Also? Chocolate. And @AllieGresham.
And stories of TOEFL scores, German fairytales, quilt patterns, the appropriate age for marriage based on lifestyle choices and/or suburban living, boob jobs, the cheese varieties on the most amazing grilled cheese sandwich to ever grace these luscious lips, plans for lingerie shopping and the welcoming nature of pumpkin scones.
It was a busy evening.
Because you all await each of my pithy tweets with bated breath (go ahead, loves, breathe), you know that Doctor Sister has arrived, with Doctor Brother-in-Law in tow, and brought with her a handy dandy plan to FIX MY FUCKING HEADACHE.
I’ll spoil it all for you now: It does not.
In fact, Dr. B.I.L. took one look at me, flicked me in the forehead (affectionately?) and pronounced the headache to be what Dr. Sister believed from the start: a viral infection of the sinuses.
Which means I handed that fucking urgent-care doctor 300 of my (vaguely) hard-earned cash monies for the PRIVILEGE of sitting in his waiting room listening to some bitch on her cell phone (They’re always bitches when they’re loud, but I never am. Hmm. Conundrum.), for the PRIVILEGE of enduring his highly unpleasant nurse and for the PRIVILEGE of getting two shots IN MY BUM.
I would like to take this perfectly timed opportunity to whine, again, about how those spots are still sore to the touch. Poor bum.
Nay, I have a virus and it really hurts and that really sucks. The end.
But in related news, the (disgustingly cute) Dr. Married Couple also agree I have a vitamin D deficiency, like the majority of the U.S.’s population, which has caused-slash-exacerbated my chronic generalized musculoskeletal pain.
Fuck, that was a mouthful to remember. Don’t tell me if I fucked it up, jerks. Thank you.
Now, I don’t know if you know much about vitamin D – it’s the shit they put in milk and you get from the sun – and somehow the milk fat and the sun combine in a Captain Planety way to give you good, happy vitamin D.
See? I so understand science.
Most adults north of the southern states (shut up; I know I’m in a southern state; I’m fucking special, ok?) are deficient in vitamin D for the better part of any given year because it’s cold outside and snowy and windy and other things I hate like sleet and OH EM EFF GEE FREEZING RAIN IS SUCH AN ASSHOLE.
So, when one is vitamin D deficient, one needs more vitamin D. (Shut up.) Ways to get more vitamin D include getting those lovely UVA and UVB rays we all run screaming from in the form of sunscreen in every body and skincare product we own and taking these adorbs little tiny gel caps with a meal that includes fat.
Clearly, I need to worry about that, because I often eat meals that contain no fat. WTF HOW DO YOU HAVE A MEAL WITH NO FAT HOW TERRIFYING OH LORD.
As its reception INSERT SCIENCE HERE is aided by the sun, pill-form vitamin D is also called liquid (or bottled) sunshine.
AHA! Enter Google Image search!
It is at this time I would like to offer other ‘liquid sunshine’ products as potential replacements for the silly little gel caps.
Dr. Sister, are you listening?
Perk: Getting hit on by Hyatt sales managers is a very good time.
Speaking of that mama of mine, I introduced her to you with my fancy press-release skills on Sunday in what, quite frankly, might be the funniest moment of my life. Seriously, let the ego jokes rip, y’all; I was hyyyyyysterical. I promise, however, she is in fact NOTHING like Dina Lohan. Despite being the cutest baby ever (you know I was), she never once allowed me to model or do any commercials. Say what you will, we could totally all be living in Barbie’s dream house now if she did, mmmk?
Perk: Y’all, for real, my mama is incredible and I am SO glad to share this space with her. I can’t wait to hear what she says. About me. (God, I love the ego jokes. LOVE, I say.)
Spending the week up in Athens with Sally and Kit was ridiculously fun. Those crazy kids really are some of my all-time favorite people, and I’m totally showing back up in a month when I manage to overschedule myself into a tizzy. Like it’s not going to happen, immediately. Right.
I have apparently developed an interesting reaction to Benadryl. I am, and always have been, allergic to cats, despite owning them myself, and Betsy the Bitchface is no different. Pathetic with sniffles and teary eyes, sitting on the floor next to my cell phone charger, talking to my geek, Sally handed over the magical pink pills. Next thing we knew, I was producing ridiculous posts and unable to finish sentences for the shiny distractions on the television.
Perk: I’m sure it will surprise no one to learn that I gesture a great deal when I talk. Apparently my gestures ALSO get slow when my brain does, and I found myself with my hands in mid-air, a good few minutes after my mouth stopped speaking, over and over again.
As you all now know, since I’ve beaten you over the head with the information, I bought some pretty kick-ass boots this week. They are, of course, made for much more than walking, and, really, might just be for making these gams look hotter than they ever have. Unfortunately, it will probably cost more than twice what I paid for them to get them professionally cleaned. Which I so have to do, as they are really narsty on the inside.
Perk: They are more magnificent than any of the wonderful shoes my sister owns – which is a trend in my life right now I am so all about maintaining – and thus provide excellent currency for getting some of the fancy clothing and jewelry in HER collection to defect and join my team.
This past weekend I worked a wedding for a friend, doing everything from fancy-folding napkins to guest-wrangling to boutonniere-pinning to identifying which twin babygirl was which by the initial on her hairbow. I was offered pot, sex and to have ‘a good word’ put in for me by guests – for no real discernible reason. It was hot, understaffed, fun, awful and paid – which is good, remember, because I have a particular affinity for the cash monies. And then I managed to cut myself on the champagne foil, stick my fingers into burny hot tea candle wax and wake up the next day eleven shades of HOLY FUCK I’M SORE.
Perk: I then crowned myself (once again, this is a recurring theme in my life) queen of the stupid minor injuries, adding that night’s pains to the massive bruise on my thigh, tiny not-healing cut on my temple and the random chunk of foot that decided to remove itself from my sole. My tiara is beautiful.
My fabulous geek just got all the more fabulous: Using my site as an example of her fabulosity landed her a new freelance gig. Which is all grand, really, since she’ll get paid cash monies by these folks and I just send her baked goods. Except. Now I’m all competing with the job I GOT HER for her time. This does not strike me as equitable. And so I’m pouty.
Perk: She does, indeed, work for baked goods. (FOR ME, not for you. Tough shit.) Which is the sweetest deal I’ve ever negotiated.
Say, wanna buy some beachfront property?
I bought killer boots yesterday. I know, this isn’t news, as you all devote hours of your time to my tweets and check back religiously at night to see if I’ve posted yet. I apologize for the repetition.
But the boots, they’re hottt. Despite my impressive vocabulary, there’s really not a better word for them. I mean, “fun,” “attractive,” “sweeeeet,” “gorgeous,” “funky,” “spectacular” and “sick find, dude!” are pretty good, but they don’t really capture the badassery of the boots the way “hottt” does.
I mean, c’mon. The extra Ts totally evoke that Harley-riding-yet-sexy-perfume-smelling, short-skirt-wearing, perfect-tousled-hair-coiffed, lightly-tanned-skin-with-bright-white-teeth-having badass chick. Obviously.
Of course, the fact that they’re vintage and that I got them for an embarrassingly low number of cash monies make them all the better. We’re just ignoring the fact that the stretchy-calf parts having dying elastic and that they’re horrendously filthy on the inside. Those are minor details.
Moving right along.
My latest footwear acquisition, however, boasts even more than hotttness, cheapness and retro cred:
“These boots were made for crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you and hearing the lamentations of their bad grammar. And not for walking.” – Dr. Sally (and Conan the Barbarian), September 21, 2010
It should surprise no one that Dr. Sally is, again, right.
Indeed, these boots were made for peering out over the sun-beaten savanna and hunting African game.
These here boots were made for going 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
These triumphant boots were made to scale the majestic peaks of the Himalayas, to stand tall and proud at the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro.
Said boots were made for altered states of consciousness with early ‘90s rockstars before and until their untimely deaths by overdose.
The boots in question were made for the wrangling of unexpected reptiles or defending one’s self against the canine undead.
In truth, these boots were made for the utmost glamour, painting the town red, as they did with veritable Hollywood royalty.
These boots were made for heroic acts, standing up, marching, in the face of adversity.
But in truth, in sum, in full: These boots were made for blogging.
all the props & kudos i can muster go to Peachy for her amazing late-night save with the photo editing. love you! go visit her, y’all!