Party on.

So I went to this jewelry party last night. Effing pyramid schemes, I swear. At this time, I want to make a plea to all of the world’s women – do not let corporate America use you and your friendships to hawk their overpriced wares. Don’t serve up your friends, who only came to your house to see your new dining room set and rifle through your medicine cabinet. Don’t tear babies from their mommas, who’ve spent all day at the office playing Free Cell and want nothing more than to put on their elastic pants, cuddle with the kids and watch “Big Brother.” Men don’t do this to each other. Why do we?

Serve up all the soft drinks and cocktail weenies that you like – it doesn’t make it right. I mean, what is it about getting older that means every party that you are invited to involves shipping and handling? Somewhere along the line, y’all forgot what a party is. Guns-N-Roses, ice cold keg beer, camp fire, peeing in the weeds, screwing in the weeds – that’s a party. This is merely an ass-fucking charading as a party.

All night, the hostess kept telling us, “If you have a party, you can get four pieces of jewelry for $10 a piece!” I’m sure this little incentive worked on some, but it just pissed me off. It means that right now, I am paying three times as much as I should for some stupid necklace that, in a bid for sweet freedom, will break off my sweaty neck and fall into a storm drain the first day I wear it.

I am such an alien, I thought to myself. These other women, they are enjoying this. They’re being social, acting like real women who care about the eating habits of someone else’s three year-old. They’re not all quiet and off on their own, awkwardly pawing jewelry and sidling up to conversations that do not pertain to them. They don’t talk at precisely the wrong second, allowing someone else to talk over them, thus nullifying their comments and ensuring their status as “the slow woman in the corner with barbeque sauce on her shirt.”

Fuck, as if being at a jewelry party wasn’t bad enough, now it seems I’ve been transported back to junior high. Good thing I’ll have a pair of $30 earrings to commemorate the event. For this price, I should hope that they’d engrave them with my graduation year and school mascot.

Swedes, shopping and the Shanghai Shits.

While untitledson was away this weekend, untitledhusband and I tackled the most unholy of chores — painting the living room. Should be a simple task, right? Well christ. It took three days. And right now, I’m out of my mind, due to the manual labor and such, which I so clearly am not cut out for. It may also have something to do with all Goof Off paint remover I’ve been huffing (surely the high point of the weekend). Reading the can, I see it says something about prolonged exposure and brain/nerve damage. Now you tell me.

In an effort to jam-pack our weekend with everything we cannot do when untitledson is here, untitledhusband and I also decided to visit Ikea. We shopped until we lost our religion (which for us, is about four hours), then drove back home. One afternoon in that store, and I would’ve thought nothing of suffocating the random screaming child in a flokati rug.

Our experience has left me enlightened. First, I am in awe of that shopping cart escalator thing (you know, the device that latches onto your shopping cart and heaves it to the next floor as you ride the escalator next to it). Those crazy Swedes. They’ve now officially made up for the wretched Ace of Base.

Secondly, it seems anything tastes good after walking behind a loaded shopping cart for four hours. ANYTHING. In a shopping-induced delirium, untitledhusband and I wolfed down a plateful of Swedish meatballs and declared it the BEST FOOD EVER. I had wanted to eat at Panda Express a few hours earlier, but decided to forego, lest I get a debilitating case of the Shanghai Shits. Might as well have enjoyed the sesame chicken, because the Subway I opted for ended up giving me the squirts. Yes, Subway. Given that their food is fresh and all, I can only surmise that my Sandwich Artist must’ve wiped his ass with my Italian roll.

As you can tell by the photo, we took in quite the kill. Now, to assemble it all. I must admit that I feel a bit overwhelmed, in a minimalist chic sort of way.

Ikea Kill