Now that I’m dealing with a crazy closing date and an upcoming, very involved Simpsons-themed wedding, I have to take a break from blogging. Sorry to the three of you that check in regularly. I’ll update periodically but can’t do the weekly thing right now.
I hope the holidays are happy, and that 2010 is an easier, better year for all of us.
Just got the word today: we are now the proud owners of this awesome house!
I can’t wait to bring in my foosball table, then tear up this bar and re-decorate it like Dexter’s Laboratory, complete with metal trap doors and test tubes for whiskey shots!
And then I’ll buy a grill for our party deck.
Because really, it’s not a house unless there’s a grill in the backyard.
I’ve never heard of the Tracy Awards before, but saw this post on Agency Spy and took a gander. And I agree with much of what’s been said about the work that’s been voted “worst of 2009″ for one reason or another—especially what’s been done for Snickers, which was named “Best High-Profile Fall From Grace”:
I especially love the synopsis of said fall from grace, courtesy of the Tracys judges.
This is an embarrassment. Victoreat? Feedfence? Patrick Chewing? We get it: you combined two old words to make one wacky new word. And you did it with all the linguistic finesse of an over-medicated tween. Clever is only good if it’s relevant. And clever. You, Sir Snacksalot, are neither. See? Any idiot can write for Snickers.
Damn. Check out the whole list here.
“Everybody comes to Hollywood/They wanna make it in the neighborhood/They like the smell of it in Hollywood/How could it hurt you when it looks so good?”
- Madonna
The lyrics ring true, time and again. The siren song of fame and fortune is impossible for some to ignore, even as the lifestyle chews them up and spits them out. Fame makes people do crazy things, and the Hollywood Reality Check profiles this phenomenon.
Today, we’re gonna take a look at current “somebodies” who think that, because they’re all Hollywood now, simply MUST go blonde…whether it flatters them or not.
First up: the young, once-funny Amanda Bynes.
Yeesh. That color is awful on her, and the cut isn’t helping much either.
Remember when Kelly Clarkson tried to do a similar blonde look? I’m super glad she ditched that and went back to brunette. It’s a much better look for her than this:
Even Posh has tried it…
Love the cut, hate the color. Especially with her tanned skin. Too much contrast.
When it comes to blonde hues, less is more. Seriously. And lesser than that is even better.
I’ll ask the same question here that I do every time I see a preview of a remake of a 70s sitcom: Why not try something a little more original?
Apparently, some people didn’t get the memo about this whole housing crisis thing.
I mean, judging from the rapid rate of foreclosures being filed, not to mention the ever-climbing unemployment rate, I thought we were well past the point where a 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom home can be listed for an obscene price like $450K. But I guess that’s just me.
I really hope that price is a giant typo, because look at this gem below. It’s brand new and boasts 6 beds, 4 baths – and it’s a steal at $375K.
The kicker is that these houses are in the SAME neighborhood. So why is the McMansion nearly $100K cheaper than the old piece of crap up top?
Maybe there’s another memo circulating that I missed.
This weekend, Dixon and I continued our search for the perfect house, with disappointing results. Again.
Last week was pretty bad. I’m especially disappointed by the house with the beam at the top of the basement steps that was guaranteed to give you a concussion, and the falling-down garage that came with “a $1,000 Lowe’s gift card,” which is hardly a gift considering it would cost us $20,000 to rebuild that damn thing.
But this week was WORSE, if you can imagine.
It’s not for a lack of trying on ours or our realtor’s part. The fact is, every house we look at…is a HOT ASS MESS.
The first place we looked at was absolutely gorgeous from the outside. Inside, however, was a totally different story. Shit everywhere. And the kitchen…well, I was waiting for the roaches to jump out and be all, “Wasssup?”
The next place was actually kind of decent, save for the broken windows on the second floor. I mean, why spend all that money on a brick garage and then allow two broken windows to let in all the cold? I don’t get it.
The third and fourth places were such a bust we didn’t even bother to climb any stairs. Sloping floors do not sell a house, so why would anyone buy it in the first place?
Naturally, every place we saw had some illegal apartment set up in the basement or attic. This is a major gripe of mine because I don’t want to be a landlord, I don’t want to separate parts of my house from my home, and I don’t want to open the place up to strangers. So if I want a house in the city, I’ll have to resign myself to the fact that we’ll have to tear some shit up – at cost.
I really hate the ghetto way that things are set up in these makeshift apartments – the stove next to the bed, etc. It’s just an eyesore, and it’s not convincing me to buy a place. In fact, it’s making the estate sale, with its pink carpeting and lack of A/C and furnace, look like the deal of the century.
More like, “Stay the fuck home and don’t pass around your nasty cold germs, motherfucker,” but I guess they couldn’t fit all that in the headline.
That’s right, Miz J is officially on a diet. Well, actually, Miz J has been on a diet for some time now, but hey, dieting takes up a lot of time and energy, so you’re just hearing about it now.
Aaaaaaanyway, I’m on the Wii Fit every day, no matter what—even when it tells me I’m fat and asks me to give it a reason WHY—probably because I’m a glutton for punishment, too.
So, in an attempt to unload a little lot of resentment, I am going to list several instances in which I COULD NOT EAT something I LOVED. Most magazines and nutritionists will say that if you walk away you’ll forget about the craving, but THAT IS NOT THE CASE WITH ME. I hold a grudge, people, and I hold it for a long time.
LAST NIGHT:
Picture this. We’re at Cirque du Soliel, didn’t eat lunch or dinner yet, and the show is two hours long. The intoxicating scent of buttered popcorn wafts through the theater and I’m practically clawing Dixon’s eyes out to get some. Props must be given to Dixon, because he risked life and limb to keep me on track. And he did it with style and grace, even when I said (very loudly), “But I WAAAAAAAAAANT it.” It’s good to know that temper tantrums don’t work with the man I’m about to marry.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT:
There was very little low-fat cheese left for me to make my amazing veggie quesadillas. All that was left was the full-fat stuff from the Mexican produce store, which would be SURE to satisfy. Well, okay, wait, this one doesn’t count, because I totally ate some, mixed in with the no-fun kind.
SUNDAY BEFORE LAST:
At breakfast with my Mom, I was ready to DIG INTO some biscuits and gravy. But I resisted the urge somehow (a few tears were shed), and managed to order scrambled eggs through clenched teeth. Bonus: sausage is okay to eat, so I ordered some and ended up kinda happy about sticking to my guns.
Dieting this way has really opened my eyes to how much garbage we really eat in this country. Everything I thought was a good choice was NOT, and even though I’m pretty active, the pounds packed on anyway because of those choices. So now I’m learning all over again, in a way, and it’s HARD. RRRR
Now that Dixon and I are engaged, we’ve decided to begin house hunting, too, because planning a wedding isn’t AT ALL stressful, right?
Anyway, over the past few weeks, we’ve noticed some things about the whole process that make us shake our heads in disgust/disbelief, and we’ll chronicle them for you here, starting with TERRIBLE REALTOR LISTINGS.
You may or may not be familiar with listings, the way on-the-market homes are advertised to prospective buyers. Basically, realtors put their available properties on the web with some basic info like measurements, # of rooms, type of heating/cooling/plumbing, and any added perks, like a pool or a fireplace—plus some photos to generate interest.
Most listings are fairly accurate, but sometimes the sin of omission is clearly being committed…and other times, realtors don’t realize just how painfully honest they’re being when they snap the photos. Check it out.
Is this the back or front of the house? Is that a driveway or a patio? Why is the main photo, meant to persuade me to buy this house, making me ask all these obvious questions?
It’s all “meh” until you get to the Property Information section: “Agent related to seller.” Well, isn’t that just GREAT? Now I KNOW I’ll get a fair deal.
Things look and sound idyllic for the prospective buyer of this shiny little gem until they look to the right. Hmm, why is the neighbor’s house all boarded up? Well, a look at the crime listings for the area might explain the sudden abandonment. November in particular was a busy month for this ‘hood (and I do mean “‘hood”).
So now I realize why exactly it takes so damn long to buy a house—it’s not the paperwork or the approval process; it’s the LOOKING. UGH.
Why’s it called a “wake?” What does that phrase MEAN? I’ve done some digging on mentalfloss.com to find answers to questions you didn’t even know you were asking.
Wakes
Okay, so back in the day, there was no way to be certain that someone in a coma was actually dead (except maybe the smell, which came later). So family members of the person in question would hover around for a day or two to see if their loved one would “wake,” hence the name. It was either that, or run the risk of burying that person alive, something that was done often enough to attach bells above ground to buried caskets…just in case. BRRR
RSVP
Apparently, the phrase is French, so instead of “Respond to Sender Via Post,” it is actually “repondez s’il vous plait,” or “please respond.” You know, instead of just letting the invite sit there with no response and then showing up unexpected like SOME people we know.
Scotch v. Bourbon
Bourbon is the sweeter stuff that comes from Kentucky and is spelled “whiskey.” But, if it’s smoky or briny, comes from Scotland, and is spelled “whisky,” it’s scotch. My advice? Just ask for whiskey. Either way you’re gonna feel like a truck hit you.
Crayola
The name Crayola means “oily chalk.” It’s from the French words “craie”, or “chalk,” and “ola,” an abbreviation for “oleaginous,” or “oily.” Naturally, “Crayola” is way more marketable than “oily chalk,” however accurate the description may be.
