful, I fear talking about sex, posting pictures, and taking a jab at Britney all at once may cause your monitor to explode. So no taking pictures of your boyfriend doing you from behind while you're crouched over a bear-skin rug this weekend and then blogging about it on Monday.

With that said, I bet you figured out today's topic: sex.

When my oldest brother Drake was 9, he received a copy of the greatest book ever, "Where Did I Come From?" Little did his parents know at the time that this one copy would educate all of their children, and their step-children, and friends of their children and step-children.

I was a few years younger than Drake when I found the book. I was visiting my father one weekend and my sister, one of my brothers, and I were in the bonus room playing Nintendo. Actually I just watched. I'm the youngest and spent most of my childhood watching my older siblings have fun while I whined for the turn I never got. When I finally got my Kool Aid stained hands on the controls, I would die immediately and my turn would be over for another hour while my brother hogged the game.

Anyways I finally got my turn and I'm happy as could be. My sister, who lived there, motioned to my brother to come to the book case. She pulled out the book and showed it to him. They start giggling. They sat down on the other couch together and laughed as they slowly flipped through each page. All of a sudden, the Nintendo didn't seem nearly as fun as whatever was in that book. I asked them what the book was about and they slammed it shut and told me I was too young. So I went back to Mario and watched them out of the corner of my eyes and noted where they put the book back on the shelf.

Later that night I went back to the book case and found the book. I remember opening it up and the inside cover was an illustration filled with sperm wearing top hats and carrying a dozen roses. The sperm smiled. For those of you unfamiliar with the greatest book ever, it's filled with illustrations of chubby white cartoon characters playing the role of your parents as it goes from the act of sex through the birth of a baby. The page where the actual baby making is taking place is the man and woman hugging of sorts on a plush bed with hearts drawn above them like a cloud of smoke.

I thought this book was the dirtiest thing ever and read it over and over for at least 4 years. I can still quote parts of it, "It's like a sneeze, only better."

How eloquent.

In preparation for this post, as well as in a fit of nostalgia, I looked up the book on Amazon.com wanting to see the white cover and big block lettering one more time. I found this:


The African-American version. No longer will black kids have to learn about sex from fat white people with pasty buttocks!

I wonder if my parents knew the impact that one decision they made when Drake, now 36, was 9. Entire households of kids learned from that book because we sure as hell showed all our friends. So that's how I learned about sex.

I see they have a DVD of it. I'm seriously considering buying it.

Yet another genuinely insensitive remark

Google news, what would I do without you?

Are we really a society that will immortalize the birth of a child who will undoubtedly be voted "Most likely to contract VD" for his senior superlatives?

On all fours on a bear skin rug? Well, at least they are bringing the child into this world the same way he was conceived. Is there also a tripod and shagged carpeting in the room?

Oh wait, are you serious? This is an anti-abortion display? I was under the impression this was for the pro-choice movement. You really mean that Britney Spears, this woman, is the reason to outlaw abortions? I thought they would be building abortion clinics in her honor. Their motto would be "Don't be this girl."

Anyways, if you want to see the statue, it's here. I'm not having it on my site.

Kick Ass Reality

I really think I would make a kick ass reality show.

My show would be more similar to a montage of guys getting baseballs thrown at their crotches a la AFHV than the stylings of "Laguna Beach."

For example yesterday's show would have showcased me fighting with leasing agents all afternoon and having the most asinine conversations like this:

Jamie: What do you mean it's $50 more a month? This price has today's date on it!
Doucheface Leasing Agent: Well it's only good until the end of March.
Jamie: (Double checks calendar) Oh, so do you mean the end of March yesterday, or the end of March tomorrow? Would the end of March Friday be better?

Completely disgusted with them I run off to my ballet class. I'm 15 minutes late and I missed the warm-up. I get at the back of the line and when my turn comes, I attempt one of these:

Except I'm closer to the ground and in yoga pants.

I'm still flustered from fighting with the leasing agents, I didn't stretch, and I landed on my pant cuff. My foot slides out from underneath me and I fell. It wasn't a "I started to fall, but I stuck my arm out in front of me and I sorta caught myself, so it was only a mildly mortifying encounter" fall. No. It was "I have no idea what happened and before I knew it, I was doing my best impersonation of a Picasso portrait on the floor with everyone running to me, asking if I was okay" kind of fall.

My left wrist hurt, my left hip really hurt, and my left ankle throbbed. My bad ankle. The one that I sprained every February for 8 years. I hadn't done it since my sophomore year of college when I got pushed off a bus. Damn English majors all wanting to get to class on time. Laying on the floor I knew I really hurt it, but I told everyone I was fine and I just shook it off.

I was such a trooper about the whole thing, I even went to yoga class after ballet.

I was walking out of the gym with my friend and we were talking about the yoga class. "It wasn't that great," I said, "But I still feel something in my--"

"Oh, what a cute sweater!"

I turn around. It's my yoga instructor. I know she just interrupted me to make me stop talking about how lame this week's class was.

"What is it made of?"

I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. I couldn't form the single syllabic word.

"Is it made of wool?"

My mouth continued to hang. I eventually closed it and swallowed. "Uh huh."

She then headed to her car and left my friend and I standing in front of the parking deck, ashamed of ourselves for not waiting until we had left the property to bash the yoga instructor.

"You know, a class can suck because of the energy," I qualified to her. "There were only 7 people in the class and 2 left early. That could affect the outcome of the class."

"She's not here anymore, Jamie. You don't have to justify what you said," my friend laughed.

So that was my day yesterday.

Oh, and when I woke up this morning, my ankle was double in size. I gave it a pretty good strain. It effing hurts.

For those who care

My new address is:

997 XJY
White Ford Explorer
Parking Deck in Buckhead, GA 30305

How does that stupid song from Girl Scouts go?

Today's poetry courtesy of my poetry magnets: "Japanese Swords would obliterate civilians"

I hung out with some old friends Friday night. It was so refreshing to get as drunk and as stupid as I wanted to be without fearing judgment. I've been getting acquainted with Atlanta and I'm surrounded by new people all the time and I didn't even realize I was censoring myself until Friday night when we decided the new power move was to make the "shocker" with both hands and hold them up as antlers on our heads.

I miss them.

Old friends are my connection to the past. Their presence and their knowledge of me reminds me of how I used to be. And what I've become.

"When did I get so hateful, Ryan?" I slurred. "I'm a hate camel. I carry this lump of hate around on my back and I feed off it."
"You've always hated the general public!" he laughs.
"I have?"
"Yes! But I like this 'hate camel' thing. Do you spit at your enemies too?"
"Sometimes. Did I tell you that I got a lady to attack me on the off-ramp?"

I feel like I'm missing something because I'm in this new place when I don't know anyone longer than a few months. I don't have any of my old friends here. I know I'm not alone. My beloved ex roommate has been in Deltona, Fl since last May and still hasn't made a friend. Ryan lives in Boston Baltimore, and although he has plenty of new friends there, it's no one he's known for an extended amount of time. We all call each other fairly regularly to catch up, but we're growing up. These phone calls and visits are just going to get farther and farther apart.

My heart warmed and melted a little bit when I laughed and Ryan announced, "Jamie's officially drunk! She just did her drunk laugh!"

I didn't know until then I had one. I miss people knowing me so well that we don't have to tell each other everything. We just know.

So what now? Do I run back to Athens this weekend and hang out with everyone because I'm missing them so badly? Or do I push forward? Hang out with the new girls and learn more about each other so maybe one day we'll have this kind of relationship?

To be honest, I haven't made up my mind yet.

Oh those crazy Japanese!

This scares me. Too lazy to read? I'll give you the best parts with commentary a la Brandy:

After I got to this point, I stopped reading to double check the site. I swore I was at the Onion or something similar. You want to shoot what up my butt?

Phew. At least they redirected those nozzles.

I wonder if the arm wears clothes, like butler's cuffs.

*Horrible, but hysterically funny mental images ensue*

"Shit for mommy!"


*Wonders if it will tell my parents about drinking consumption, among other things*

Road Rage

Me wrote a very funny post about road rage recently, inspiring me to tell mine.

But warning, it paints me in a very unflattering light.

I have the most awful road rage. I spend at least 3 hours a day driving in one of the worst cities in the country known for traffic. Anything will wear on you after this much time in the car. It's probably best that no one commutes with me because I'll open my mouth and spew the most offensive colorful language that makes sailors get out of their cars and flee on foot down the highway. It's really become quite an art for me.

If you've ever spoken to me on the phone while I'm driving, you can verify this. Conversations get interrupted by a loud string of swears. It's pretty ugly, but the thing is, all the rage is contained in the interior of my truck. I never take it out on others.

Until last week.

I'm on the highway and I'm about to get off my exit. There is one lane on my right, dedicated for my off-ramp. I put my blinker on as I always do and I begin pulling in the lane. This POS white Thunderbird, missing a headlight with it's hood held to the car by duct tape, sees my blinker on and decides to punch the gas and not let me in the lane. I hate this -- I think it is so rude. I'm halfway in my exit lane, but I chicken out and duck back in my lane. As the car passes, I give a short honk.

When I honk, she gives me the bird, arm fully extended towards me.

I think it's important for me to specify what I was thinking about right before this all happened. I was in an introspective coma, thinking about how easily I get screwed over in life. Traffic is one big metaphor for me. I'm always in the wrong lane, people are always cutting me off which pushes me farther back from my destination.

So she pushes me out of my lane and gives me the bird. Something just snapped in me and I realized I had to fight. Fight! This was no longer a battle for the off-ramp, this was a battle for me to take control over the way people treat me. It's time to go to the mattresses!

I get behind her and I just lay on the horn like a big asshole. She slams on her breaks, which causes me to ride her bumper, a skill I'm very adept at after living in Athens for 6 years. That's just how you drive there: on somebody else's ass. This pisses her off even more which I find great delight in.

By this time we are on the off-ramp, stopped in traffic. She's in front of me and I'm on her bumper for the only reason that it angers her. The passenger in her crappy jalopy is a man in a wifebeater and a NASCAR hat. He rolls down the window and sticks his head out at me and shouts something, although I can't hear it over my music. If my lip reading is correct, he said "Purple tigress." I just smiled and showed him he's number one. He then showed me I'm number one.

Traffic moves forward a few feet and I'm careful to maintain the exact distance between us. She's getting really mad and I can't stop laughing. She then rolls down her window and sticks her head out to shout the same thing at me, "Purple tigress!" I am just laughing like the evil Gargamel. I can't stop. We aren't moving and I'm just sitting behind her and she is so mad at me.

My laughing must have pushed her over the edge because she actually gets out of her car and comes at me. She's no better than the man with her mullet and snaggle teeth. I totally lose my game face and I scramble inside my truck to make sure my doors were locked. As soon as she saw me lock the doors, she returns to her car.

I've never been charged in traffic before. But I'll bet she'll think twice before cutting someone off again. And for the record, I do feel bad about it. A little. But not too much.

Poor Ed

So far I spent this morning rearranging my poetry magnets into new sentences. Somehow I've lost all my nouns. The best I could come up with was "They hate on Ed with sledgehammers big time." I'm pretty sure that the "Ed" magnet is a suffix to make a verb past tense, but I'm in desperate times.

Poor Ed.

Went to the gym yesterday. It was a total bust because no actual working out took place, but I did manage to not notice a guy flirting with me. I've somehow lost my game in this area and I've become completely oblivious to the signals.

I'm walking around with my friend and every time we pass this guy, he butts into our conversation jokingly. I always just smile and continue whatever we were talking about. But this happened 3 or 4 times. We walk out of the gym and my friend turns to me and says, "Jamie that guy was totally flirting with you."

"Me? I thought he was hitting on you!"
"No! He was always watching you and he only interrupted us when you were talking."

How did I miss this? I don't remember this at all.

Flashback to two weeks ago when I was in Smyrna, the unknown circle of Hell Dante never told you about where young married 20-somethings move and feel cool 'cause they're still near the city, although they never venture there anymore. I'm sitting at a bar with my friends and it's very apparent that I'm the only one there without a husband date because my barstool didn't have a man standing behind it with one arm rested over the top, protecting his property, and the other holding a pint glass. This guy was watching me from afar and he slowly moves towards us. He leans in to me and opens his mouth to say something... and I turn to my friend and shout "Hey! Guess who died!"

The guy just closes his mouth and turns and walks away. Whoops.

Flashback to my freshman year of high school. Andy calls me up on a Friday night and asks to see a movie with me. I didn't think anything of it. He then asks if it was okay we went dutch. I assume that anyways because we were friends. I didn't think he was actually asking me out. He and his brother pick me up (we were 14) and at the theatre his brother uses the pay phone to call a girl. Andy looks at me and jokes, "Dave's trying to get a date for tonight," and I quip back, "Oh, like you have one?"

Andy didn't speak to me again for 3 years.

I'd like to think I've grown up since then, but apparently not.

A stranger's review of the Shrinking Mokey

I found this the other day.

I thought it was pretty wonderful too.

I have no idea who this guy is, which perhaps makes this review of me more rewarding because his judgment isn't clouded by my good looks and fabulous smile.

Yeah, this may have gone to my head a bit.

Anyways, check him out. He obviously has excellent taste.

Now that's what I'm talking 'bout!

My favorite beer and describes me perfectly!

You Are Bud Light

You're not fussy when it comes to beer. If someone hands it to you, you'll drink it. In fact, you don't understand beer snobbery at all. It all tastes the same once you're drunk! You're an enthusiastic drinker, and you can often be found at your neighborhood bar. You're pretty good at holding your liquor too - you've had lots of experience.

What's Your Beer Personality?

Stolen from Frog Princess.

Embarrassed? Don't be! Ask me!

My yoga class has one really hot guy in it. He's a little short for my taste (see previous post) but it doesn't mean I don't like to "eye fuck" him as Ms Thang puts it. At first I thought he was just there for the ladies (superb move) but it turns out that he's better at yoga then me. I had the privilege of sitting next to him last week and I realized I spent most of the class trying to impress him by wobbly sticking my legs behind my head while he stood on his head and laughed when I snorted and fell down.

I know now it's better to sit across from him. I can look all I want without fear of knocking him over.

This is why people love hanging out with me:

Haut Yoga Guy is walking by the girls and me after yesterday's class and I stop him.

"Hey what happened to you last week? When I left, the yoga instructor had you all tied up!"

The double entendre was totally intentional. My friends knew this and fell over laughing.

He described the new position and how great it felt (unfortunately not in double entendres) and I completely zoned him out. I'm attracted to a man largely on his voice and Haut Yoga Guy made me want to jab anything sharp and nearby in my ears so I wouldn't have to listen to him anymore. My face fell in disappointment and I knew my days of eye fucking him are over.

Haut Yoga Guy stopped talking and walked away.

"Dammit Jamie, why did you make him talk?!" Louisa yells at me.
"You noticed the voice too? I thought that was just my hang up."
"You ruined the fantasy for me!"
"I know! I'm sorry! I didn't know he would sound like that!"

Haut Yoga Guy has officially been stripped of his title and is now Weird Voiced Guy at Yoga or Formerly Haut Yoga Guy. I've also become the Official Ambassador of Embarrassing Questions to Strangers.

St. Paddy's Day with Asians

"You realize you're... tall, right?"

Louisa was uncomfortable saying this, as if she was breaking bad news to me. "You realize those breast implants are leaking, right?" or "You realize unicorns aren't real, right?" Right.

"Yeah, I know."

My German heritage bred one tall family. I grew up thinking all men are 6'4" with a size 12 shoe and sometimes I still forget that's not the case. I'm 5'10" in shoes. It wasn't really until college when I realized I'm taller than most girls. By a head. I'm okay with it in most scenarios, but the occasional party or club will leave me feeling self-conscious.

Here's a picture taken at Fado on St. Patrick's Day:

She's 5'2" and she's 5'3." These are my friends.

Look at me hunched over. When it's just 3 girls and you have them beat by a good 6 inches, you feel a little self-conscious. Ooh, look at my teeth, the whitening worked!

Then they take you to an all-Asian club and you REALLY feel it. I was the tallest person there -- I was the tallest person there and I was the only one not dressed in all black and smoking a cigarette. I had a pretty good view on the dance floor which was a perk. I guess. The only saving grace I had at that club is my ability to dance. So I really think they were staring at me NOT because I was white and the only girl in a ponytail, but because I can dance well. Yeah, that's it -- because I can dance.

Oh dear!

I was having a cup of green tea on this rainy afternoon and I decided to look at my ole' stat counter to see what's new. To my horror I found this under "Recent Keyword Activity:"



The next thought that crosses my mind is what the hell I could have written to end up on the recipient end of those searches. Apparently this and this.

Let the name calling begin

Sunday morning I get out of my bed for the first time since St. Patrick's Day and I head to Blockbuster to use my in-store free rental coupon. I'm in track pants, a hoodie, with greasy hair partially tied back. It wasn't pretty, but I was out of bed so progress had been made.

I park my truck and walk towards the store and as I'm crossing the street, a little boy no older than 8 - 10-years old opens the door from the backseat of a black Toyota Sequoia parked along the curb and hollers at me.

"Whore!"

I stop in the middle of the road and stare incredulously at the SUV. I was just called a whore by an 8-year-old boy on a Sunday morning. I leer and send that boy all the evil mind waves I can muster. I continue to walk really slowly towards the store, hoping I can catch the owner of the vehicle on his or her way out.

A tall man with a little child in tow exit and head towards the SUV. I call after him, "Sir! Sir!" He turns around. He's tall with black hair greased back, sporting a flashy and tacky gold chain around his neck.

"Yes?"
"Is that your Sequoia?"
"Yes?"
"Well I think you should know that one of the boys in the back seat called me a whore while I was passing by."
"What? Come with me."

And he leads me back to the car. Both boys in the back seat have "oh shit" faces on. He asks me which boy and I said I didn't know. He then asks them if one of them called me a whore. "No." they shake their heads, "We said 'who!'"

He turns back to me, "Well if they won't admit it, then I can't punish them."

I stand there open-mouthed and gawking. What? Since when is this the standard we raise our children? If I had done it when I was little, my parents would have beaten the shit out of me, but then again, I was raised better than to call perfect strangers "whores" too. I can't even fathom my punishment.

Also, what do I have to gain by telling a stranger a perfect lie about the children in his backseat? Does he really think movie renting 24-year-old women are less trustworthy than some whore-calling punk? That I'm out to get them? The boy made his mistake by saying he called out "who" to me. I didn't solicit a response from the kid, by even admitting he called out to me meant he was guilty. I felt that by telling me he couldn't do anything, that he was condoning they boys' behavior. That, indeed, it is okay to speak to women that way. Like some third world country, we aren't worth treating as equals.

Crap. What a way to start a Sunday.

Better than Pat Maweini...

Your Irish Name Is...

Ella O'Donovan

What's your Irish Name?

I would like to make an announcement...

Ahem.

I would just like to say that in addition to my regular duties as tech writer, I have also been appointed as "Assistant Chief Warden" of the "Fire and Life Safety Committee."


My new duties include:

• Organizing the Fire & Life Safety Committee.
• Providing proper leadership for the Committee; schedule annual meetings.
• Making unannounced safety inspections.
• Making routine inspections with Tenant Wardens.
• Providing training as necessary.
• Tracking changes inn local fire code applications.

In case you are curious, putting my life on the line with this new title does not affect my pay in any way.

I am, however, requesting that my business card be updated to include my new title.

Now only if they agreed to let me include a picture of me in a fireman's hat pointing a hose...

Wha?

I did not see this coming...

Dork Spectrum: Where Do You Fall Full-on Dork (Severe/Profound) - There is basically no hope for you. You are the guy/girl who is constantly laughing at yourself. In fact, you're probably doing it right now. You can't listen to someone in conversation without trying to work over what they are saying in your head to come up with some sort of witty comment or a way to relate it to real life situations, sitcoms or a movie you've seen at least 35 times. You enjoy practicing responses to seem spontaneous and quirky, but the levels of effort and awareness of your own awkwardness are off the chart which places you in the Full-on end of the Dork Spectrum. I'd say that you should think more about what you say before you say it, but you'd probably just be thinking of something witty to say and not really listening anyway. My best advice is to find someone who is just as Dorky as you and hold on to them. You will never find a better match than with another Full-on.

Is that what dorks are, people who use wit and pop culture references? Whoops...

I'll be singing from Hell, it'll probably sound similar

I like to think of myself as a nice person, but then something like this happens and I know I'm driving that bus to Hell.

I will not pass go. I will not collect $200. (Donations, however, are appreciated)

Remember Corky? Everyone's favorite down-syndrome character from "Life Goes On?"

Turns out he's also a singer.

And by singer, I mean he tries, and by tries, I mean it's muddled speech.

My morning radio station featured some of the tracks off the album and I couldn't stop laughing until I felt sick to my stomach for even laughing in the first place. He's doing a great thing, really.

Yeah, can't even type that without snickering.

I logged on to Amazon and, thankfully, I am not the only one who feels this way:

I'm hunting for wabbits!

I was really excited about apartment hunting. I was going to pick out 8 places and spend the day looking at each one, take pictures, make the pros and cons list and I was going to end up with a really kick ass apartment in Atlanta. I was going to be ITP (Inside the Perimeter for those not hip with Atlanta lingo.) Moreover, I was going to live in Midtown. I would delight in watching your eyebrows raise as I say this to you. I was going yuppie with a touch of hip hop. Immerse myself in urban culture. Get those season tickets to the ballet at the Fox that I've been talking about for years. This was it. Time to take the plunge.

Apartment hunting is not fun. I somehow forgot my previous experiences of residence shopping. My MO would be to look at exactly 3 places, get disenchanted and pissed off, then get the very next place I look at, regardless of price and appearance, just to be done with the whole thing. How did I forget this?

The first place I went to was $100 more a month than they advertised on the Internet. When I brought this fact up with the lady, she laughs at me and tells me they haven't had that price in years. When I am debating bringing business with you, do not laugh at me. It pisses me off and results with me becoming a raging bitch. Raging, as in I have no problems with public humiliation. With her, I just pushed the papers away and told her I wasn't interested and left.

The second place looked a little run down, but it was cheap and in a good location. After exchanging e-mails with the leasing manager, I popped by to check it out. He informs me that they can no longer lease because they are going to be demolished at the end of the summer to build a retirement community. Why he couldn't say this in his e-mail the day before is beyond me.

Already this isn't fun. I want a kick ass place. So I decided to get a Realtor that specializes in apartment rentals. His name is Antonio and he's gay, he told me so within 3 minutes on the phone, but I already knew that when his flamboyance actually oozed out of my cell phone and manifested itself into a shirtless YMCA construction worker before me.

Reasons why I love having a gay Realtor:

• He's memorized which apartments are within walking distance of which bars.
• He says things like, "My ex used to live there. He's a bitch, but the apartment is lovely."
• He knows what areas of town are becoming popular before anyone else does.
• He also knows what apartments are majority gay or straight and if the guys are hot or not.
  

Which one is not like the other?

What's wrong with this picture?


Look closely...

Yeah, no bed. I noticed it too.

Before you get all intelligent on me, yes I realize that this is what they call a "studio." I'm familiar with them and have lived in one before. But when my gay real estate agent sent this to me (another post) I thought it was weird that they would take the time to draw the furniture in there, and yet not insert a bed.

Does a person in a studio really need a dining room table? Why couldn't they put a bed there? Or even make the couch look like a futon or something. I can't stare at this and picture myself living there for the simple reason because it doesn't have a bed. Most floorplans don't have furniture layouts at all, why have one here?

I need a bed, damnit!

Hell factor for the following content: large

I've been staring at pictures like this all week and I have to admit it's kinda freaking me out:


I'm not saying that the disabled can't have slap-happy jackass grins, but this is a bit much. I'm also willing to bet that his guy isn't even handicapped, he willingly strapped himself in to that contraption. I see pictures like this and I wonder if he volunteered to demonstrate the product. Was there a meeting? Was voting involved? Were they like, "Well it's a 5:4 vote, Bob is going to be in our brochures." Were people disappointed? When Bob got dressed that morning, did he pick out that outfit to sit in the wheelchair?

Thoughts that run through my head.

I was going to make fun of him a little, but I'm too afraid after the last time I made fun of someone in a wheelchair.

The perfect peach

It's 6:48 in the morning. I slept too long. Again. The only light in the room emits from my closet with its double doors wide open. My entire wardrobe glows, which should make it resemble some holy shrine, but instead it looks like an gateway to Hell -- belts, shoes, pants, and scarves all in disarray.

I stand in front of the double doors and gaze sleepily into the closet, not really thinking of anything. Sleep has manifested my hair into peaks and horns on my head and I'm pretty sure there were still pillow creases on my cheek. I don't have time to fool around with outfits this morning; I just need to pick something and go.

A pair of pants taunts me from within a collection of hangers. It's my Burberry plaid pants that zip up the back, size 6 and last worn when I was 22 and "hanging out" with Mike Anderson. I only have one shirt and one pair of shoes that I could wear with them, thus completing the ensemble.

Size 6. It's been awhile and it's been my goal. Do I dare? Do I try on the pants, risking rejection from something that can't even speak? I'd been feeling good recently, but there is still more weight I want to lose. It's too soon. It's carrying a print out of your engagement ring in your purse, it's attending the "running of the brides" when he won't call you back, it's bringing up the subject of children before you're 30. A multicolored scarf drapes off the top shelf, its fringe hissing at me formidably.

When have I ever been one to follow the rules?

I huff a few times as if I was planning to dive into deep waters, and yank the pants off the hanger. They're perfectly pressed because they haven't been touched in over 2 years. I put one leg in, then the other. I pull up, expecting to feel resistance in the upper thighs. I zip, expecting the seems to rip open. Instead I stare in the mirror, jaw hanging. I turn around to see how far up I was I able to zip, and the zipper rested at the top. Not only did they fit, but they looked good.

And who cares what your hair looks like when your ass looks like a perfect peach?

Oops

I went out to lunch today and I was stopped at an intersection, rocking out to my new CD, when this hot guy in scrubs walks by on the sidewalk. He was a real life John Dorian; I've never seen anyone that hot haut in scrubs before.

"Hello Dr. Hottie!" I sang to myself.

He stopped and looked at me. I completely forgot I had the windows down in my SUV.

He was staring at me. Through. My. Open. Window.

I smiled and waved. I mean, what do you do after you verbally assault a stranger with promises of "me love you long time?"

'Nother One

In case you missed it the first time:

I wonder if simulating her own daily habits include masturbating after Leno and then crying yourself to sleep.

Times like these, I love going home alone

I was out in a different part of town Saturday night catching up with some old friends. We're doing what we do best, sitting at the bar, and I look to my right and I see him. He's 20 pounds heavier, but he is definitely an old friend from high school. I haven't seen him since he made me my first fake ID my freshman year of college. I can't remember his last name. What is it?!

"Brent!" I holler over the bar. He turns, makes eye contact with me, and smiles. I get up from my seat and I push through the people until we meet in the middle. We hug -- it's what you do if you haven't seen a friend in six years. We talked for maybe 30 seconds before SHE came swooping in. THE WIFE.

"Jamie, I want you to meet my wife (insert generic name here)," he says.

I smile and shake her hand, but inside I'm rolling my eyes. She saw us hug and talk from across the bar and is showing up to make sure her man is on good behavior. She looks at me expectantly.

"Brent and I went to high school together. We did drama and newspaper and he made me my first fake ID in college," I say. I hate myself for doing that. She was waiting to see how we knew each other and I gave her what she wanted. She smiles bigger, delighting in the fact that she knows her man is safe from the likes of me. She has big white horse teeth.

I wish I was the kind of person that had the audacity to inch in a little closer to Brent and say, "Oh Brent and I go way back," and giggle a naughty giggle. "Hey, remember the time we spent all night in the theatre and the police came?"

Completely innocent of course, but she wouldn't know that.

I just hate the girls that feel a need to hover over their men property. I can accomplish just as much with and 'eat shit' smile from across the room. I think what irritated me the most is that she looked like a wife. She wore the jean jacket with the too-dark lipstick and the dangly earrings that would only be seen on elementary school teachers. My friends and I were all in lacy low-cut shirts that sparkled. When did she grow so old?

I even think I felt the attitude from her acrylic nails. The whole I'm-married-and-you're-in-a-glitter-shirt-holding-a-martini attitude. The we're-cool-cause-we-grew-up-and-moved-to-the-'burbs attitude.

The conversation ended there. My mind was preoccupied hating her so much that I couldn't think of anything else to say. Questions like "So what are you doing now?" completely eluded me. I take a long drink from my martini while staring at them, nod, and say, "This was great, we should do it again some time," and walked away before they could respond.

And I don't even have to drive!

One thing I am learning about Atlanta is that I can live there for free!

I find these ads a lot more interesting to read than the ones I actually am interested in. My favorite so far was some "quadriplegic" looking for a female nurse type figure. You scroll down and there is naked picture of him holding a queen of Hearts:

For some inane reason, I think the queen of Hearts and the coy smile indicate that he's looking for something more than "a waitress with a kid" to "change is bedpan."

More fish please!

I've been such a dumbass for the last 3 days that I'm going to take today off from blogging. I'm going to read a book, listen to my new cd, drink some green tea and treat myself to some sushi. Tomorrow I'll be brighter.

My mom says I'm getting smarter, redux

I was going to write a post about a dumbass thing I did over the weekend, but it got overshadowed by a dumbass thing I did today.

Locked my damn keys in the car.

Again.

Must be that time of year.

I was sitting in my car after lunch, debating leaving my sunroof open because it was such a nice day. I decided against it, got out, and locked the car. If I had left the sunroof open, I could have got them out like I did last time.

Luckily, my office high-rise hires a police officer to sit outside our building every afternoon to stop traffic and let us out of the parking lot. Yes, I realize I lead a very spolied existence. When he showed up this afternoon, I asked him to Slim Jim my door open. My car alarm began going off and I let out a joyful, "Wahoo!"

I don't feel like I am in a position to comment about the Oscars.

After all, I do prefer Shaun of the Dead to Hotel Rwanda.

A Page in the Life

(JAMIE and COWORKER are out to lunch together. JAMIE and COWORKER also have the cutest waiter in existence. JAMIE is glad she wore slutty top to work today and everyone staring at her chest is finally paying off. CUTEST WAITER IN EXISTENCE has been back several times to JAMIE and COWORKER's table to flirt during their meal. CUTEST WAITER IN EXISTENCE is walking away from the table, after giving a speech about how he knows ladies need special attention, and JAMIE and COWORKER are watching his butt as he leaves.)

JAMIE: I'm sending him mental kisses right now. He's totally getting them and reciprocating.
COWORKER: I'm so jealous!

Terribly Happy

I've been feeling lame again this week and it slowly hit me:

I have nothing to complain about.

Everything in my life is going well. My job is good, both educational and entertaining. I get to do some things, like web design, which I really enjoy. I just got paid and I don't have any outstanding bills or needs that eat up my paycheck- I might actually get to save some of it (after, of course, I bought a cd, yoga mat, and some Crest white strips.)

I think I'm finally becoming comfortable with Atlanta, which has been pretty hard on me. I've made a couple of high quality friends at work and we go out to eat and work out together. I've also been seeing my Athens friends on a regular basis, so I feel pretty well-rounded in that area.

Dating life has been going well. I've been very busy with that. Between my new friends and boys, I no longer have to worry about what I'm doing on Friday and Saturday nights.

I officially began apartment hunting last night and was thrilled to find a variety of apartments that fit both my budget and my criterium (allow pets and has washer/ dryer connections.) I might to look Saturday after I go to the gym.

I feel well. I fell well-rounded; busy, but not tired; and happy. So cheers to me!