Friday, March 28, 2008
(Pictured: the only pot I keep in my house and freak out when I'm running low on is this shit. This shit is good)
In case you don't know me in real life and have never met me in person and believe me to be some bowl-cut sporting girl's volleyball coach at the local community college, let me level with you. I am an extremely girlie girl. Well, unless the phrase "girlie girl" denotes someone who doesn't curse like a sailor even in her sleep. See if you can possibly wrap your head around this; my love for football and basketball and blue humor is only surpassed by my love of shopping for pretty dresses and makeup. Seriously, I have had a lifelong fascination, nay, obsession with cosmetics. I know that between the polio vaccine and NARS Orgasm blush, most historians would say that the polio vaccine was infinitely more important. That's why historians never have a rosy but subtle glow even under harsh fluorescent lights.
So for the two people that haven't peaced out on this blog entry already, let me give you today's sermon. The topic is mineral makeup. Mineral makeup has become the Vampire Weekend of the cosmetics world. One minute, no one knew about it outside of the few hardcore i.d. BareMinerals devotees (who quite frankly, came off a little too Scientology for me up until recently). Mineral makeup came onto the scene and all the indie hipsters of the make-up world were all, "yeah everyone's talking about that stuff but I tried it back in 2001 when no one was talking about it and I was all 'meh, it's ok i guess' but now you can buy it at Target so it's so Hot Topic." Sorry , don't know if I was still talking about mineral makeup or Vampire Weekend there. This is fun. It's like Mad Libs.
Let me explain why mineral makeup is my polio vaccine. I have extremely oily skin. I was told from a very young age that I could rub my face on a frying pan if I ever ran out of Pam. Because my relatives are subtle and kind with their humor. My oily skin naturally lead to an almost weekly surprise guest appearance by Mr. T-Zone Zit.
Another little known fact about me is that I was raised by the two cheapest tightwad parents on the planet, for whom coupon clipping was an art. They passed their thrifty artisan ways down to me and quite frankly, I get a little cranky if I don't get to clip my Sunday coupons. During one of my crazy, mid-Sunday-afternoon coupon binges I clipped one for the L'Oreal version of mineral foundation. Well, for any L'Oreal mineral product but my parents raised me to always use a coupon like that on the highest dollar-value product.
Little did I know that this tiny little coupon would be my gateway drug into the narcotic world of mineral makeup. From the day I started using mineral foundation, I have not had a zit since. It's been 8 months or so at this point. Now being the natural pessimist that I am, I assumed that the mineral makeup myth was not true and that the sudden clearing of my skin could be attributed to either me finally clearing the final stages of teenhood at the age of 26 or the long-delayed proof of my theory that washing your makeup off at night is too much of a pain in the ass to actually do. [Side note: I should probably stop buying white pillowcases] But a recent experience has caused me to believe, without a shadow of a doubt, that mineral makeup single-handedly cleared my skin. For South by Southwest this year, I decided that loose powders thrown into a travel bag with very little care would probably end in disaster. So I instead brought along my old friend, Fuhrer Liquid Foundation. The result: the first three zits I have had in almost a year all occurred during South by Southwest in the same old stomping grounds they used to call home. Fuck that.
Now I've graduated from the crummy street drug/cocaine cut with baby laxative that is L'Oreal mineral makeup to the hard stuff/pure China White that is i.d. BareMinerals. I can't stop. I have been known to get on my hands and knees on my bathroom floor to try to find the smallest of particles of Mineral Veil when I run out. I might be on the corner with a "Why lie? I need some more mineral foundation" sign pretty soon.
I have been watching the Mavs but what can you say about a team that seems content with BARELY making the playoffs? The only positive I can take from the past month of Mavs games, oddly enough, comes from Dirk's injury. I take back any criticisms that I have leveled at the German Pattycake. Well, not really. But Dirk has been the only Mav that hasn't choked and folded at all in the past month. And with him out for the rest of the regular season, we are done. Sorry, I take that back. We are fully capable of beating the LA Clippers without Dirk. Congrats! Can we redo the Finals from two years ago with the current Miami Heat? That would be nice. But seriously, everyone in this town needs to send Dirk their warmest wishes and deepest condolences. Sorry for calling you Diet Choke on this blog once, dude. It was before I knew the true meaning of choke. Before I saw the second half of the Mavs-Denver game last night.
To quickly address the monstrosity that was last night's game, it's pretty hard to deal with the idea that I can watch the Mavs play a first quarter (and a slightly less impressive but still respectable second quarter) wherein they score 39 points and still be completely aware that they stand very little chance of actually winning. The Mavs team that played the first quarter of last night's game was a fluke. By the fourth quarter, it was a godsend if a pass ended up in the intended hands. It was a serendipitous miracle akin to all the planets aligning if a Mavs player got a shot that actually, I don't know, went in. So many passes just whizzing past confused and scared Mavs hands into the bench or the brick-holding general public. So many passes directly to the waiting hands of a Denver Nugget. So many chances for Carmello Anthony or AI to run down the court and make another crazy Sportscenter dunk. And as a side note to Josh Howard: when Avery gets a Technical, there is no need to get another one yourself on his behalf. I quit a job at a record store when I was 20 because they had the audacity to fire my highly lazy store manager boyfriend. I was 20 and stupid. What's your excuse, Josh?
You can call me a fair-weather blogger/fan if it makes your inner demons quiet down for a day or two but I don't really know what to say about this team. I have supported them (and will continue to grudgingly do so) for such a long time that I don't feel like flinging flaming bags of dog poo on their collective doorstep. But I can't find much silver lining. And I was raised told that if you can't say anything vaguely positive about your preferred hometown basketball franchise, stay off blogspot. It's an old Southern thing.
Now can we talk about Pacman Jones? My head nearly explodes at the thought of making the decision of who gets the harder reaming. Do I talk about Tony Romo's startling ability to continually find new and exciting ways to stoke my fires of hatred for him that burn deep inside me? His reissue Led Zep shirts? Those fucking baseball caps? His mere existence? Or do I delve into the character of a person that makes it rain at the expense of another man's ability to ever walk again? These dilemmas keep me up at night.
I guess it's a good thing that baseball alternately terrifies or bores me.
Friday, March 7, 2008
(Ohhhh noes! Tiger Woods haz gotz the pneumonia!)
Sorry about not blogging for a while. I have been watching all the Mavs games, I promise. Funny thing happened though. I got that nasty flu that was going around. Then I kept it. My lungs held onto it like a stripper holds onto her GED. So after three weeks I went to the doctor finally. Turns out I had walking pneumonia for three weeks. Yes, I am just that tough. It's this robust German blood goose-stepping through my veins.
So SXSW is coming up which means that in a week or so, I will be wandering the streets of Austin with my cattle brand (badge) and my distaste for most people in the music industry on display. Seriously, South by Southwest is a beating. I just hope that another balcony collapses or something equally awesome and destructive happens. Because last year was pretty destructive, you know:
Last year's Jerk-fest
Back to the Mavericks. I attended last night's game. It was shitty. I don't care if Dirk was not in the game. I care about the fact that the Mavs are completely cripplingly terrified of the basket. So much so that a grand edict was issued that all shots must be taken from at least 20 feet away from said evil, yucky basket. I have no idea how the Mavs managed to be so awful last night. I have never gone to a Mavs game and not left with a promise of a free taco. Not only did I *NOT* get a free taco, I witnessed my preferred choice of NBA basketball franchises suck ass in a spectacular fashion. At least Barea hit two threes. But guess what he can't do? Guard. Anyone. Ever. Anywhere. At any time. He sometimes seems to be waving his hands in the air as to distract whoever has the ball. Kind of like you do to dogs.
Since the game and the Mavs playing barely merits anything other than scorn and shame and diapers full of rancid applesauce hurled in their general direction, I will address some of the more peripheral aspects of the game.
#1. I'm pretty sure I may die in a freakish Chili's coupon balloon accident.
#2. Mavs Man is fucking terrifying. When I see him on TV, I cringe. When I see him on the floor interacting with children, I want to call CPS. But that all pales in comparison to when I am sitting in my seat, sipping my $7 Bud Light and I am told to turn around. When I do, I recoil in horror because MAVS MAN IS SITTING RIGHT BEHIND ME, RAPING THE BACK OF MY HEAD WITH HIS BURN VICTIM EYES!
#3. I think I saw a lady of the night fallen on hard times giving a grandfatherly character a hand job in the section next to mine. Might as well, it's not like the game was going that well.
#4. Acrobazia are rad. Just google it. Trust.
#5. If I don't die in that Chili's coupon balloon disaster, I will spend the rest of my days hunting down whoever invented the Nutty Bavarian cart and exacting my revenge upon them and their foul smelling product. Seriously, that's a pretty pungent product you're selling there.
That being said, if Avery Johnson keeps coaching like this I can only hope that 24 hours a day his nostrils are filled with the smell of Nutty Bavarian and the mental image of Mavs Man mouth-breathing and watching him sleep.