hoping to improve this weekend on…this:

Ashleigh surfing

stfu.pdf

Is it wrong if I start giving less-than-appropriate filenames to the work I do? One of my responsibilities is to find images for the websites for which I work. really, the objective is to name it something you can remember so you can associate it with a post later…right?

So far I’ve done bffs.jpg (for Shawn Johnson and Nastia Liukin) and iranianguy.jpg…for some Iranian guy.

I am just afraid there is a fine line between being funny and not giving a shit about my paycheck; a very fine line I may some day cross. When I start naming things stfu.pdf and suckit.png, I’ll know it’s time to call it quits.

vacation or excuse to shop? best of both!

Apparently I am a real masochist because I am considering going to Target again on my lunch break. but I actually have a good reason or two to go. First of all, its the only place around here that I know of that is of a Targety nature. If there was a Wal-Mart or something else, I’d probably go there, just to spite the satanic Target people. But alas, I work in a big city. Wal-Marts are hard to find.

Secondly, I really want to do it right this weekend and be as minimalist as possible. If we are going to rough it out in the woods, on the beach, I was thinking I’d like a good old fashioned backpack like back in school days, to pack for the weekend. Normally I’m the kind of girl who brings another bag just with shoes on the long weekend trip, but this time, I want to limit myself to my rashguard, bathing suit, a pair of flip flops and a toothbrush. A pair of jeans and a few tanks since we’ll need to get some groceries and shop the surf shops at some point.

Patrick asked me if this was a surfing trip, a camping trip or an excuse to shop. I told him it was the best thing ever; a mix of all three. Now all i need is an excuse to drink and I could die a happy woman. Gotta make a little space for some tequila in there.

giving hobos mortgages at alarming rates.

Congratulations!  You’ve been pre-approved!

So with most of this week in the books, I’ve been trying to motivate myself by looking at beach pictures and imagining myself picking out my wave in just a little under 48 hours. If I close my eyes hard enough and shut out the clatter of fingertips on keyboards, I can almost feel the sand between my toes and smell the salty breeze of the Atlantic. Unfortunately however, I am tossed back into reality by the chimes of emails and looming to-do list growing on my desk.

My coworkers and I joke pretty consistently about the fact that we could really give a shit less about a majority of the work we do. Of course, there are moment of pride peppered into our weeks, but on the whole…not so much. In a passing conversation via IM, a comrade and I were talking about our worst jobs, mine being the month or so that I spent underwriting mortgages. If any of you know me, you know that I write, I drink tequila, I surf. I don’t do finances. So when I mentioned this past career detour, my coworker laughed. He said, “Knowing how you are now, I couldn’t picture you working for a mortgage place. ‘Hobo off the street that smells like whiskey? Here’s a mortgage because I don’t give 1/64th of a shit.’”

Yeah. That’s pretty accurate.

why target is the devil.

This weekend, I had a slightly sour experience at Target because everyone and their clown cars of kids were having a heyday in every aisle that I wanted to visit.  Whatever.  My experience today, however, pretty much solidified the fact that Target is just an instrument of the Devil incarnate.

First, I went to a Target that I don’t normally frequent, so I parked a little farther away than I had anticipated.  This comes into play later.  At any rate, at the time I enjoyed the sunshine on my shoulders and hiked it up 3 floors to the store (yes, it’s the “Metropolitan” Target here in Charlotte that is uptown so they are being mindful of breadth of real estate).  I got myself a cart and made my way to the sporting good and camping aisle to stock up for this weekend’s excursion to Myrtle Beach State Park for beach camping and some serious surfing.

As I piled batteries and lanterns, chairs and pie irons into my cart, a woman approached me and asked for my help.  I looked down.  Red shirt.  Shit.  I had to apologize to the lady….I wouldn’t be of any assistance.  Strike One - stupid clientele.  I have a whole cart of things and I am obviously debating between different products.  Lord help us all.

As I finished up my shopping and approached the cashier stations, I sensed some thirst and wanted a Coke Zero to quench it.  I looked in each of the Coke-branded coolers to no avail.  No Coke Zero, fine.  I’ll get a Frozen Coke at the front of the store.  I checked out, put my $200 of camping equipment into my cart and eagerly approached the fountain drinks.  Frozen Cherry, Frozen Blueberry, Frozen Grape….Frozen Dr. Pepper?!?!  Who has frozen Dr. Pepper?  I was so frustrated and out of sorts that I left without anything to drink at all, mouth parched and throat increasingly more dry with each step.  Strike two, Target.  Strike two.

I rode the elevator down to the floor where I parked, exited the elevator and began walking through the parking deck, making a bee-line towards my car basking in the sun.  I was on lunch break and time was getting short.  Suddenly, as my purchases edge into the open air and out from beneath the parking deck, my cart suddenly wouldn’t move forward anymore.  I looked down and inspected my wheels.  Nothing was preventing them from moving forward.  I brought the cart back under the shade of the deck and it worked just fine again. I pushed it into the sun again and it locked.  At once, I realized the cold, hard truth; they don’t want you stealing their carts, so they have put up some electric fence preventing you from taking them.

So alas, with time being of the essence and frustration being the the utmost, I relegated myself to strapping on the two folding chairs, and the three bags of hot dog forks, battery-powered fans and trail mix and hauling the merchandise to my car about 50-70 yards away.

With sweat drenching my brow and high heels wobbling beneath my newly-lopsided frame, I thought to myself that the tool boxes working security for Target must be watching this all on Closed Circuit television three floors up, laughing their fat, donut-glazed-encrusted asses off at my impression of a baby giraffe in the parking lot.  I would have waved if I had the extra middle finger.  Strike three.  Assholes.

I finally got my purchases to the car and loaded up to make my way back to work.  After such an epic FAIL at shopping today, I don’t know that I need to go back to Target for a while.  Damn them and their amazing deals and tempting new Starbucks! Curses upon you and your family, Target.  I think I need to take a break for my own sanity and for the livelihood of the perfectly fine, blameless Target employees before I take one their lives by my own hand.  If we need anything else for camping, we’re shopping somewhere else, anywhere else but Target.

new gear.

So to keep things hot and spicy (just like yo’ mama - PWNED!), I have been trying to install some new and fun designs into the Pash Surf Cafepress store for your viewing and purchasing pleasure.  The latest and greatest; the Value T - for just $10:

This same design can be found on women’s and men’s..and even plus size as well.  Go check it out!  The one above is a snappy $10…the others go up from there.  But you can’t beat this deal!

big foot just gorilla suit?

As I marched through Drudge Report this morning, I saw this nice little tidbit out of Atlanta today:

http://apnews.myway.com/article/20080819/D92LKD300.html

“Two researchers on a quest to prove the existence of Bigfoot say that the carcass encased in a block of ice - handed over to them for an undisclosed sum by two men who claimed to have found it - was slowly thawed out, and discovered to be a rubber gorilla outfit.”

You can keep reading about the “discovery” and be irritated that our tax money is spent on Big Foot and Sasquatch Conservancies and Research agencies around the country. Somehow I feel this type of finding easily justifies the use of my expendable income on hookers and blow and whatever-the-hell-else I want. It just reminds me how much I deserver and need some Jimmy Choos and a new Coach bag.

“Within the next hour of thaw, a break appeared up near the feet area. As the team and I began examining this area near the feet, I observed the foot which looked unnatural, reached in and confirmed it was a rubber foot.”

The idea that anyone spent more than 10 minutes tops (maybe 15 minutes, if they had smoked -like- 8 joints) peering at this monkey suit through a layer of ice baffles me. Sometimes I feel like I am doing work that doesn’t have a lot of meaning behind it, but seriously. How sad are these “scientists”?

The only thing more baffling-slash-sad than the waste of our tax money and the amount of man-hours put into researching these things is the fact that I have written two blog posts in a matter of a month or so about big foots (feets?)….yikes.

…Moving on….

no…sleep…’til brooklyn!

I am exhausted after four nights now with very little sleep.  At first I could blame it on the SM’s lack of slumbering etiquette, tossing, turning and talking through the night with his stomach flu.  But now it’s all my fault.  My shirt’s twisted, I’m hungry, I have an itch on the sole of my foot.  An email sends my blackberry into violent vibration eruptions on my nightstand.  It’s 12:30 for Christ’s sake.  A car’s headlights peek through the crack I left in the curtains.  The dog snores. My shorts are twisted.  What do I have to do at work tomorrow?  Someone comes home with their fuck me boots stomping up the wooden stairs in disappointment because no other footsteps are following them to their sex lair.  Why is the SM still up?  This mattress is so swayed.  My back itches.  When was the last time we had sex?  I shouldn’t have had that Chipotle today.  That fan is cold.  I’m cold.  I’m hot.  What is clean to wear tomorrow?  Who got back to me about softball?  My glove still isn’t broken in.  God, it’s already 1:45?  My abs hurt.  I need new breaks.  Did Chase get my check?  What do we need for camping?

My brain is going absolutely non-stop to the point that last night I tried to take some nighttime cold medicine to seduce my brain into sleep.  Unfortunately, that did the exact opposite as it was originally intended.  I was out like a light when I got into bed, but was awake again in an hour only to lay up, and flip and toss and go out on the couch and come back in and audition different blankets for next three hours.  Please God, help me sleep tonight…and not at my desk today.

clif notes for men. volume one.

Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. I have had a real onslaught of emails and calls from girlfriends who are having more and more difficulties with their significant others so I thought I’d jot down a few tips for the average man to use as a Clif notes guide on how to not fuck up. I went with five this time around though you ladies know, this list could go to Beijing and back….just like a list like this could go out to us girls. We ain’t too proud. But I’m a girl and this is my blog so suck it if you don’t like it.

Print these out if necessary and hand them to your man, ladies. Men, do you part and be proactive here; take these to heart.

1) Don’t have double standards. If you can joke about certain topics, so can your woman. If you like her big ol’ bootie, she can poke at your sweet, soft belly. If you joke about being the perpetual bachelor and getting the milk for free, don’t be angry when she pretends to hold her breath for a ring when you walk by her favorite jewelry store. Don’t blow money on video games and shots and cuss her out when she sends a pretty penny on a pair of (too expensive) shoes. Everyone sucks at life, or working out, or being un-insane sometimes. Cut each other a break.

2) Don’t set precedents you will never maintain. Don’t set up elaborate surprises and sweet gestures at the beginning of your relationship if you are never going to do them after the 3 month threshold of romantic notions. Don’t take out the garbage before it gets full for a month then get lazy and leave it to start your very own landfill in the corner of the kitchen. And perhaps the most important precedent to maintain…

3) If you can’t be faithful, don’t pretend you’re capable at the beginning. Monogamy can be difficult for some, and that’s fine; we can respect that. And I understand if you come into the relationship with faithfulness and best intention in mind. But if you lose your shit and can’t keep it in your hot little pants, don’t fucking date us. If you know it is our intention to be monogamous and to love you and only you and you violate that trust, I hope you enjoyed your (nasty, slutty, infested) penis while it lasted.

4) Do some things you aren’t that fond of for your lady. Slow dance with her. Give her compliments when she fishes for them. Buy the tampons on your way home from work and mind her purse when she dances at the club. If she doesn’t already treat you right, you will be paid back hundred fold with steaks and BJs. Believe me.

5) About Compliments: Don’t piggyback. Coming up with an original compliment when she comes down the stairs looking good or when she chooses and outfit that compliments here breasties/hynie/feature of your choosing, tell her so. Its not as special if you say something right after we compliment you. “I like that shirt on you, baby,” followed by an, “I like your shirt too,” is seriously, epically lame. Effort is the name of the game, fools. Piggybacking is the MO of flattery scrubs. Be creative. There is something unique and original about your lady; that’s why you’re with her. Bring it up to remind her that she is special and she deserves more than a pathetic coattail compliment.

That’s all my pretty little fingers can type right now. I am meeting a girlfriend for lunch, to, surprise, probably bitch about guys and life and work some more. Stay tuned. I intend on posting more this afternoon.

lulz.