The following is a list of all entries from the humor category.
Melissa McCarthy has a mouth to make a sailor blush. As a rough and tough Boston cop in “The Heat”, she’s partnered with squeaky clean and prim FBI agent Sandra Bullock to chase down the bad guys. I don’t peg Sandy as a comedy actress, but then again her marriage to Jesse James was a joke. But everything Ms.McCarthy touches turns to comedy gold. As evidenced by her second “SNL” hosting gig, she’s brilliant with physical comedy and her timing is genius! In “The Heat” she’s reunited with “Bridesmaids” director Paul Feig, who plays the doctor in the film. She’s also reunited with her real life husband Ben Falcone (air marshall Jon in “Bridesmaids”) who plays as one of her many one night stands. The screenplay was written by Katie Dippold, writer for “Parks and Recreation”, who has since become my literary hero as I want to grow up to be just like her. I know she’s already hard at work crafting the sequel.
I’ve seen this movie once already and I’ve got plans to see it again and again and buy the DVD as Christmas gifts for all my friends. What else can I say but “the heat” is on this summer!
The red band trailer is hilarious because swear words make everything funny. Just ask Thug Kitchen.
Lean Cuisine’s new Salad Creations, found in the freezer section, are meant to add some pizzazz to a boring salad at lunchtime. All you have to do is BYOL (bring your own lettuce), per the instructions on the box.
The other day, my 50 something co-worker brought one in for lunch to try. As she was firing it up in the microwave, I asked where her lettuce was with which to complete the meal. She didn’t have any.
Sophia Grace and Rosie, pint size powerhouse duo frequently seen on “Ellen”, can only milk their cuteness for so long. Well, boobs.
Last Saturday, Plaza Midwood’s favorite hipster haven, Buffalo Exchange, sponsored their annual Dollar Day Sale with proceeds supporting the Humane Society. Let me paint the scene:
*If you’re one minute late to the 11:00 a.m. start time, you very well should have stayed in bed.
*There are two racks of clothes set up on the sidewalk outside of the store and they are only partially organized. You are only vaguely aware that the blouse you snatched up was meant for a woman’s physique. Which brings me to my next point…
*The associates overseeing this clothing free for all will tell you that you can’t try anything on because that would mean entering the store which is prohibited. You even have to pay for your $1 items before entering the store if you want to continue shopping.
*Since there are two racks of clothes set up on the sidewalk with a horde of eager shoppers, not to mention non-shoppers who are just trying to squeeze past to queue up at Lunchbox Records for Record Store Day, you run the risk of ending your life by stumbling back into Central Ave. traffic with an armful of discounted clothes and becoming roadkill.
*But you run that risk because you remind yourself that every article of clothing and accessories is ONE DOLLAR!
*Cash only, vultures! Your only saving grace is the Wells Fargo across the street.
*And you’re S.O.L if you forgot your granola bag because B.E. won’t supply you with a plastic bag. Of course they will sell you a reusable one for $2. But then you think that you could have bought two pairs of men’s jeans for $2 and quickly rescind to carry your haul in your arms to your car.
*After it was all said and done I spent only $10 on one pair of jeans, one winter jacket, one vest, and seven tops!
*Make plans to go next year, ya’ll! Not only will you look good on the outside with your new threads, but you’ll look great on the insdie too because your money goes to a worthy cause.
For my 30th birthday last year, I wanted to include the Thunder from Down Under crew in my week long Las Vegas itinerary. After dining at the Stratosphere one evening, my friends and I followed up the meal with some lively entertainment, lively meaning half-naked. For those individuals living under rocks with access to my blog, Thunder from Down Under is like Australian Chippendales. Great, now I have to explain what a Chippendale is. Chippendales can only be explained as cufflinks and bow ties.
After a $20 photo opp after the show, a dandruffed club promoter was advertising that his club, Cathouse (which has since closed), was the place to be after the show because it meant free drinks for the ladies and an appearance by the Thunder from Down Under crew in about thirty minutes. Me and my six inch heels walked ALL the way to the club inside of the neighboring hotel and after an hour or two of no sign of any Australian broods (because they were probably at home with their wives and kids sitting down to a nice Vegamite dinner) and two watered down cranberry vodkas, I wanted nothing more than to cab it back to our hotel room.
For months, I’ve been wanting to hit up Soul Gastrolounge for their disco brunch with roller-skating drag queen Bethann Phetamine; a cultural event that happens only on the second Sunday of the month. And yesterday when the day finally arrived, I was reminded of the time I went to a Las Vegas club with the promise of hot Aussies. Turns out that brunch with drag queens is a literal drag. I arrive at 12:00 with co-workers only to be told that the wait would be 45 minutes. We waited across the street at Nova’s Bakery with coffee where I made jokes about bread, “…ain’t no challah back girl”. Finally our party of five was seated. I asked our waiter where the drag queen was, like perhaps she was between sets and powdering her nose in her dressing room, and he said that she would not be making it in today because of being ill. A disco brunch sans drag queen is just brunch and I could have done that where I didn’t have to pay $11 for overdone eggs. The French toast my co-worker tried to order was 86′d like the drag queen. I suggested she return to Nova’s and buy some bread for them to make her meal. What kind of restaurant runs out of bread?! More importantly, what kind of self-respecting drag queen doesn’t have an understudy?
The moral of this story, dear kittens, is that you shouldn’t waste shoe tread or an entire Sunday afternoon on something that isn’t guaranteed. If drag queens or hot Australian men aren’t involved, there’s just no reason to get out of bed.
This is what I wanted to see yesterday:
My gay boyfriend is kind of clueless sometimes. I really do wonder how he’s made it so far in the world in his 41 years. I’m going to write a book entitled “Shit my gay boyfriend says” and play myself in the television adaptation because no one can play me better than me.
Yesterday, he asked me the weekend hours of Amelie’s. (For those of you reading outside of the Queen City, Amelie’s is a 24 hour French bakery).
Over the weekend I was in Winston-Salem to catch up with friends, win my first game of Settlers of (Chris) Cattan and try yoga. As much as my sweet friend Khelen tried to prepare me for what I was about to experience in hot yoga, nothing could have prepared me for what tranpsired. Hot yoga aka Bikram yoga (more like Bikrammbarf yoga) is pretty much the worst thing ever. So many factors combined for one miserable first time hot yoga experience. One, it’s hot as balls in hot yoga, like 100 degrees hot. Two, you’re sweating because it’s so hot and your neighbors are sweating and stinking up the joint too (on top of the gas that’s passed) so at one point you get a whiff of the inside of a dog kennel. Three, you’re moving your body into positions your body has never before been in. So your body is freaking out at this form of 90 minute torture that you paid $20 for. And it’s true what they say about feeling nauseous. All I kept thinking during class was “Dear God, please don’t let me puke inside of this studio”. Immediately after class I ran toward the bathrooms to find ALL THREE OF THEM OCCUPIED! (My undoing will always be from an occupied bathroom. At Natalie’s 25th birthday party, I soiled her apartment hallway with potent strawbery daiquiris for the very same reason). So I’m left to puke into my sweaty shirt until the instructor leads me to a utility closet trash can. After I’m cleaned up and rehydrated, she suggested I not have eaten the acidic pineapple before class. And to suck down a protein shake next time. I reassured her that there wouldn’t be a next time.
Yoga is supposed to be so good for you. And I wanted to love it the way everyone else loves it. I felt as if I was thrown in the deep end of yoga when all any beginner wants is to test the waters in the kiddie pool, with arm floaties. I found the proverbial kiddie pool in deep stretch yoga yesterday. On a whim I signed up after my regular Y workout. I already had my yoga mat in the car anyway (although I did think about leaving it by the side of the road). What a difference a day makes! The instructor said it was perfectly okay to “honor the body” and sit in child’s pose for the entire class if we wanted to. There was music to focus on (instead of the inner monologue of “don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke”), the likes of Adele, Bon Iver, and Natalie Merchant. It smelled good since the room wasn’t blazing hot. It felt amazing to stretch, to really focus on my breathing, to really be engaged. It was a great experience that I will happily return for.
Ray LaMontagne’s seranade in the produce section of Publix as the snow fell on a Saturday morning. The ritual of selecting a bag of celery never sounded so good. Celery to serve as a vessel for the creative peanut butter I keep making. Currently, there are no less than 5 plastic containers of nut butter in my fridge. My latest concoction is banana peanut butter. Banana. Peanut butter.
Die Hard 5 aka A Good Day to Die Hard, the first time I’ve paid money to see a movie since June when I paid to see Magic Mike. Twice. Got a little Die Hard On for the actor who plays McClane’s son. My fascination with the Die Hard series cannot be explained.
Ray got into it with something with claws when I let him outside to the backyard.(When I called home for help, my dad suggested if it wasn’t a mean housecat, it was a raccoon or a bobcat. I had to explain to him that the only bobcats we have around here are those that don’t put up a fight. I’m talking to you, worst team in the NBA.) I did the best at being a nurse until the Nyquiltini kicked in and I was out cold by 10 pm.
Sam’s for two pounds of salmon. Who am I? A baby Grizzly bear.
Rented Celeste and Jesse Forever. I had such hopes for this movie with Rashida Jones and Andy Samberg.
An hour and a half until a staff meeting and I’m half tempted to still be sick just so I can get out of it.
After Mardi Gras in New Orleans, I went to Atlanta to reunite with some friends from college. I flew from Charlotte to New Orleans, but I took the Megabus to get from New Orleans to Atlanta because double decker discount buses are cheap. Like $60 cheap. Not having any prior experience and knowing no one who has traveled that way before, I was pleasantly surprised that the Megabus didn’t turn out to be a mega bust. I really can’t say enough good things about my new favorite mode of transportation. They boast free Wi-fi, but it’s something to be desired since I had little to no service on my iPad. So passengers are left to entertain themselves with their phones. I’d suggest packing a book/Kindle to read. And snacks, A LOT OF SNACKS. The Megabus has a schedule to keep so there aren’t any stops (save for 15 minutes at a rest area in who knows where Georgia where I raided the vending machine.) For tiny bladdered folks like me that means holding it for hours on end, or peeing in the tiny bathroom at 70 mph. (What’s the Megabus equivalent to the Mile High Club?).
My friend was late picking me up so I waited across the street from the bus stop at a hotel bar where I warmed up with an outrageous $6 bottle of Miller Lite. Always making friends while traveling, I got to chatting with a married couple. They asked where I was from. I told them about what brought me to Atlanta. They have a timeshare in New Orleans. They also shared with me the story of how they met 35 years ago. At a bar. She tripped over his huge feet and busted her chin. He was quick to give aid and ask if she was okay. She followed up with “Honey, if the rest of you is as big as your feet, I think I’m in love!”. Isn’t that just precious? I’ve always wanted my meet cute to involve a sexual innuendo.
I bid my new friends goodbye and was finally reunited with my old friend. She asked if I was hungry. I don’t usually eat dinner at 9 pm, but then again I don’t usually eat a bag of chex mix for lunch so to dinner it was. I requested Flip Burger because of krispy kreme milkshakes on their dessert menu. (Flip Burger, if you are reading this, please come to Charlotte…and bring H&M with you). We shared a platter of fries, onion rings, sweet potato tater tots and Brussells sprouts, in addition to scarfing down burgers and shakes.
On Thursday, my friend had to work at one of the eight Atlanta Whole Foods all day so I set out to visit with my college roommate and her 9 month old baby girl. I got to hear all about her 24 hour labor and what the hell a nipple shield is. It was nice to visit and catch up since seeing her 3 years ago when I came down to see Ray LaMontange at the Fox Theatre the day after moving into my house.
After catching up, I made my way in Atlanta traffic to the fanciest mall in the world. I thought South Park Mall was fancy, but Phipps Plaza takes the cake. It was the fanciest mall I have ever set an underdressed foot in. There’s a piano in the foyer. There are SO many stores that I have never heard of before. There’s no food court so I had to make one outside of Nordstrom’s ebar to chow down on french fries and kalamata olive dip from the Nordstrom Bistro Cafe. It was Valentine’s Day after all so why not spend it with something that you love?
Once my friend got off of work, we trekked to Clermont Lounge. She claims it to be an Atlanta staple. It’s hard to describe what the Clermont Lounge is exactly. It’s a dive bar that Atlanta hipsters flock to. After paying $8 in cover, you enter a dingy smokey bar with a small stage with a live band playing to your left. And strippers to your right. But not just any strippers. Overweight, tattooed, cellulite-ridden, past their prime strippers. It would seem as if Clermont Lounge is where strippers go to retire.
No visit to a strip club would be complete without a visit to a diner. The Magestic Diner for cheesy hashbrows. One of the servers there was in New Orleans for 48 hours of Mardi Gras too.
The alarm sounded too early on Friday when I had to make it to the bus bound for home. All in all, a spectacular week!