Tag Archives: sex and the city

You’re gonna make it after all!

Hypothesis:

Mary Tyler Moore (the television series, not necessarily the person) is the pop culture equivalent of Sex and The City of the late 70s.

Material List:

1. Season Two of the Mary Tyler Moore show on DVD (FYE didn’t have Season One)

2. One pepperoni pizza

3. One six-pack of wheat ale

4. One pair of gray sweat pants

5. Two remote controls

6. One DVD player

7. One 37-inch flat screen TV

Procedures:

1. I started my experiment by opening the set of DVDs for season two of the Mary Tyler Moore show (24 episodes over 3 discs). I placed the first disc (disc 1) into my dvd player and used the remote controls to start the first episode and adjust the volume on my television. I also started in on the pizza and brew.

2. I then watched episodes back-to-back, and took note of the similarities between the Mary Tyler Moore show and that of Sex and The City.

Variables & Controls:

1. The number of beers and the number of pizza slices changed as the evening grew darker.

2. Mary Tyler Moore, however, remained witty, fashionable, and amazing.

Results:

Within the first five minutes of watching the Mary Tyler Moore show, my point was being proven in two ways: 1. Mary’s colorful roommate, Rhoda, was totally ON an episode of Sex and The City. Please recall the SATC episode when Carrie dates the writer (not Burger, the guy with the sex problem) and she falls in love with his mom, RHODA.

The first episode of season one of the Mary Tyler Moore show, “The Bird…and…um…Bees,” features Mary the day after her documentary on “your sexual IQ” airs on televison—gasp!!! Just like the ladies of SATC, Mary Richards is on the cutting edge of sex.

Some other similarities I found include the characters—Mary is Carrie, Rhoda is Miranda, and Phyllis is Charlotte. Mary and Rhoda are single, and suffer from ridicule as single career woman, much like those on SATC. Mary is a journalist…need I say more?

Many of the episodes surround issues that are still relevant today—blind dates, being more eco-friendly, fashion (Mary is quite fashionable), living in a rent-controlled apartment, filling the evenings as a single woman, high school reunions, finding a job during a down economy, bad service at a restaurant, and dating at the office.

Conclusion:

After conducting this experiment to the best of my abilities, I’ve come to my conclusion that, indeed, the Mary Tyler Moore show was the Sex and The City of the late 70s. Then, it was a show tapped into controversial issues that were previously bottom-shelf. The fact that the show’s main character, Mary Richards, was a single career woman was a stand-alone touchy subject, not to mention her take on sex, dating, and fashion.

Final words? MTM is the shit!

No seriously, I cannot wait to watch all SIX seasons of MTM—coincidence that MTM and SATC have the same number of seasons? I think not.

Outside my apartment, things have come to a simmer—which means good things for my sleeping habits (Saturday night I went to bed early, woke up at 3 am, when I was still awake at 6, I made my first batch of pancakes, ever. They tasted like shit), and generally, boring things for the blog.

I’m trying to take a “it’s just work” approach to my day job, so I don’t get caught up in the minutia of dumb asses. However, two things have happened in the last few days that really irked me.

First of all, Shyneesha strikes again. I will say, after the The Great Self-Esteem Blunder of 2011, she backed off on the weight talks for a bit. However, randomly, as we passed in the hallway last week, she mentioned (once again) “Giiiirl, I can’t WAIT to get down to your size so I can borrow your clothes.”

And it bothered me just as much this time as it did the first time. Like yeah, she is losing weight, but she ain’t my size and even if she WAS, she is NOT, I repeat: she is NOT borrowing my anything.

Secondly, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my coworker, Boots. Boots is almost 40, a complete man-whore, and wears boots that make him look like a homosexual. I met Boots when I was working as a bartender, and he told me about this job, so I applied and now we work together.

In our office, he’s known as the “funny guy,” which is cool sometimes, but I’ve noticed he always has to be the funniest one in the room, which gets really old. Outside of work, we grab drinks sometimes, to which the conversation always leads to his sex life or his new man-groomer, which makes me drink heavily and shower later.

Yesterday, after my weekly meeting I host, he felt it necessary to approach me about a book title I said wrong, which he thought was so hilarious he could hardly tell me without laughing.

Really? Like you can’t find anything or anyone else to make fun of in the meeting, so you have to call me out because I transposed a fucking book title? Why don’t I tell everyone here about your latest incident with the man-groomer and it’s wacky “settings” that did a number on your junk?

Here’s a thought: go shove that side-zip chocolate suede boot up your ass.

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Karma is with the bride.

Remember that post I wrote a few days ago…you know, about how I’m broke because of wedding season? Yeah, well all the brides-to-be must have gotten together and plotted a scheme against my life because I was complaining. But before I begin the rant on my latest failures…the Sex and The City episode I was referring to was “A Woman’s Right to Shoes.” Coincidentally, when I got home Tuesday night, that was the episode I had reached in my 3-week marathon of Sex and the City dvds.

The best part of the episode is when Carrie calls Kiera, leaves her a message saying “I’m getting married…to myself. And I’m registered an Monolo Blahnik,” and then she gets the shoes (as a wedding gift) from Kiera.

I need to do that.

Anyway, late last week I was doing the usual cleaning of the apartment, when I noticed a cluster of tiny black bugs near my kitchen sink. I figured they came from the drain, so I bleached my sink and drain, and called it a day. Well, that is until I went into my bathroom to brush my teeth and saw another cluster of little black bugs.

Weird.

The next day, when I got home from work, I spotted a few more…not near any sink. One on the wall, one on my couch. I was utterly disgusted, so I got out my trusty vacuum, put the tiniest attachment on it, and proceeded to vacuum my entire place…every molding, every corner, even up to the ceiling.

I was bug-free. Or so I thought.

I had been doing some major Googling, trying to figure out what these little beasts were—they were a little bigger than a flee, body of a beetle, smaller than an ant, didn’t fly. However, many pictures and descriptions I found didn’t help. I searched my flours and pastas for weavals, and found nothing, I searched my mattress for bed bugs, again, nothing.

Tuesday night, I had just wrapped up my nightly routine in the bathroom, waltzed into my bedroom, to see a little black bitch on my clean white sheets.

Oh no he didn’t.

I had had enough. I refused to live in a garden. So I whipped open my computer again, to try and find the answers. A few scrolls down, and I saw a suggestion—bugs that eat cat food. Aha!

So I marched into my kitchen, and flung open my cat cabinet. Eh, saw a few bugs, nothing to satisfy this as the source. The article said to store cat food in air tight containers. So, I found some tupperware for the time being, and prepared to pour. Starting with a box of Friskies, I poured.

What came out of that box was quite possibly the sickest thing I’ve seen in my life. Every single morsel of food was half eaten…and the bugs were there. Everywhere.

I cried.

I cried because it was gross. I cried because I hate bugs. I cried because my cat had been eating bug food and I failed to notice. When I looked in his dish, sure enough, bug city. I was a shitty mom.

I composed myself, grabbed a trash bag, and started to throw everything away—the box of Friskies, any cat treats, even a new bag of Iams (i checked it, to find it oddly bug-free, but I didn’t want to take any chances). I emptied my cats dishes and put everything in the dishwasher. My kitty was left with a hungry belly for the night.

When I got on the Friskies website, I saw many complaints of the same thing. Apparently, I purchased a box of Friskies that was infested, and I was being punished for it.

I could hardly sleep that night, unable to get the image of the bugs out of my head, worried about my cat’s health, and overall just feeling disgusting. At lunch yesterday, I made a trip to the pet store and bought all fresh catfood (I opened everything before I bought it, inspecting for bugs) and it wasn’t Friskies.

I also purchased a large collection of air tight containers. Now, all my catfood, flours, pastas, sugars, etc are stored away, safe and sound.

On my drive home from work last night, I got an e-mail from Jesus Belt, saying the magazine was cutting back on freelancers.

Just what I needed to hear.

When I got home, I saw a few straggling bugs, which I expected. I’m still waiting for the rest of the crop to die of hunger. However, I dragged myself around the kitchen, cleaning once again. I was exhausted of my recent life. I was upset about losing freelance money. And I was tired of cleaning up bugs.

So here I am. Stricken my karma. Because I’m a big, single, bitch. Where’s The Bieb when I need him?

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(Platonic) Date Night

As of 11:24 pm on December 20th Neal Bledsoe has not accepted my facebook friend request.

SEE! Awaiting friend confirmation. I’m kind of getting pissed off.  But anyway…

A texting conversation between Lucky and I yesterday afternoon that sums this post up in a nutshell:

Lucky: How the eff did you get fecal matter in your eye?

Me: God, I hope that saying isn’t true.  But I have no idea.  I did some sketchy things this weekend so I guess that’s what I get.

So, the million dollar question is how did I get pink eye? Thanks to Knocked Up we all know that you get pink eye from someone farting on your pillow.  Which absolutely could have happened this weekend.  Here’s the part in the movie when the camera zooms in on my glazed puffy eye and rewinds through the entire weekend and starts to play when I am getting out of my car at Anthony’s apartment in the big city Thursday night.

(Side Note: How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite show, LOVE IT! It’s on right now.  I am happy.)

I had my 3rd and final interview at XX University Friday afternoon.  Fingers crossed everybody, I may have gotten a job on my own!  So I did all that crap and Anthony and I decided to have a platonic date night, cause we’re just bff’s ya’ll.  We went to a nice steak dinner, drank 6 bottles of wine, gave a homeless guy $50/Anth’s gym membership card after having an entire conversation with him making him swear that he would take the $50 to a strip club and make it rain, made questionably positioned snow angels on Anth’s rooftop deck, threw snowballs at people off the rooftop deck, threw beer bottles off the rooftop deck, had a weird dance party, and awkwardly passed out on the floor: me in the kitchen doorway and Anth under the coffee table.  That’s exactly how I remember Friday night, too.  For it was a celebracion for my maybe new job. :/

Around 8 am Saturday morning we woke up (because when you pass out like a drunken fool at 11pm it’s easy to wake up early), looked for some apartments online, and actually found one.  I called the guy up and we had a nice little chitty chat about his condo for rent.  The pictures were nice, like real nice, and the rent was cheap, like real cheap (not really, but about as cheap as you can get in the city without having bars on your windows and trannys in your hallway.) Because he only needs someone to sublease it for 8 months while he is in India on business.  HOKAY mon, I’m your girl! But, as always, there was a catch.  I had to interview with the association board and the association board is a bunch of old corporate lawyers and snobby housewives.  The owner liked my style and gave me a few hints, “Tell them you love to work and that you just got married, they love newlyweds.”  UHM.  Both untrue.  But lucky for me I had a hungover Anth in tow to be my faux hubby.

Like any other Gizzy-Anth outting we had to drink before we went to the interview that evening.  Like all day.  The plan was to go have a few bloody mary’s to get rid of our hangovers/get our levels right so we could chat it up about our new marriage and make it believable.  Which turned into a whole day of fun.  On our way to the interview we came up with the brilliant plan to really play the part and stopped for this little gem:

Apparently drunk+association board interview=engagement ring.  Ok, not really… it was $4.88 at Forever 21 but it tricked the board and my mom.  I thought we really impressed everyone when we entered the building with our arms linked singing, “Hi Ho Hi Ho off to work we go ba dum dum dum dum dum dum hi ho hi ho hi hoooooooo!!!!” And we even did a little musical stance at the end of the song like we were on Broadway, which was really me standing arms in the air with the gayest smile ever plastered on my face and Anth trying his damnedest to get traction on the marble floor, because alas we were doing all of this in the snow.  I am completely serious.  It’s a shame Anth and I are sexually repulsed by each other, we make a great team and would be pretty much the coolest couple ever, but the thought of having sex with him makes me want to strap down my boobs and sew up my vagina.

I was pretty shocked at the questions the association board asked, I guess when it comes to people’s lively hood nothing is off limits.  They asked us about children, pets, drug use, our careers, education, alcohol use, the stability of our relationship and the relationships with our family, hospital visits, and jail visits among other things.  We were drunk so of course we answered the questions like jack-tards and told them he likes to beat me but only when he’s high on crack, then I curtseyed when we left and literally dove into the  backseat of a cab and yelled, “Onward march!” Ok yeah, I’m a little embarrassed now.  But, they totally loved us.

Or at least I thought they loved us and knew we were joking until I got this Christmas treat in my inbox this afternoon:

Gizzy,

I received this from the association board this afternoon.  Sorry, good luck on the rest of your search.

Grant

———————-

Dear Mr. T,

We the board acknowledge your efforts to lease your apartment for the duration of your extended stay overseas.  However, we ask that you take careful consideration of the candidates you select to bring to the board as possible tenants, and how they will interact with the lifestyle and temperaments of the building’s current tenants.

Your most recent candidate selection of Mr. A and Ms. G has alerted our attention that you may not be taking the tenant selection process as seriously as once promised.

We uphold the highest standards of elegance and class here at A Lot of Nuns House and prefer to have tenants who can not only respect the association board and our policies, but also the other building tenants, their privacy, and right to a peaceful place to live.  Because of these reasons and after careful evaluation, the board has elected to deny tenancy to Mr. A and Ms. G, as we feel they would be better suited elsewhere.

We wish you the best of luck in your selection process and look forward to meeting with future tenant candidates that you wish to proceed with for further evaluation.

Regards,

A Lot of Nuns House Association Board

—————————–

Hrmmph…Sorry for partying.

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