Friday, April 28, 2006

Dear Little Miss Pretentious Hipster,

Ok, I'll just be totally open with you Little Miss Pretentious Hipster. I don't like your kind. I don't like how your hair is always kind of messy, and when I sit behind one of you on BART, I just want to brush it so bad that sometimes I have to sit on my hands. I don't like how you wear leggings. No one should wear leggings. I don't care if it's ironic or whatever. It's ugly. And I don't like that pretentious, my-band-is-more-indie-than-your-band attitude that you all seem to exude like it's bad cologne at the prom.

But mostly, Little Miss Pretentious Hipster, I don't like you. I don't like you because you constantly flirt with my husband, and send him emails, and once told him that he was "so cute, that [you] wanted a pocket version of [him]." You, Little Miss Pretentious Hipster, may be indie, but you are also a bitch. I would love nothing more than to punch you in your little self-righteous face (perhaps then you can write a paper about the violence of women in American society, and make it totally work for you), but since you are my husband's "friend" and we are going to have to be casually acquainted for the next six years or so while you both slough your way through graduate school, I am just going to give you this handy dandy list of things that you can work on to make our future meetings at least civil.

1. Please do not lie about the origins of your clothes. That shirt did not come from a thrift store, unless of course the Urban Outfitters on Bancroft is now doubling as a Salvation Army. In the real world (may be not in this crazy world you have created for yourself) this sucks for two reasons: 1) Lying is bad and gets you bad karma, and 2) When you do this, and then I go and buy a dress from the same Urban Outfitters that you bought that shirt from, my husband complains about the price and talks about how some people shop at the thrift store. So don't lie. Or I will punch you.

2. Please do not tell my husband details of that porn film you did that time. You should know that one. Or perhaps this rule is not the same in your crazy, made-up world? Anyway, that's not acceptable conversation. Further, if you are thinking about doing more porn, here's an idea: Grow some boobs. I know that for my taste, when I am watching two people do the nasty, I like to know if I'm looking at their fronts or their backs. Just a thought. I guess you should also know that if you thought this was going to be confidential between you and my husband, it wasn't. He came home and told me all the juicy details. So ha ha.

3. I know that some people refer to a color of hair as "shoe polish black," but that doesn't mean they actually dye their hair with shoe polish. Look into that. It distracts me when I am talking to you, and makes me want to simultaneously shine my shoes and wash my hands. And also punch you.

4. And lastly, please do not spend your nights sending multiple emails to my husband. He and I have had numerous conversations about this, and have both decided that you are a touch needy (ok, he says you are a little needy, I say you are a raving psycho-bitch). So. Just. Stop. Someday I hope someone emails and flirts with your husband non-stop, just so I know that karma is alive and well. But you know, finding that husband may be a little harder than usual, given that most nice boys don't like to introduce their mamas to girls who suck man meat on film. Just a thought.

So, just try it out, and let's try not to come to blows before one of you graduates.

Thanks,
Me

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Letter of Truth: Second Spawn Addition (we mean Edition)

Hey ya'll!
It's Brit again! I guess that you all just totally forgot about me didn't you? You didn't hear anything about my sweet little baby hurting his head which was totally not done by my husband no matter what anyone says, and you didn't hear about that time that I went for a drive and just forgot to put that same sweet baby in his car seat BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY HUGGING MY BABY BECAUSE I AM JUST SUCH A GOOD MOM. Because if you heard about that, forget it, because it's not true, and even if it was, I am totally a good mom and it was the high chair's fault. All of it. The car, the fall, Kevin's cd--all totally the fault of the high chair. Because, ya'll, some things are just possessed. By evil.

But, ya'll, you know what's not possessed? My baby-maker! Or, maybe it is possessed, but not by the devil or incest puppies or anything, but by another little tiny baby, a little cute baby that's going to come out and be all cute and totally make SOME PEOPLE remember that if you get a lady pregnant TWICE that you are supposed to stay at home and not go to Vegas every night, even if your "doctor" is there (and by the way, my mom said that no real doctor ever prescribed Colt 45 for a migraine--SO THERE). Ya'll, I am so knocked up again, and this time, it's going to be so better than last time, because this time, I'll know what to do, and I'll know that I probably shouldn't drink all of those frappucinos at one time, and maybe that cowboy boots are not the best thing for pregnant swollen ankles. Ya'll, this time it's all going to be ok. This time every one will look at me, and not just creepy sculptors who lay around on bear skin rugs, but EVERYBODY, and by EVERYBODY, I mean, all of those people who look at Jessica Simpson now, and they will think that I am just such a good girl, and that no one should ever make me dance with a snake around my neck ever ever again. They will remember how cool I am, and that I can dance really, really good.

But, until this one is born and everyone starts thinking that again, I am going to hang out up here with Morgan, because she is fun and she makes chicken fingers from me, and she gets them all the way done so that they're not frozen in the middle still. It's better than being at home, where my mom just rocks back and forth all the time, and ole what's-his-name wastes time lighting funny smelling cigarettes with dollar bills. And little Sean, even though he is soooooooooooooo cute, he takes a lot of work, and sometimes I'm just not up to it, because ya'll, it is just hard. But having another one will make it all better. That's what I say. And so far, no one has told me any different.

So just know that Morgan is ok, and that she is busy with me, and that she may not get to post as much, but that is only because she works a lot, and then we have to spend our time shopping for the baby and eating deep fried Oreos and watching Crossroads over and over again. She still loves you, probably even more than she loves me, and she thinks of most of you all the time. Seriously. She does. Except when she's deep frying snacks. Because, ya'll, you shouldn't do anything while you're trying to deep fry. You could fracture your skull, and that's no joke.

Love ya'll,
Mrs. Federline

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Everybody's Working for the Weekend

I am off tomorrow, for my first paid holiday EVER. This is totally a good feeling. The possibilities abound as to what I could do...go to SF...shop...hang out in Tilden...drive down to MAC at Fourth Street and finally buy some lip gloss...get my hair cut. What will I probably do? Well, I have to get my hair cut, because I've been trying to make this appointment for 4 weeks now, but other than that, I see lots of TV in my future. I also see a pint of Double Rainbow coffee ice cream, which I bought last Sunday in anticipation of this day. It is going to ROCK. Matt has school, so I have the house totally to myself, which has not happened in a while, as we are both usually gone during the same hours, and then return and are at home for the same hours. I am looking forward to it immensely. I refuse to clean my house, which I definitely need to do. I refuse to even do the laundry. I flat out refuse. Somehow, somewhere there will be a Law and Order marathon, and folks, I will be there to watch it.

It is amazing just how much time this business of growing up takes. Even when I was in college and working a job and writing papers and doing whatever, I could somehow find time to watch a bit of TV, or veg out or whatever. Now, I work 8-5, get home at 5:30-6:00 depending on traffic, cook until around 6:30-7:00, eat, wash dishes and do laundry, do any tax/bill related money handling, and then manage to watch a TiVoed program before collapsing into bed with Carson McCullers all splayed out on my chest. There really is no time to just veg, especially with weekends being packed with all of the stuff I forgot to do during the week. So, tomorrow is a no-holds-barred veg-a-thon. I might gain 10 pounds while I'm at it, but it will be 10 lovely pounds, 10 pounds that I would relish in and love until my next round of walking work-outs, and fruit for dessert weeks takes it away.

Folks seem pretty excited about the long weekend here--it reminds you that just about everyone is pretty much a zombie at this point.

So anyway, when I post next (I'm really trying to do better with the length between my posts), I will have that stylish Nicole-Richie bob, hopefully a new tube of MAC lychee luxe lipgloss, and a Double Rainbow coffee ice cream gut. And I will have slept, and vegged, and been the laziest, most slothful beast around for a day. I will be lovely.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Work, work, work

I am at work, and have finally gotten a free moment after a rather long and crazy day. I like how I keep saying things like "today has been long and crazy." I say it nearly every day. I think perhaps I should just start saying that I have had a day, and leave the adjectives for the less tired.

So yeah, I haven't updated in a while. Sorry about that. I really have gotten so busy with my new job. It's a bit insane, this mess of working and cooking and sleeping and making some attempts at living. I don't know.

I really, really like my job. It is nice, it pays well, and the people here are great. It's just that sometimes I wonder: Is this it? Is this life, the one of work and calling out for lunch and high heels and 401(k)'s, IT? Is this what I'm going to do for 30-40 years? I suddenly feel like there is no hope for magic or fame or anything in my life, nothing that will really break the monotony of the everyday. I am never going to be a singer, or an actress or America's Next Top Model. Not that I would ever want to be one of those things, or are remotely qualified to do it, but still. I've already started on this other path, where I'm just kind of stuck. It's not a problem, it's just weird.

The weird thing about life is that it is like an old car, stopping and stalling its way toward an unknown future.

And that's my thought for today. Now I must go find a PO for my boss.