Monday, January 31, 2011

I'll take one case of the Mondays, please.

It is is now noon-and-a-half, and here I am under the covers.

I took a short break to grab the 'puter and eat a balanced breakfast of leftover rice crispy treats and Goofy fruit sours. It was a Disney weekend, you see. And I was the lucky girl who got to eat a corn dog AND watch Chadwick perform seemingly effortless body rolls in front of California Screamin' ON THE SAME DAY! Thus, I declare this weekend victorious.

But today, the thought of rolling out of my bed and reading the ramblings of Gothic literary critics is infinitely less appealing than staying in said bed and watching Hulu clips.

I'm sure the thought of me lying around, eating candy, and watching TV on the Internet is making my friends with kids puke up their healthy breakfasts. But just remember, friends with kids, Monday is the shopgirl's Saturday. Also, this particular shopgirl happens to be both a) lazy and b) procrastinating any number of looming tasks.

Some days I think a trade would be nice. The grass on the "Mom" side of the street appears lush and luminescent at times. But it only seems that way because I'm not the one watering it.

That's why I want to give a shout out to my friend Laura. She crossed over her own little person to take care of now.

Way to go, mom-ladies! Some day I'll join your little club. But right now I've got an episode of Supernanny and another handful of fruit sours to attend to. Duty calls!

Thursday, January 27, 2011

A day in the life...

This conversation just happened over IM.

whalerobber: drove to school w/ the parking break on?

grettapwhalen: uh...that may have happened...yes.
grettapwhalen: some parking break, emirate?
grettapwhalen: ha! that's supposed to say am i right, but all close together.

whalerobber: so was it all the way on? or just a little bit on?

grettapwhalen: it's hard to say

whalerobber: i might need to get that looked at.

Reality Bites.

Handsome Rob and I pretty much have the same taste in everything. We both crush on Jason Statham, high-cholesterol food, impromptu in-house dance parties, stuff like that. We're one of the only couples I know that has serious discussions about zombies, real vampires, and how we'd like to be in a biker gang. Actually, just Rob would be in the gang. I'd play the coveted role of his old lady. That way I don't have to implicate myself in the murders and drug runnings and such. It makes for a fun marriage, though. An unproductive marriage at times, but still fun.

Our one major disagreement has to do with this extramarital affair I'm having with trashy reality TV. I love it. Especially the really vile MTV/VH1 stuff. Teen Mom makes me emotional. So does Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. Also, I'm ashamed to admit that I have a morbid fascination with Jersey Shore. (I dare you to watch one episode and not fall in love with JWOWW. I don't personally care for the Snooki.) My favorite, though, is the Supernanny. I'll have a baby if Nanny Jo moves in with us. Hell, I'll even take the futon and she and Rob can have the bed.

That sounds like a lot of TV. And it doesn't even include all the shows Rob and I watch together. Don't worry. I usually watch it while I'm doing P90X. I put Tony Horton on mute because he's insufferable. That way I can feel emotions other than irrational anger while doing my wacky jacks.

So now you know. Hi. My name is Gretta. And I'm a grown-ass woman who likes to watch teenagers, children, addicts, and offensive Italian-American stereotypes be belligerent and obnoxious. Help me exploit this shameful habit and turn it into something productive. I'm thinking...reality show reviews for public radio? I'll keep you posted.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Gretta needs a haircut.

Help. It's getting long and I have no master plan. Long like twelve-years-old-long, or home-schooled-long, or old-but-I'm-still-trying-to-look-young-enough-to-shop-at-Forever21-long.

Here are the requirements:
-Low-maintenance. I talk a big game, but at the end of the day, I'm a lazy, lazy-ass. So basically, if it involves a hair-dryer, I'm out.
-Not too short. Too short = more frequent haircuts = I run out of money faster.
-Gotta look good. One time I got a haircut that looked great on Sarah Michelle Gellar. On me, I'd call it the "Peppermint Patty."
-Bangs. These I can take or leave, but you should know, they're covering a very prominent forehead vein. Please keep this in mind when you submit your request.

Rob has been absolutely no help. Having not witnessed the "Peppermint Patty", he's under the mistaken impression that I can pull off any look.

This is what I'm working with. Note the look of quiet desperation. I'm thisclose to shaving it off and getting wigs from one of those beauty supply stores near Wilshire and La Brea. I think they're wigs made just for black ladies, but I'll make them work.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

L.A. Living

Whenever I'm sitting next to my broken heater — fully-clothed and wrapped in a blanket, wearing fingerless gloves so I can still type things and underline passages and such — I have to stop and think, at least the bathroom still smells inexplicably like tuna fish. And you know, that's something.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Still not private.

My friends do that. Make their blogs private, I mean. Which is totally cool. If their kids are cute enough, I usually send them my e-mail address so I can still keep track of them in my anti-social way. Honestly, the Internet is the best thing that ever happened to my social life. It has allowed me to stay connected to people without, you know, expending any energy. It's tough. I have, literally, like a dozen friends and I'd hate to have to socialize with all of them regularly. Can you imagine the time commitment? The number of conversations I'd be having? I'd have to shower before dinnertime and put on a bra if I went down that road. Thanks to blogspot, I don't have to meet them for lunch or drop by their house or call them on the phone. I can just check in, usually during the time I've set aside for studying, grace them with my eternal wit by leaving a comment (if I'm feeling inspired), and get back to whatever I'm currently reading. Or eating.

My private friends live in a different world, though. They've got kids. And, as far as I understand it, kids come with really nice, expensive cameras and photography businesses. So with the kids come the pictures of the kids, and with the pictures of the kids come the weirdos. Then the weirdos leave weird comments and my friends' blogs disappear.

Here's my question, though: why don't the weirdos read my blog? I would love to open an inbox full of wacky comments! It would give me material for days! I bet the blogspot trolls are awesome. The way I see it, the Internet is nothing if not a portal straight into the minds and homes of the strangest people on the planet. I love that crap. Why do you think I watch "Celebrity Rehab" and "Hoarders"? On the Internet, no less!

So weirdos: if you're reading this, stop wasting your comments on my friends and their kids. They don't like it. Bring it over here. We need something to talk about over our Trader Joe's frozen dinners. It could be you! If it's pictures of kids you need, I can do that. I've got a park across the street. You just give me the word. In a comment.

My favorite 2010 Internet Flotsam

I love it when I come across ideas that I wish were mine. Sometimes I just get mad, but in this case, the geniuses used skills that I can't even pretend to have. Somehow that makes it OK.

The thing that's so great about Marcel is that, for this guy (girl?), having shoes and a face is enough. It's the little things, you know?