Freakin'

love me, love me not | with exclusive bonus footage.

Well, I spent the first part of my morning deleting mail from people telling me that they love me when they don’t. They don’t love me at all. And I thought I was all cool and smart, not opening any of the attachments, but somehow it still opened up my Outlook address book and sent duplicates to other people. So, if you got love from me, know that I don’t love you that way. I love you, but not in that screwing-up-your-life way. Well, kinda. Maybe. You’ll have to find out.

I’m in a weird mood today, having finally broken down and purchasing the Destiny’s Child CD. Since I had told my friend David that I’d never,ever buy it, he sent me an amazon gift certificate for my birthday, so I figured he’d want to buy that CD for me. And I was all bragging to my kids last Sunday about having that sent to me because I can’t stop grooving to that “Going Back to Cali” rip-off. After it was determined that they have no idea what “Going Back To Cali” is, I had to sing some of that “junk in her trunk” lyrical genius, and then they mocked me by telling me it wasn’t a Destiny’s Child song at all. It’s 702 or 809 or something like that. Something with a number. Ha-ha on me. I don’t care, I’ve got “Bills, Bills, Bills” and “Say My Name” to keep me happy. But someone needed to ixnay that “Amazing Grace” rendition early on, man. Ew. And if you think I’ve got sad guilty pleasures, check out the confessions in the forum. I’ll proudly jam to a Britney Spears song or two, and even confess my new-found interest in Limp Bizkit, Eminem and The Bloodhound Gang, but at least I have no idea what Helloween is. And I think that’s a good thing.

I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately, and that’s a problem that isn’t going away anytime soon. Between the projects and deadlines and attempts at social interaction, I’m pretty much looking at four hours of sleep each night. It got so bad that yesterday I had to do some shopping to combat the situation. Since I was trapped in my office, I did some online shopping. That still left a bit of a void, as my new t-shirts won’t be here for at least a week, so I took a lunch break and went to the closest shopping center.

Dear Old Navy:
I’ve noticed it, and I wasn’t going to say anything, but it seems that any amount of quality there used to be in your clothing has completely gone out the window. I understand having light fabrics for spring, but lately I can’t buy a pair of pants from you guys without them getting all stretched out beyond repair within a month. And that’s from leaning over or just getting in my car or something. It’s not like I’m trying to do aerobics. I’ll buy a pair and think that I’m losing massive amounts of weight, when in reality they just keep getting bigger and bigger until I have to go back to your store and buy another pair, because I’ve become addicted to that feeling of not wearing pants at all.

That’s a different problem that you really don’t have to deal with. That’s sorta my own issue, but I digress.

Your clothes hardly cost anything, which I really appreciate. But I’m gonna tell you a little secret. If you could put some nicer lighting in your dressing rooms, I might buy even more clothing. I might think that only your clothes can make me look this good. Because I’ll walk into your store with a decent amount of self-respect, but I end up leaving feeling like a big, fat, fatty gross-girl. And that’s not cool, yo.

And could you just sell a pair of shorts? Not board shorts, not ass shorts, not long shorts, just some freakin’ shorts.

And back pockets are IMPORTANT because they make our butts look smaller. We all know that. I’m not falling for that tiny corner pocket thing. That makes your ass look huge. HUGE. It’s not cute and it’s not funny. I’ll continue to shop on the men’s side if you keep screwing with me.

And I know that big floral dress thing you’re trying to pull off as “fashion” is just a joke, and I’m not falling for it, okay?

Do me one last favor and we’ll call it even. All the size ones? Yeah, could you make sure that they aren’t on the racks anymore? If someone wears a one they have to go to the clerk and ask for them to get it out of the back. I’m sick of falling in love with a skirt only to find out that it’s only that cute because it’s a size one, and in my size it looks like a tablecloth. And if you don’t have any other sizes for an outfit besides one, two and three, just put it in the “Jealousy” section and let all of the cute small girls fight over it over there, because I’m tired of listening to them coo over each other’s tininess.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

So, yesterday, in the dressing room, I had a terrible Ally McBeal moment (my new recap is up, by the way). I was trying on my eight-item limit and as I took off my clothes and looked in the mirror, the same two things happened that always happen when I go in dressing rooms.

  • I have a terrible paranoia that the dressing room is being watched. There’s a camera somewhere above me, or– even worse –in the mirror. Someone is watching me try on these clothes and pose and stretch and see if I look like a fool when I bend over. Someone watching me try on bras or bathing suits or dresses that I know I’m going to look like an idiot in but I just want to try on anyway. They see when I get something too small that I thought would fit and then they see me when I start to cry because I hate myself and I hate clothing and I hate that we have to keep buying these things that don’t really make us happy at all and just cover up our obscene parts like our thighs. 
  • I am not as attractive as I’ve fooled myself into thinking. I don’t know if it’s the lighting or what, man, but you get me in a dressing room and suddenly I’m looking like Gilbert Grape’s mama, and it’s just depressing. I have weird things wrong with my body that I’ve never seen before. I have mirrors at home. I’m pretty familiar with the way my body looks normally, but put me in a dressing room and I’m like, “Is this what everyone else sees? What’s wrong with my knees? How can I have fat knees? Ew! Ew!”

It’s all so depressing that I end up spending more than I want to just so all of the clothes fall into all of the categories I have so that I can go home feeling okay.

  • Clothes that fit that I hate, but I need because I have to have clothes that fit. I’ll try and cover them up with distractions, like shoes and t-shirts.
  • Clothes that don’t fit that I’m convincing myself that I’m going to fit into in about a week, when I go on my new Life Changing routine that involves lots of water, stair climbing, more Billy Blanks, no potatoes, and only Diet Coke.
  • Clothes I don’t even like but I feel like I might like them if I wear them a few times because they don’t look bad on me, but I worry about whether or not I actually look like an idiot in them.
  • Clothes I didn’t even try on because I want to fit in it and I want it in my wardrobe, so I buy them to try on at home and if it doesn’t fit or look right it’ll just sit in my closet forever, but the fact that I just bought something right off the rack is a liberating feeling I bet those size-one girls feel all of the fucking time.
  • Hair accessories or makeup to make myself feel cute and pretty when I’m holding clothing that I hate that feels too big and is made of too much fabric for the body that I think I am in my head.

And I try and find a female cashier, because I always think that the male cashiers are just looking at the size tags and not the price tags and thinking, “I wouldn’t have thought she was this big of a girl.” I know they couldn’t be thinking that, but in my world they are. They all are.

So, my Ally McBeal moment. I leaned forward as I was putting on a skirt and I caught a look at my face in the dressing room mirror. I am going to blame this on the lighting. Not the lack of sleep, or the twenty-five thing, but the lighting. But my eyes looked so old and wrinkly. I pulled on them, which wasn’t so much me trying to be Ally, but rather I hoped it would have the same effect as when Jeff and I were hungover on Saturday morning and stretching our eyes open to let the oxygen in. It made us feel more alive and pretty, even though we looked pretty damn scary. I pulled on them in this dressing room and for the first time in my life I wondered what wrinkles were going to look like on my face. And I panicked, just a bit.

So last night I did a very long mud mask. I’m trying to remain calm. I’m not rapidly aging. It was just the lighting. I swear, I’m still pretty. Really. Oh, man.

I just took three long distance calls and a local call. And my network went down. It’s now two hours later. Between the “I love you” virus and the real-life pamie love coming through the phone lines, I’m exhausted. And as long as the network is up for a second, I’d better get to posting.

Eric’s play opens this weekend. Break a leg, baby.

And I wouldn’t leave you without a little bit of Squishy Insider Scoop.

exposing stee

I had held off showing you the review from sxsw, but it’s really just too funny to not share with all of you. Check out how much this guy loves him some stee.

Now go see and review stee’s movie and make him famous. But come back here when you’re done and play on the forum, because it’s been a blast lately.

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