Last night it took much convincing to get fiancé to join me in watching “Dancing with the Stars” (which I had never seen but assumed it to be my new favorite show). I used persuasive bullet points like:
1. It’s just like “So you think you can dance” only BETTER. 2. The show is, like, 30 minutes long. 3. Jerry Springer is one of the contestants. Hello.
I knew I was in trouble when the show opened with “On tonight’s 90 MINUTE LONG dancing spectacular…” They went on to announce the contestants—most of them sequin-clad D listers. However, we were both pleased to see A.C. Slater and his freakishly deep crater-dimples graduated from Bayside and applying himself in the world of reality TV. And Jerry Springer—which proves there is a recent drought on cheating-tranny-white-supremacist-baby-daddies because he did NOT want to be there. Lastly, they announced Joey Lawrence. Joey rebellious-and-possibly-retarded-brother-of-Blossom Lawrence. Our ears perked up like Walter when he hears someone thinking about walking by our house. But wait…where is he? That’s not…huh?
WOAH. Tan much? Hair recede much? We watched the rest of the show not because it was anything close to being as good as “So you think you can dance” but because we both needed some quiet time to recover from that image. That all-knowing hairless smirk. E-gads. I thought I had recovered by bedtime, but this morning I reached into our fridge to grab a piece of fruit on my way to work.
Friday night I joined some of my favorite Seattle people in a burlesque variety show called Le Risqué at the Can Can. I was in only one 3 minute-ish number. But thankfully the amount of dances one performs in a show has no relation to the amount of make-up one can get away with wearing. And sparkles, stockings, pearls, satin gloves, rhinestones, fishnets, fake eyelashes, ribbons and more sparkles. I found a way to have ALL of the aforementioned accessories wrapped and smeared simultaneously on my body like cabaret war paint. With my obvious weapon being high kicks, jazz hands and disrobing down to a black vintage bathing suit. And all that jazz.
“I like a girl who eats and brings it up. A sassy little frassy with bulimia. Her best friend’s a plastic surgeon and when her beamer’s in the shop she rolls the Benz. Manis and pedis on Sundays and Wednesdays money from mommy lovely in Versace. Costly sprees it’s on at Barney’s and I love to watch her go through fifty G’s calmly.”
In the glamour-ish life as a copywriter, one often finds themselves searching for just the right word or, in yesterday’s case, just the right phobia to pay off a lame joke. Did you know that there is a phobia for everything? There is even a phobia for phobias—phobophobia.
WARNING: If you have ever been diagnosed with phobophobia do not read the following blog. If accidentally read, please dial the National Phobics Society.
SECOND WARNING: I could only find the British National Phobics Society helpline, so you’re going to have to chill out long enough to figure out how to dial England. Sorry.
So, I’ve decided phobias are phabulous and I’m planning on suffering from several very soon. Here are a few contenders:
Number one: SCABIOPHOBIA The fear of scabies. Now, I was never scared of scabies…until now. Now that there is a phobia for them, the scabies have eyes and mouths and live under my bed making weird scabie noises.
Number two: BAROPHOBIA Not the fear of bars (uh, please). It’s the fear of….wait for it…gravity. You know, that thing that is always here. I would like to meet someone who constantly has gravity on their mind. Because this is the first time I’ve thought about it for longer than 1 second and it is freaking me out.
Number three: HARPAXOPHOBIA The fear of robbers. What? I don’t know ANYONE who is scared of robbers. Pussies. This is crazy! Robbers are a kind, gentle people with cute little masks. What did they ever do to you? It’s not like they ever stole something at gunpoint.
Number four: TERATOPHOBIA The fear of monsters OR giving birth to a monster. Thank you for clarifying that. Because at first, I was like, “Well, I’m not scared of monsters….oh, but I would shit my pants if I gave birth to one”.
Number five: OCTOPHOBIA You’d think that this would be the fear of octopuses. Which I could totally understand. They are 8-legged sea dwellers with frowny faces and sharp teeth. Diagnose me! But no, this is the fear of the FIGURE 8. I would like to amend this phobia by adding “The fear of the figure 8 OR the Ice Capades”. Now that’s scary.
**This message has received the National Sarcasm Society stamp of approval.
Last night I tried a new boredom remedy: hog tying the boredom, dragging it face down through sharp gravel to Capital Hill, stuffing a mammoth pretzel in boredom’s mouth and then drowning it in a troth of German Beer. And by golly that shit WORKED! Somewhere in my salty, beery haze I volunteered a list of my top 10 most favoritest websites, blogs and funnies. PS: I kinda wish all of my bloggy friends would do the same (please?) Drum roll, bitches. Behold—my epic top tenner. I mean twelver.
Actually, no one asked for it. But here it is. My initial bout of ExtremeBoredom™ was instantly cured with 20 CC’s of vitamin work-your-ass-off -all-weekend. Unfortunately it aligned perfectly with when I had to move. So I guiltily went back and forth trying to work and move at the same time. Then come Monday morning—boredom reared its mousy, turtle-necked head again. It is now slow. Like, ssssslllooooooooooooooooow slow. Peel your eyeballs out with a potato peeler slow.
In addition to my workload being nil, there is little action in the form of human contact. The only notable moment was yesterday when another creative came over to chat for what he thought would be 10 seconds of small talk. He was wrongity-wrong-wrong. I hadn’t had adult conversation in hours. He was going to listen to what I had to say. And when I discovered I had nothing to say, I just made it up. I started talking about agencies I thought were good. Going on about advertising shit I couldn’t, truly, give a shit about. But he’s an ad guy. I’m an ad gal. Isn’t that what ad people talk about? After what felt like 45 minutes of spiel, I leaned back smugly as if saying “…and that, muh-friend, is what advertising is allllll about…” when I nearly fell out of my chair. By “nearly fell out of my chair”, I’m not implying that he responded with something surprising. I lit-er-al-ly nearly fell out of my chair. I leaned back and found myself on just one chair leg tottering somewhere between Cirque de Soleil balance and mild concussion. And I tottered there…in slow motion…for at least seven-locomotive seconds. HE ACTUALLY HAD TO HELP ME UP. Mortifying. Now I’m just sitting here trying to will someone to come over here with my mind so that I can redeem myself with a funny joke. Or a high kick.
Here is a picture of a teensy child in a big chair for no fucking reason.
12:04 – Lunch with creative department. “Hi. My name is Jessica. I’m not 17.” 12:36 – Delicious turkey sandwich. Commence digestion. 1:40 – Back at agency. 1:41 – More boorish boring behavior that looks suspiciously like boredom begins.
It is now past 5. All blogs have been read. Bills paid. Inquiries googled. News caught up. I even learned how to make drapes and I signed up for voice lessons. What now, I say? Thankfully, I’m getting briefed on something tomorrow morning. Being bored is hard work.
Today is my first day at the new Seattle agency. For fear of getting dooced, I’m going to resist my urge to reveal details. However, I can say that the shop is in SODO right by the stadiums. First word. Two syllables. Rhymes with “pedgwick”. Second word. One syllable. Rhymes with “toad”. Everyone I’ve met seems really cool. And if this whole thing doesn’t work out, I’ll just start my own agency called Pedgwick Toad. Screw ‘em. What?
Current itinerary still in progress:
7:30 – SNOOOOZE button. 7:45 – Take much needed shower. 8:15 – Still in shower scraping paint off my hobo hands and feet. 8:45 – Dog walk, coffee. Fiancé pep talk. 9:00 – Arrive at work. Take tour. Sit at desk. Laptop and office sign already in place. 9:04 – Boring boredom has boringly set in.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. There’s nothing to do but join my favorite celebrity gossip bloggers in obsessing about how skeletal Nicole Richie is. P.S. HAVE A SNACK.