Biscuit has given me permission to steal his idea about blogging about giving yourself permission to hate the following things. I HATE…
broccoli.
tapered pants.
hackerspeak.
NASCAR.
pseudo-acronyms like tribeca and nolita.
not being five inches taller.
celine dion.
people who use hearts to dot their i.
music scene blogs.
buffalo wings.
white mugs.
musical doorbells.
people who revere the eighties.
hairsprayed bangs.
that arsenio hall noise.
using both backpack straps.
any bus outside of an NYC bus.
NYC buses except at night and crosstown.
any pen color except blue or black.
teenagers.
insects.
payphones hanging off the reciever.
malls in NYC.
macy’s.
wimps.
guys with long hair past the age of 25.
jackhammers.
stinky cheeses.
rabid star wars fans.
fake nails.
fake tans.
fake hair.
fakes.
people who lean their back on subway poles during rush hour.
overdraft fees.
people who think children’s books aren’t good literature.
anyone
who does anything
ironically.
wet feet.
formica.
and
perms.
note bene: you know how when you haven’t had sex for a long time, and then you’re finally having sex with someone again, and then you do it like, ten times?
okay, writing three posts in twenty minutes? is kind of like that.
whew, blogging, i forgot how good you are.
I just helped Stuart out of a verbal crisis, and the word I chose was so succinct and appropriate that he actually exclaimed “DUDE!” over Instant Messenger.
What I’m thinking is, I need to find more ways to stun and surprise my polite, elegantly-spoken British husband into exclaiming “DUDE!”. Because when he says “DUDE!”, the shiver of AWESOME AMERICAN PRIDE that runs down my spine is so strong, I JUST SINGLEHANDEDLY DEFEATED ONE TERRORIST.
How cute wait adorable wait throw up in your mouth lovely disgusting are WE. Seriously, between the smiles, the wing collar shirt, the curled hair and the pearls? You might as well just call us Duffy and Muffy and send us to our mansion in Westport. GAG.
I’ve already warned Stuart that January is the time of year when I start longing for warmth, longing for beaches, longing for rides in convertibles down ocean highways with sunglasses and tank tops. To make sure he grasps the severity of the situation, I’ve made him forgive me in advance if I cry out “ARUBA” instead of his name, when we’re in bed.
I think we’re ready for winter.
