It's Friday, I'm in Love

with gameday, bitches!

UPDATE: T - 1 hour till departure for Gaylord sponsored OU - I don't know what the field's called anymore - Nokia Mountain Dew Taco Bell Stadium. Whatever. It's almost time. I'm feeling pretty good about things, except for this: Applecrap State trounced Michigan. If it can happen to them, it can happen to us. Humility is the name of the game. Well, until we run up the score so high I leave for the bars in the third quarter, then I will mercilessly taunt Michiganers. Ha! I've got my camera and am focusing on #s 2, 8 and 9. Later bitches!

And so it begins. Tomorrow marks the first game of what promises to be a roller coaster of a season. I will laugh, I will cry, it will be better than Cats. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, though. I really don't know all that much about college football. I grew up in Norman, took classes at OU during high school, my brother might or might not be attending and my parents got all of their 1400 degrees there, so you know, I'm a fan. Plus, Smith didn't have a football team (although, the rugby/softball/soccer teams kicked some serious super small obscure conference ass) and, sorry New England, but you guys just don't get college ball. I'd rather watch a high school game. In fact, once, at the Dartmouth homecoming game against Columbia, I actually saw a kid from high school playing a keg as part of the marching band. Huh? I don't think so. That's no way to treat the season. Where was I? Oh yes. So, I'm excited about tomorrow. When I last lived in Norman, my games were spent watching the disasters that were the Gibbs, Schnellencrapper and Blake regimes. As soon as I leave, Stoops swoops in and works miracles. Figures. Oh, and then the extended fam attacked us for our season tickets, which meant even if I happend to be randomly home for a game between 2001 and 2006, I couldn't go. Except the one where we got our ass handed to us by OSU. Sad day. Blah blah blah, now I get to go and am psyched! I've talked Lacey into being my specator-partner. It's gonna rock. Except it will be hot. I don't mind sweating and smelling, but I'm worried for the people around me. But hey, blow me. It's football season.

Goals for the season (in no particular order):

1. Crash a random tailgate party with my awesomeness.
2. Get on the field.
3. Not spill my drink all over someone as I precariously climb the 6,421.3 stairs up to our absolultely horrible, but traditional seats.
4. BEAT TEXAS!
5. Get hit on.
6. Hear my mom swear like a sailor.
7. BEAT OSU!
8. See my face on TV!
9. Actually know what's going on this season instead of just being happy with wins and saddened by losses. (It was hard to follow in the MA because games were never shown.)
10. Learn to make better/funnier goal lists (as you know, my limit is three, which was exceeded last night, making this morning not so much fun).

So, let the games begin. Pictures to follow after tomorrow, surely.

Cringesday: Literary Edition.

Scanner is kaput, so I present you with a photo-free Cringesday. Today's contribution comes from my much loved and leafed through Aegis English anthology. Yes, Aurora 2000. If you are interested, and I suspect you are not, read about a brief history of Aegis here. So, our senior year, all of us had collected a portfolio of writing that we'd used to enter several contests (you're looking at a two time winner of a Rose State writing competition poetry medal - I know, right?), which were then compiled into our anthology to live in high school ignominy forever. At the time, this little book was quite something. Now it is a work of humor. Oh God. We were too much. Check out this poem I wrote for my brother. I feel it's appropriate as he is now supposedly attending college. I say supposedly because he has no books and does no homework. How do I know this? Because he still hasn't moved into his dorm room. Three cheers for National Merit Scholars. Turd.

Joshua (c. 1998/1999)

Barefeet pounding
against the mossgreen tundra,
muscles singing,
back arched like the neighbor's cat,
sunpowered
moving weightlessly
in the cathedral of the afternoon.
Not afraid of the truth (that will be like a blanket
that won't cover your feet), just
bumble bees, wasps, and the little girl next door.
And you're glowing, springsweet,
like a thousand white candles, your
splendid ignorance
seeping through the caked mud and grass stains,
illuminating flushed cheeks,
escaping (too
quickly)
through breath and perspiration,
and I want to be your catcher in the rye.


OMG. I want to die. First of all, I suspect "springsweet" is from a Dave Matthews' song, which is pretty much all I listened to back in those days. Second of all, I'd rather show a shitty picture of me than reveal the inner sanctum of my high school brain any day. This looks easier than it is. So why are you doing it then, Blythe? Cheaper than therapy. Cheaper than therapy.

So, come on. You know you want to add one to the pile. It feels good. Catharsis baby!

I need an adult!

In spite of being a 26 year old woman who has indiscriminately dabbled in slut a time or two (who hasn't? don't lie) and who had a BF for a million years, I have a really hard time talking about s-e-x. I mean, really hard (ha!). Like I'd rather say vajayjay or bajingo than the v-word. I snicker when I hear boner. Saying breasts is too adult. I prefer boobies. I don't know how I've managed to get this far without being able to utter simple anatomy, but here I am, red faced, giggly and squirmy. The whole thing's quite ridiculous, really and I'm certainly not proud of it. I am an educated woman who should be able to talk about s-e-x like a normal person (whatever that means), but I just can't - without laughing a little bit. Like in the middle. The thing is, I want to learn. Is it something you're born with? Because I don't have it. I think part of the problem was having a BF from high school through, I don't know, last year whose idea of dirty/sweet talking was "hey, you wanna?" later, this would be followed up with me saying, "get that away from my butt" and then "seriously, dude, get that away from my ass" and then finally, "hey, I was talking to your mom this morning about our plans for Christmas..." and then he'd roll over. Match made in heaven. I need 900 operator training. Is there a workbook? Remember when Elaine whispers dirty nothings into Jerry's tape recorder and they all fall for her? Just sayin.'

Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: Best of 07 to date.

So it's a little more than halfway through the year. Or a little more than a little more. Whatever. I'm not really into "dates" and "calendars." Because I've been a busy bee and haven't listened through my cache of new stuff, I assembled a list of what I would consider the year's essentials thus far. I don't feel like digging up links, and I've posted most before, so the burden's on you. Or you can send me a SASE and I'll burn Now That's Indie! Vols. I & II for you.

In no particular order:

Now. Now. - St. Vincent
Fake Empire - The National
Intelligentactile 101 - Jesca Hoop
Golden Skans - Klaxons
Nighttiming - Coconut Records
Heart It Races - Architecture In Helsinki
I Was A Daughter - Basia Bulat
Kid On My Shoulders - White Rabbits
The Magic Position - Patrick Wolf
Four Winds - Bright Eyes
Sea Lion Woman - Feist
What Light - Wilco
Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse - Of Montreal
These Girls - Ryan Adams
Open Your Heart - Lavendar Diamond
Instead - Ola Podrida
Icky Thump - White Stripes
Comfy In Nautica - Panda Bear
My Rights Versus Yours - The New Pornographers
Sight Lines - Rogue Wave
Die. Die. Die. - Avett Brothers
Elephant Gun - Beirut
Steven - Voxtrot
Heart It Races - Dr. Dog
Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa - Vampire Weekend
Time Bomb - The Format
Heretics - Andrew Bird
The Underdog - Spoon

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Silence?

Everything That's Happened To Me Since Wednesday or, Sorry to Disappoint, Crimenotes:

1. Work has kicked my ass. But I also might be offered a new job, which would result in less ass kickings and more $$. In the meantime, I am boring.

2. Ultimate extreme tragedy struck. My cell phone finally bit it. Bitch snapped in half. I, of course, followed suit. I had a total and utter meltdown Friday night that resulted in me drinking margaritas at Chili's. In a related story, I have lost everyone's numbers. To most, this would be absolutely devastating, but for me, it's ok, since I only have like three friends. But if you want me to call you or not screen your call since I won't recognize your number, send me an email with your digits, yo.

3. My dad runs on bacon. Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, my dad somehow managed to incorporate bacon into every meal prepared at the old homestead (no, Shain, I wasn't eating it - jerk didn't ask me if I wanted any). Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some bacon, but it's not really all that sexy to go out smelling like Waffle House.

4. See ya C-tina! C-tina made her brief, but triumphant return to Nompton before she departed for Slovakia for 10 months. We ate quiche at La Baguette just like the old days. We bought too much food at Forward Foods. We wandered around Guest Room Records for an hour. I bought Whatever and Ever Amen and was amazed that I still know every word to every song. We had ninth grade in my bedroom. It was wonderful.

5. I saw a movie. And a good one. I think. I might be the only one, though. Eagle vs. Shark played at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. I was obligated to like it because Jemaine Clement is in it, so. Also, there were shark and eagle costumes. And most importantly, a supremely awkward relationship. All of those things are near and dear to my heart. The theater was really quiet, so I had to stifle my laughter quite a bit. That, plus my desperate need to pee, but refusal to get up proved to be a multi-media viewing experience. I'm fairly certain my viewing companion thought I was having a seizure. Which is cute right? No? If you can, see this movie. You'll like it. Oh, and then I went to this bar you'd also like. It's called Edna's. You can drink something called a Lunchbox. At first, I thought Edna's Lunchbox was akin to the Houston Ham Sandwich or Cincinnati Bow-Tie and was quite skeptical of the suggestion (but hey - I'll try anything once), but it's actually a delicious, yet cheap drink. That and other beverages required a trip to the bathroom. Which was fun, since there was only one stall and it had no door. Nothing like having to ask a random girl to guard your front. I did get felt up, though. I somehow always do in the ladies room. I dunno.

6. I bought a book. It's by Anthony Bourdain, of course. Is it weird I only read it before bed so I can dream of not (only) him, but the food?

7. I am contemplating the end of this blog. I am either depressed or thinking about being happy. I am no longer wallowing in abject misery, which seemed to be what worked best. What do you think?

Reuinited and it feels so good?

Top two reasons I'm glad Shain is back in the OK:

1. He brought me figs from his fig tree in Cali. So sweet! The figs, not Shain. He's generally an assface. We ate them while drinking at The Library. Our waitress thought we were crazy. Look at how much fun we had!

[Shain, send me your caption.]

[OHG! I am having so much fun talking about the philosophy department of OU! Also, I might have a lazy eye. Sexy time 4.]

2. He sent me a color-coded PDF of our potential yoga schedule with the instructions to print two copies, one for my office and one for home. He knows me too well.

The one where I post sporadically and poorly at best.

Hey there. Long time, no write. Lame. Let me start over.

Hi. Sorry I didn't call. I lost your number and I've been really "busy" with "work" and "stuff." So, be prepared for a barrage of posts chronicling the craptastic life of Blythe. For all four(4) of you who are still reading. Three comments is the new 24!

Cringesday!

Yup. It's that time again! This week, I'm starting things off with a reader submission. Here it is:





Who's this little dude (besides Mr. Adorable, of course)? Hint: he's a part-time commenter. First person to guess wins, um, nothing. Yay!


Reminder: send in your pics if you want to be included in the party. That was for you, JHC.

Speaking of cringesday, last night, I decided to take a bath. Which, when you're a single chick like me with no life, is kind of a big deal. I lit some candles, poured some Shiraz, and fired up the ol' iPod. Then I sang my little heart out because, hand to God, my tub is better than any studio out there. I sound like a rock star. Or so I thought. My bathtub performance repertoire is strictly Mariah Carey's first album. You love it too. Don't even pretend. Anyway, after sufficient prunage, I get out to discover that my whole house is completely silent, as in, my parents had been listening to my concert. I ran to my room, a la 7th grade. Totally sweet and awesome. This only caused me to drown my embarrassment in the rest of the bottle. Which caused me to be a little tipsy, alone, on a Tuesday night. Which caused some rather silly conversations and r*tarded text messages. Apologies all around. I love me! Mostly because I have to.

Oh! I almost forgot the best part! When I finally went to bed, I cried while watching the Sex and the City finale rerun on channel 16, whatever that is. Feel free to hate on me. I would.

I might be almost dead.

There is a blood drive today at my fair university. I decided to patriotic or whatever and donate. I got all psyched about juice boxes, stickers, pretzels and free t-shirts only to be denied. DENIED. And not for what you think (Mongolian hookers with the hep, herp and HIV, tattoos, piercings, that lost summer in the UK between 1988 and 1996 or whatever...). No. Lady pricked my finger and spun my blood around to confirm that I have no iron. 33. whatever that means. It's supposed to be 38 or some shit. Also, my temperature was 97.4, which leads me to conclude I'm half dead. Kind of like this blog. Point is, I actually feel kind of like a failure because I couldn't give blood today. And then I found $5.

ZHMMM: Butt Buddies Edition.*

UPDATE: The one where Lacey and I went to the Ben Kweller show. A few things: 1) it was fucking hot and my face melted off and my hair turned curly, so there will be no photos of me, 2) I realized that Ben Kweller songs are hipster easy listening - it's just not annoying when it comes out of such a cute, shaggy haired, striped shirt little guy, 3) I am annoyed by the hipster/indie scene in OK - where do you think you are, guys? It was a good show in spite of a terrible opening band, losing my tickets, sweating balls, $18 beers (actually, I don't know how much they were because L and I got Cokes - we are that cool).

Look, it's Lacey! She's so happy!

Look! It's my feet. Because I am sitting down. Because it took them an hour (it felt like) to switch bands and I am an old lady. The couple sitting next to us was making out. I wanted to punch them. Which reminds me. I hate concert couple behavior. You're in a fucking tight space. Must you hold on to each other? It's 800 million degrees and you can't let go to even clap? HATE YOU.

This is me sitting down on the stairs because I am approximately 800 years old and get tired in spite of Coke and my lesbina Chacos.

Lacey and I have been spending a lot of time together. A lot. So much so, that last night, as she was kicking my ass at scrabble (are you jealous of my life yet?), I noticed we were wearing the same underwear. Oh come on. You look too.

Check out that sweet-ass action (B-town on left, L-ma on right, same underwear all over)!

In other news, I am pleased with the state of Oklahoma. Not only did we experience a mini/inland hurricane Saturday night/Sunday morning, but there are some pretty rad shows coming to the metro. Check it:

9.14 - Blonde Redhead @ Bricktown Ballroom: 23

9.23 - Animal Collective @ Bricktown Ballroom: Derek

10.9 - COLD WAR KIDS!!! @ The Opolis: We Used To Vacation

10.17 - Black Mountain @ The Opolis: Druganaut

10.21 - Caribou & Born Ruffians @ The Opolis: Melody Day

10.23 - Dr. Dog, Apollo Sunshine, Delta Spirit @ The Opolis: My Old Ways

11.12 - Architecture in Helsinki @ The Opolis: Owls Go

I'll be there! Come with me!

*This might be a mistake of a post title. We'll see.

Cringesday on Thursday

Ok. I promise I've got a good one featuring reader materials next week, but to hold you over, behold:


Notice Bee-Spot frequents Lacey and C-tina. This was good ol' fourth grade. L's mom choreographed a totally sweet talent show baton routine to You Can Call Me Al. You can call it awesome.

P.S. Holy Crap! Look at those outfits! I am physically in cringe mode right now.

Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: On repeat edition.

Hey there sportsfans. I know you all sidled up to your computers this week, your iPods or MP3 player of choice (j/k - there's no choice) awaiting the week's selections, but were disappointed only to read about my ass crack. And by disappointed, I mean fortunate. But the man's got me down and there's not much I can do about it except listen to the following on repeat as I drive to and from the OKC.

• This week, I am absolutely and completely Britney Spears crazy for Vampire Weekend. I am an elitist at heart, so as Columbia kids making weird music around campus, they have stolen my heart. Or what is left of it. Because I am so obsessed, I haven't listened to much else. LISTEN! It's crack. (And not ass crack.)

Oxford Comma - this song makes me feel smart.

Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa - this song sounds like a bastardized Graceland, which of course makes me want to dance around like an idiot, but with diamonds on the soles of my shoes.

• I think I put White Rabbits on a list in the recent past (maybe even as recent as last week - it's not like I read this thing), but it whenever it was, it was kind of without having completely appreciated, or maybe even listening to the song. Upon, oh, I don't know, 10,000 listenings, I pretty much love it. So, hear it again:

Kid On My Shoulders - sinister driving beats. Mmm.

• Summer is for Swedish music.

Clever Girls Like Clever Boys - Pelle Carlberg

• Hey, guess what's Monday? The Ben Kweller show at the Bricktown Ballroom. As usual, I've been listening up on my subject. Sha sha shawesome.

Falling - Oh Ben, your voice is like an old friend.

• Turns out I am a bigger J Dilla fan than I ever knew.

We Must Be In Love - J Dilla (Featuring Pharoahe Monch) - I can't say why I like this, and it's out of character, but I do. I also can't say why I chose this week's format, but I did.

• Some of you folks mentioned The Avett Brothers a few weeks back and I was all, yeah, I'll download me some of that and I did, but then I forgot to listen. But I did this week. Did I ever.

Die Die Die - I was missing out!

• Hey, guess who's playing the Bricktown Ballroom on Wednesday? As Tall As Lions. I've posted it before, but for some reason, this song get me totally hot (come on kids, because it's 103 in the evening here), so natch, I've got to see it live.

Love, Love, Love (Love, Love) - Swoon. The lead singer is adorable.

See you next week. If I really loved you, I would figure out how to embed stuff from next week's shows, but I don't think I'm going to, so...

While you are anxiously awaiting Cringesday...

read this. It's not me, but remember, this blog is about you. The reader. And if you need a judgement free zone to anonymously post, I'm here for you. It's how I do.

*****************************************

Last Saturday night I went out with my roommate, her boyfriend, and two of her co-workers. Normally I go for dive bars with Smithwick's on tap, Skynyrd a permanent feature on the juke box, and there is no less than 3 alcoholics missing 40% of their teeth belly up to the bar at all hours of the night (and day). However, this time I was dragged out the the black hole of all Manhattan neighborhoods. Where nice Midwestern guys transform into Guido's with waxed pecs and hair so sharp you can impale yourself on it, and girls wear $500 4 inch open-toed heels to walk on cobblestone streets until 4 am in the dead of winter. Oh yeah, and did I mention the men in that area rape you, shove you in a suitcase and leave you in a dumpster in New Jersey? It's safe to say that every time someone drags me to that part of town, I really do fear for my life. This quaint part of town is known as the Meatpacking District (no, not a euphemism for gay sex. Sorry). You know, where you can get your fabulous couture Alexander McQueen dress next to a rotten dead bovine carcass. So there we are at this bar, and there is no air conditioning, and it's fucking hot. My roommate's boyfriend likes to complain. Yeah he is one of those. He was wearing shorts and Reef sandals which normally is a no-go in a "swanky" establishment like this, but considering he just entered the bar with three smoking hot chicks, they let him in. I'm wearing jeans, so dude has no right to complain to me about how hot he is. I don't want to hear it. So we sit down, I order my $7 Amstel (I just snapped a #2 pencil in half thinking about how ridiculous that price is for such a shitty beer. And yes, I still use #2 pencils), and we begin talking. After about 3 or so beers, my roommate's boyfriend notes about the black people standing around us (I got some junk in the trunk, so sometimes the brothas like me), "I wonder why black people don't have a lot of hair." Now let me give you a little background on yours truly before I divulge the rest of my tale. When I first arrived at the tender age of 17 (I'm young for my grade!) at the fine institution of the University of Iowa (go Hawks!), I was originally a microbiology major. However, once I realized organic chemistry was going to get in my way of Tuesday night dollar steins at Malone's, I switched my major to anthropology with a focus on human evolution/osteology. I even wrote a 50 page paper on Neandertal (no "h" for us anthropologists) mitochondrial DNA and its impact on the classification of Neandertals as a separate species or subspecies to Homo sapiens that I'm pretty sure my Human Origins professor jerked off to and used as a nut rag. So do we agree that I might know a little more about the subject than some guy who works at an insurance company and has seen Jurassic Park? I think so. So back to the douchey bar. We're staring at the black people in front of us (please no comments regarding whitey staring at the po' black folk. Wasn't like that at all), and I suggest the reason for their lack of hair was probably because their race evolved in Africa, you know, where it is hot. I think he just about shit his pants when I said this. "HOW CAN YOU FUCKING SAY THAT?!" he screamed, "ARE YOU FUCKING DUMB?" Whoa, there buddy. I go into my thing regarding why certain "races" look the way they do, from skin color (Africans have darker skin as to not burn from sub-Saharan sun) to noses, (those of us of European origins have a narrower nose which helps to warm the air we respirate from colder European air), etc. I don't need to go on. Are you asleep yet? WAKE UP! I try to explain that the first true humans appeared on this earth approximately 40,000 years ago, and the deviation of races from Africa occurred when our ancient ancestors all began to migrate out of the continent. And he raises his voice, "DO YOU THINK EVOLUTION BEGAN 40,000 YEARS AGO? WHAT ABOUT THE DINOSAURS? DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE JURASSIC PERIOD?" Oh no he di-int. Now I'm starting to get pissed. I don't respond well to people I don't know very well implying I am dumb (that pleasure is reserved distinctly for my friends), especially when they sound like talking gorillas. Actually, I take that back. That would be an insult to the gorilla. Oh, but he keeps going. "WHAT ABOUT AUSTRALIANS THEN? THEY LOOK WHITE, AND IT'S HOT THERE TOO." With clenched teeth I, as calmly as I can, respond that white people did not originate in Australia, the Aborigines did, and they are in fact, darker skinned. To argue how white people evolved in Australia is the same idiotic logic that one would try to use to explain the evolution of white people in America. He was insistent that it was all about "genetics," which if actually listened to what I said, is directly related to my point. I calmly put my beer down, shushed him, and said I had to leave. I was going to get nasty, and being that this was my roommate's boyfriend, that was a luxury I just didn't have.

On my way out, he slides in, "YOU STUDIED THIS FOR 3 YEARS? I THINK YOU NEED ANOTHER YEAR."

Buddy, you know what you need? A fucking roundhouse kick right right to the jugular. And maybe some sterilization. Just sayin'. So that's it. Thanks Blythe for letting me use her forum for a stupid rant about a subject no one cares about. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

i found the marble in the oatmeal!

UPDATE: Real life is still kicking my ass all over the playground then stealing my lunch money, so...

Between work life and real life, the Bee-Spot is functioning on about 9 hours of sleep out of the past 72. It's not pretty. I am almost always incoherent to begin with, so now it's just sad. In the meantime, there's a hurricane? MC Rove resigned? What day is it? I'll get back in the saddle again, I promise. Don't miss me too much. Oh, you didn't even notice the lack of posting? Ok.

Do you ever just have one of those days

where you get the worst haircut of your life? That just happened to me. I mean, it's not the five year old mullet or anything. I mean, it's not that good.

More later.

XOXO,
B

Later: [Hey, watch out, TMI city here.] So, I wore a thong today because I had to get all gussied up (read I am in a dress!) for a work event and didn't want any VPL action in front of the VIPs and now I have thong burn or something. Whatever it is, my crack kind of hurts a little. Suffer for fashion.

For Normaneyes Only: A Shameless Plug.

One of the reasons Lacey is so awesome is due to her insane, yet endearing family (her words, not mine - ok, my words). Lacey's mom is my second mom (yet somehow, my mom is not her second mom and might not even be my first mom, but I digress) and her dad is pretty much around as much as my dad, which is not a lot, so he's just like my dad. Her little bro and my little bro cut their teeth on N64, Power Rangers and grass fires together. She has some brothers in between too, but... Ok, middle bro is awesome. Anyhoo, L's dad is tearing it up tonight with his band the Jamminators at Brothers (593 Buchanan) starting at 9. Seriously, what's more dope than your dad rocking a drum kit with his friends and making some decent music too? I would argue not much. So, as it was written by L's mom on my copy of the flier, "be there or be ."

Here they are, rockin' the stage at O'Connell's on St. Paddy's Day. They have a sign, so they are legit. Sweetness.

So, come on out, folks! What else were you going to do tonight? Also, I'll buy you a shiner, on you.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with motherfucking summer. It's going to hit triple digits in the OKC (metro including Norman) today. I haven't experienced this kind of face melting (literally) heat in quite some time. There's nothing like getting second degree burns from your steering wheel and the sensation of knee sweat. Or everywhere sweat. Sexy. Know what I'm gonna do? After work, I'm stopping by Byron's Liquor Warehouse (sorry Sooner Spirit Shop, you are not on my way home and Byron has really been there for me the past month), picking up a six pack of something shitty because Oklahoma refuses to allow decent beer into the state instead pretending that Shiner Bock is adequate or even some kind of microbrewery favor, then heading to the park. There, I will take of my devil shoes, spread out my blanket, flop onto my belly and finish reading The Egyptologist. I will listen to Brandy Alexander on repeat. I will close my book, close my eyes, and think about nothing. Not even knee sweat.

My limit is three. THREE!

A note from the desk of Blythe: this post will be brief and unsatisfying, much like most encounters with me.

I have made a new rule for myself - the rule of three. Only three orange bejeweled skank shirts from Forever 21 in one outing, only three diet DPs at the office, only three viewings of Knotting Hill in one sitting, you get the idea. This also means only three drinks in one evening. Previously, I had made a pact to limit myself to three drinks per establishment, but I don't think that's going to work out. Last night, after a particularly easy day at the office, Lacey and I went out to dinner and stuffed ourselves with Mexican food. Delish times 4. We also had one ginormous margarita each - we totally got upsold by this creepy, yet charming waiter. Needless to say, we were a tad tipsy. I had planned to watch SYTYCD, but was informed that the results show would not be tonight and I just couldn't fathom waiting longer tan 24 hours to know who got the boot. It's a sleepless night already. So, I agree to meet up with high school friendish while he's in town for a drink. Let me just say that by this point, Margaritaville has taken the last train to Clarksville. Stone cold sober. But then I have a few Flying Dog whatevers and I launch into let me scare you with my life story mode. Poor kid. This is my least favorite of my drinking personalities. Blah, blah, blah I ramble about sushi, Native Americans and the War of Jenkins ear. Then it's pumpkin time and I'm ready to go. I start the epic search for my keys in the bottomless depths of my purse only to come up empty handed. They are simply not there and are simply in the ignition of my locked (totally sweet if you are into a totally lame) car. I am reduced to calling my little brother for a key, but he's out being cooler than I am and can't meet me for some time. So, high school friendish offers to take me home. I then realize that he probably thinks this is a line. Oh, I locked my keys in my car before I even started drinking, now you have to take me home.... But sadly, not the case, although, I might start using it. Fortunately, I was immediately distracted from this sad state of affairs by satellite radio. F-ing sweet! I need it. Like yesterday.

And then I found $5.

MY LIMIT IS THREE!

Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday: Wednesday Edition.

Guess what happens when you work all the time, then come home and pass out, only to resurrect yourself for a 9pm beer, but then you pass out again almost immediately in your heels with mascara running down your face? You don't listen to as much music (or read as many blogs and it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I'm unconscious). Some of this stuff is old (e.g. has been posted on here before), some of it's crap, but all of it's what I've been listening to then thinking, "hey, this should go on a summer mix." And then I pass out cold. If you'd like a Blythe's Summertime07 Fantastic Fun-time Mix To The Max™, please send me a SASE and CD. And beer.

Let's get the beach ball rolling with a summertime guilty pleasure:
How Bizarre - OMC

Songs explicitly referencing summer:
Summertime - The Sundays
Summertime Cowboy - Husky Rescue
July, July! - Decemberists
Summersong - DecemberistsSummer Day - Coconut Records

Let's makeout outside and get sweaty and sticky with grass:
Wordless Chorus - My Morning Jacket
Can You Come For Me - The Poems
Butterfly Nets - Bishop Allen
Tender - Blur
Sundress - Ben Kweller
Sightlines - Rogue Wave

These are my dancing flip-flops:
Boyz - M.I.A.
Stop Me - Mark Ronson
Bounce That - Girl Talk
Stick your feet in the pool!
Clarity - Furu ft. Common
She Moves In Her Own Way - The Kooks
Work It Out - RJD2

Corndog - Mike Hosty *not the song, I can't find it. iTunes people. It's about corndogs and state fairs.
The Underdog - Spoon
Heart It Races - Dr. Dog
Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend
Screendoor - Illinois
My Rights Versus Yours - The New Pornographers
Here Comes The Meter Man - Metric
Solta O Frango - Bonde Do Role

Cringesday on a Monday: Birthday that never ends edition!

Hey everybody, come and see how good I look! -- Ron Burgundy

I've never really been on the receiving end of a digital gift before, but this year, I got four! I will share three with you because one was deeply personal and quite filthy. One is cringe-worthy, one is a direct Cringesday contribution, and one is, well, I need your help with the last thing.

* Click here for more. You'll have to download it (it's a power point). This is as blog savvy as I get and I had to have help.

* Click here only if you want to ROTLFLMAO like a LOTR NAACP AARP CBS. Siobhlogger's outdone herself. Cringesday GOLD! Here is a preview.


* This was sent to me by someone that I don't know all that well, yet he somehow managed to distill my entire personality into 30 seconds and some graphics. So, do I marry him or file a restraining order because he's clearly stalking me? Which is sexy, of course.

So, uh, about that...

As you might or might not know, yesterday was the day I turned the big 2-6. I spent the day doing boring shit (e.g. making fried tofu, reading my Mao biography, staring at the Sunday Times thinking about how I should read it but then getting bored with myself for thinking about that) then napped like I've never napped before. Epic drool. It was lovely. Then, I put on a dress (I know, big time for the Bee-Spot!) and used my new crease brush to make myself look like I got punched in the eyes in an effort to look "sexy." I think I ended up looking methy - which is close. Finally, Lacey and I were ready to head out for a lavish dinner. And boy, was it lavish. Our darling waiter hooked us up with some lovely blueish martinis that Lacey drank two of - big deal time! We feasted on lobster, crab cakes, spinach and wedge salads, then I got the salmon and L got the filet. Our sides were sauteed corn and creamed spinach. And creamed pants. So effing good I wanted to kill myself! But I didn't. Next I was off to The Deli where I was serenaded by my favorite song, "My Ho Drives A Big Red Car," which was thoughtfully requested especially for me. Thanks. I then proceeded to drink my weight in Pacifico. I hippie danced like a tard. I got hippie hugged by a sweaty (but hot) dreadlocked chick with a fake British acccent. I peed 800 million times and made best friends in the bathroom. L and I took shitty pictures. I ran into an old high school friendish whom I hadn't seen in forever. I screamed along to "Level" (Raconteurs) all the way home. Speaking of home, I made it back with my earrings, underwear and whatever modicum of dignity I have left in general. And that's when it happened. C-tina promised me a slide show of a gift (yes, we are weird like that and more than likely, you'll see it on Wednesday) so I hopped online. Let me just say, milk was a bad choice. Old high school friendish had aready Facebooked me, so natch I replied to his message. I'm afraid to even look. I emailed C-tina in response to the HI-LARIOUS and touching slide show she made me with completely nonsensical ramblings. I commented on some blogs... so, uh Dan, the wedding's probably off now, huh. Do we have to return the gifts? I responded to some blogger emails - I have no idea what I said and am afraid to find out. Also, I sent some spectacular text messages to people I barely know (I am praying to the God I don't believe in that I didn't respond unkindly to the ex's text). Love me! My head is a cement mixer, but other than that, not too bad. The best gift of all was the gift of lateness this morning. I got to come in at nine! In closing, thanks for all of the b-day wishes, gifts, texts, calls, etc. Y'all are the best. Except you, Shain since you just called me an old lush. 26 is the new awesome.

Is this a Cringesday picture? No. This is why I hate having my picture taken. Ugh city. However, it was at least 12am and I was full of beer and stupid by then.

Coming up: pictures and Zack Harrison Memorial Music Monday. I'm going to feel really bad if I find out that Zack's really dead.

It's Friday, I'm In Love

well, I'm not in love this week, per se, but I have like 10 million mini-crushes, of which I will share a handful with you.

Blasting my ear drums:

D.A.N.C.E. - Justice: A few weeks ago, I very inaccurately predicted I would become less than enamored with this song almost instantly. I listen to it every morning, rocking out to the sights and sounds of OKC, cruising at a whopping 25mph for an hour. I dance in the car (well as much as one can dance wearing a seatbelt, which isn't unlike the way I dance when not wearing a seatbelt) like no one's watching™. An unstoppable smile spreads across my face like the first time I heard Motown Philly back in sixth grade. It's A.W.E.S.O.M.E.

Cinema enema:

Hot Fuzz - It's even better the second time. Rent it.

The Darjeeling Limited:

What are your favorite movies, Blythe? Well, aside from Breakfast at Tiffany's...

Wait, that's so clichéd, that's really your favorite movie?

Uh, hello, she's dressed in Givenchy for the entire movie? Anyway, my others are Bottle Rocket (my next pet will be named Dignan), The Royal Tenenbaums and Rushmore. I love The Life Aquatic, but it's not at the top of the list. But this might be someday:

On the small screen:

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia - just watch it. Hi-larious. And, I'm in love with Charlie.

My Boys - I've been told it's for chicks. Turns out I'm a chick, so I get to watch it. But you should too.

On my feet:

Chacos. After nine hours of heels and office bullshit (although, yesterday, I wore a tiara for the better part of the day that I found secreted in a filing cabinet, but no one got my meta-ironical point including myself), there's nothing I love more than coming home, sliding into my little shoes made of heaven's pillows, cracking open a Miller Lite and internetting me some porn (this might be the only true thing on this entire blog). OMG - so comfortable. Also, they make me feel all outdoorsy and shit when really the most outdoorsy thing I do these days is take the bags of wine and beer bottles to the curb.

In my heart:

Any girl worth her weight in salads with no dressing, well, maybe fat free Italian on the side - on the side! knows that Urban Outfitters is the poor man's Anthropologie. I can't afford either, which is why literally every stitch of clothing I own comes from Hookers R Us. But a girl can dream, right? This little guys all sold out at the Hipster Factory, but I still covet it. Would I wear it? Certainly not.

Speaking of clothing, since when did maternity stuff become the new trend? And who's loving it? Me! I always might be a little bit pregnant, so this whole new look is awesome. I've decided to take it to the x-treme and drink all the beer I want (ok, was going to anyway) because I can just hide the ol' spare tire under something like this:

So, I've decided to take full advantage of the ambiguity of this contentious trend. Maybe people offer up their seat at the bar because I'm looking a little tired. Ok. Maybe I get a gift or two. Ok. You can totally return a Diaper Genie to Bed Bath and Beyond for a blender.

Rolling around in my brain:

I had a make out dream with Michael Cera last night. For reals. What? He's like 18. My inappropriate crush habit is getting out of control.

Baby wants a corndog* (or I am getting depressed by impending birthday).

Admittedly, I am totally psycho when it comes to my birthday. Nuts to the max. Thing is, it's not like I did anything on my birthday, it was my mother (God bless her) who spent 23 hours in labor to pop me out while watching and rewatching a video tape (probably beta) of Princess Di's wedding (priorities). Still, I am always hellbent on having the best birthday day (actual day is Sunday) ever (perhaps to make up for all of the shit days throughout the year or to quell my abandonment issues - I don't know, I'll ask therapist next week - ha! the only therapist I can afford comes in a can with a lovely blue ribbon on it), but it always verges on turning disastrous. I need elaborate cakes with marzipan figurines, 12 course dinners with a proposal, the biggest Barbie dream house made, purple Huffy, the coolest slumber party of all of 5th grade, etc. It's a sickness and generally very out of character. This year, in the face of my 26th, I am putting the kibosh on any expectations. Lacey and I are going to a fancy schmancy place where we will wear dresses and heels, swill expensive wine, and gaze longingly into each other's (lonely) eyes while unsexily mispronouncing menu items. No parties. No gifts. And certainly, no boys. In spite of all of the self help books I've read (coincidentally, they also come in cans with blue ribbons), being in a relationship on the big day is how I'd prefer it. Your parents have to care because they paid for you, your friends have to care because of the guilt, but your bf/gf doesn't have to - they can cut out anytime, but there they are, caring about your birth, you know? If you are going to send me a gift, might I suggest litter boxes for all the cats I will undoubtedly begin collecting as an old maid? Also, maybe something to collect all the clichés, too.

Also, the b-day is depressing because it marks another year of things I meant to do, but didn't (oh please, you are no better than me in this endeavor - don't even pretend). Well, things are going to be different this year. I vow to think about doing the following:

1. Karaoke more (by more, I mean at all, it's been far too long, perhaps for good reason, but that's pure speculation). I am horrible, yet I love it so. I mean, like painfully bad, but only because I think I'm 43% good. I'm that girl.

2. See Andrew Bird in concert. And Cold War Kids. And Feist. And make out with Craig Finn in my mind at The Hold Steady.

3. Find my signature cocktail. I have tried the sidecar, vodka tonic and Manhattan, but no luck so far. I do enjoy Hendrick's and tonic, but that's so someone else's drink. I can't survive on Pabst for the rest of my life. Or can I?

4. Learn to play the banjo.

5. Implement operation Boyfriend07. It's time. My disabled robot heart isn't getting any younger, so you know, hop to it lady.

6. NYC fall break trip - we're soooo going, Shain. You can meet my New York Boyfriend! We'll eat pancakes with G-race!

7. Get my NES to work so I can play some Zelda.

8. Not suck.

(Me, in case you can't tell.)
+

(Cake I wish I was getting, but stupid Jackson got it instead.)

=



(Eternally single Cathy, my hero. Oh, she finally got married or died? Hmm.)

*Obvs, I will end up at The Deli Sunday night. Buy me a red cup or else (and a menthol cigarette)! No, don't. It's never a good idea to feed the bears.

Cringesday!

UPDATE!

Take a look at Stew's contribution here.

And, who's this? Oh, it's Julie!

Julie says: So this picture was taken in 6th grade and my gym teacher who was also the yearbook in charge lady made me wear that shirt and hang on the monkey bars. Unfortunately that is my shirt. I think it had something to do with basketball. I never played basketball. I just stole it from my Aunt. My friends still tease me about it. It's really a good time. I can't wait to be embarrassed. Yea!

p.s. blogger and i.e. are not friends (i am work where they've never heard of firefox or something), hence this post now looks like it rode the short bus today.

*********************************************************************************

Hey folks. I told you it'd be back. Lest you forget, last week I posted what I thought was a horrifying picture of myself with a mullet. I realize now that this was a mistake because any picture of a five year old girl with a mullet is intrinsically cute. It's a law or something. So, friends (this term is used very loosely, of course), this week, I have decided to kill two birds while stoned. I will both embarrass myself and shed a little light on the weird relationship between Mr. Shain and I (which has been requested several times by many people, or once, or never - I don't really pay attention).

The year is 1996. The music is "Who Will Save Your Soul" by snaggle tooth Jewel and "Wonderwall" by Oasis. The movie is the re-release of Star Wars. The jeans are Guess. Awesomeness all around.

Mr. Shain and I find ourselves attending West Mid High in Norman, Oklahoma. We are in Mrs. Barse's yearbook class. I have no idea what compelled me to sign up for yearbook the previous spring, but apparently I did and there I was and Shain was the editor. I have no idea how that happened either - we've all (well, five of us) seen his typo riddled excuse of a blog. Anyway, I hate to speak ill of the dead (fine, these people aren't dead, but I haven't seen the majority of them for years), but they were mostly kind of re re (thanks Julie!). Shain and I, sensing that we were bound for the greatness we are currently living (oh, we're not?) bonded over, I don't know what, being a-holes, I guess. Bottom line, Shain has been giving me shit since 1996 and I can't seem to get enough of it.

This is Shain's "autograph" from the signature pages of the yearbook we created. Notice he takes up a whole page. Notice he writes in block letters. Notice his phone number. Call him!

Ah. The yearbook staff in all its glory. Oh, look at that girl in the striped shirt with the horrible bangs and terrible posture. Clearly, she will grow out of that ugly duckling stage and into a beautiful swan. No? She doesn't? That's unfortunate.

Now it's your turn. Send in a school picture, seventh grade journal entry, high school poem, etc. You'll feel better. I'm here for you. To laugh at you. I mean with you.