Bean Quincy Adams

Topless Bikini

2010-07-08T17:16:00.008-04:00

Like any periodically employed person, I try to manage my money wisely. I keep a very close watch on my finances, and that is how I knew that I was not spending enough on bikinis. Now don't you worry - I made sure to rectify that problem. I did find a new bikini. And it was good and overpriced. (Thanks, Victoria's Secret!) But in my quest for sexy beachwear I found something that is neither sexy nor beachwear.

"THE TOPLESS BIKINI."

Where to begin? Where to begin? Well, I guess we can start with the obvious - that being, aren't all bikinis equipped with a "removable top"? As I see it, the topless bikini is a simple two-step process: 1. Put on any bikini. 2. Remove top. And for more advanced bikini-wearers, it can be even easier: 1. Put on bikini bottoms. DONE. In fact, the very idea that there might exist a non-removable bikini top makes me rather uneasy. Knowing that a top cannot be removed would certainly make the bikini-purchasing process considerably more stressful.

But moving on, who is wearing this?? And for what occasion? It's probably not engineered for speed swimming. And it hardly seems appropriate for a pool party. Or, at least, not a family one. Though I'll tell you, I've been to a number of pool parties and most small children are very capable of transforming any bikini into a topless/bottomless bikini. My nephew... he has seen some stuff.

So then it must be meant for the beach? If so, you are setting yourself up for some very peculiar tan lines. And it probably doesn't lend itself to playing volleyball or tossing a frisbee around. And while I can't prove this, I sincerely believe that wearing the topless bikini substantially increases the risk of getting attacked by a shark. I mean, really. That's just common sense.

So I think it's safe to say that no one is buying this "bikini" for its utility. So that must mean that it was designed for purely aesthetic reasons. Which begs the question: why is it so hideous??? Honestly! Is this not the most hideous way a woman could possibly manage to be topless? Why must there be a weird, thin strip of fabric leading up the torso? Are they worried that the bottoms might spontaneously fall off, so they needed a way to secure them around the neck? Or worse, that without it, no one would realize that the breasts are exposed? From what I understand, it is fairly simple to spot a woman's exposed breasts. Or so I've read. In science books.

And if sexiness is the goal, obscuring the belly button is a huge mistake. An exposed belly button is one of the best ways to achieve instant sexy. Or at least, that is what I assume based on the fact that in all my years of public education, "midriff tops" were always on the dress code's list of prohibited attire. Also, mesh.

I've been losing sleep over this topless bikini. Or maybe my bed is just not very comfortable. But I think it's mostly the bikini.

So if I'm wrong, and someone thinks this is a really flattering swimsuit, please let me know. I just want my world to make sense again. And also, I could probably stand to spend another 39.99.

The End of an Era

2010-05-28T01:13:00.003-04:00

Well, I suppose I should consider myself lucky. I made it 26 years, which is pretty good. But my streak is over. That's right. A bird crapped on me.

It was a day like any other. I was walking around the Silverlake Reservoir when I felt something hit me. I was alarmed by the impact. It felt like something hard had pelted me on the shoulder. Maybe some sort of airborne nut? Much to my horror, it was not a nut of any variety. Well, maybe at one time it was. You see, because it was bird crap. And sometimes birds eat nuts. I think.

I froze. There were no witnesses. It was time to panic. I was holding my cell phone. Should I call 911? Out in the wilderness of the Silverlake Reservoir, I had a 20-minute walk ahead of me before I could shower and properly disinfect. And who knew what the damage would be by then? Fortunately, my survival instincts kicked in. I picked up a fallen leaf and wiped that crap off my shoulder. It's amazing what you're capable of in these types of situations. Surely, had there been a sharp instrument readily available, I would have heroically cut my own arm off.

But as much as the sheer nastiness of it bothers me, I am plagued by the why of it. Why did this happen? Why me? Why now? I've spent a few sleepless nights since the incident and here's what I've come up with.

Possible reasons why that bird may have crapped on me:

1. It was an accident and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

2. To teach me a lesson

3. Maybe once, on a rainy day, I drove through a puddle and splashed that bird with dirty puddle water and this was my comeuppance.

4. Because I was alone, dressed like that.

5. This bird is just a dick. In the bird world.

None of these possibilities really make me feel any better. But they do all confirm my belief that I should just quit going outside once and for all and nestle into that warm nest that is hermit-dom.

A Letter

2010-04-15T13:31:00.005-04:00

For the most part, I really like my neighborhood. The trees smell good and the trash collection isn't so early that it wakes me up while it's still dark. And from time to time, I might even spot a lizard on the sidewalk. Must be nice to be me, right?

Well, it is.

Unfortunately, every rose has its thorn. Or in this instance, every seemingly lovely neighborhood has a crazy lady who yells at her dog all the time.

Now I'm no expert on dogs, but I do know a few things: 1. They have an extraordinarly high entrance rate to heaven. 2. They cannot write letters. And that is why I've done my dog neighbor the favor of writing a letter on its behalf.

---

Dear Owner Lady,

I appreciate the free rent and regular meals that come with being your dog, but I think we have an issue here that needs to be addressed. The name-calling. Not the nasty, teasing sort, but just the constant calling of my name.

By my best estimation, our yard is about... 600 square feet. And it is enclosed by a fence. It is, therefore, highly unlikely that I have gone too far. Perhaps when you wish to find me, you could try calling my name just once or twice and if that does not produce the intended effect, you could step outside and do a visual sweep of the yard? If I don't come running after hearing my name twice, I'm probably deeply involved with a bug or a leaf and calling my name 35 more times will not yield better results.

Don't get me wrong, it's a lovely name and I love hearing it. Tabitha. Tabitha. Rolls right off the human tongue, doesn't it? And of course, it evokes images of pretty witches and small terriers. But it kind of loses something when you say it like this: "TABITHAAA. TABITHAAAAA!. TABITHA!" And so on and so on.

You see, I am a dog. And I am a wonderful companion, I know. But I am still a dog. And I cannot talk. It would be teriffic if when you beckoned me, I could respond calmly, "I'm right here in the yard. I'm smelling this grass, and I'll be there in just a minute." But, alas, that is not the case.

So how does this sound? If you call me and I do not immediately respond, you can go ahead and assume that I am safe in the yard, smelling the grass. I can't help but notice that we have neighbors about 15 feet away on either side. I know that you humans don't hear quite as well as I do, but I have to imagine that even they grow tired of the persistent hollering. Maybe they are working. Or maybe they are just trying to watch Lost on Netflix. Whatever the case, it's probably very distracting to them.

Your dog,
Tabitha

Confession

2010-03-09T22:53:00.005-05:00

Alright guys, I know it's been tough. Waiting. Wondering. Never knowing when you'll get your next BQA fix. And I admit, it has been a while. But that's life, my friends. I just hope you can forgive me and we can all move on.

So, I've been thinking a lot lately and there's something I really need to get off my chest. I think I'll feel better when it's out in the open. Or at least, I hope so. Ok, so...string cheese - I prefer to bite it.

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. Yeah, I know, it's called "string" cheese, but when I eat food, I like it to sort of feel like I'm eating food. If I wanted my food to approximate the consistency of thread, I would eat cotton candy for every meal. Because that's about what it amounts to. When you eat a string cheese using the conventional "stringing" method, you don't even have to chew the stuff. These delicate little strings of mozzarella just dissolve right in your mouth. Plus, it takes like, 20 minutes to eat an ounce of cheese. And I do not have that kind of time for dairy. No sir.

When you bite the cheese, however, it feels like you're actually eating something. The teeth come into play, there's chewing, swallowing, all that stuff. And, as an added bonus, your fingernail is not involved in the portioning of the cheese, so it's more sanitary too.

Does it taste better in string form? Possibly. But if you're in the mood to chew, or maybe you're in a bit of a time crunch, follow my lead. Don't be a slave to the string. Life is too short.

Subway needs to hire me

2010-02-04T22:06:00.007-05:00

So, I was reading some Subway Restaurant press releases, you know, like you do. And I don't want to be one of those people, but I really think there's room for improvement. I mean, they get the job done - the media is alerted to important Subway news such as Jared's 3-Point Plan for Fighting Childhood Obesity - but I think they could use some pizazz.

For instance, check out this Subway press release announcing the launch of the Buffalo Chicken Sub:

SUBWAY® ROLLS OUT BUFFALO CHICKEN
-- New Low-Fat Sub Available for a Limited Time --
A spicy addition to the SUBWAY® submarine sandwich chain’s roster of low-fat and great tasting sandwiches will be available for a limited time only (from Sept. 25th to Nov. 16th, 2009) as the brand rolls out its new Buffalo Chicken submarine sandwich.

As a six-inch sub with seven grams of fat, the Buffalo Chicken sub fits in well with the variety of low-fat offerings available as part of the SUBWAY FRESH Fit® meal choices, which combine lowfat, six-inch submarine sandwiches with healthier-for-you sides, such as baked chips, apple slices, yogurt, diet drinks or bottled water. In addition, the sandwich will be available as a $5 footlong sub at participating locations.

“We take tender strips of chicken, tossed with a spicy Buffalo sauce and serve it on our freshbaked bread with lettuce, tomato, green pepper and top everything with a light creamy ranch dressing that not only provides the flavor profile a sandwich like this demands, but is also low-fat,” said Chris Martone, Executive Chef for the SUBWAY® brand.

Chef Chris noted, “We knew that creating a Buffalo Chicken submarine sandwich would raise expectations among our loyal customers, as well as fans of spicy Buffalo chicken dishes from around the country, so we were careful to create the ideal recipe using the perfect ingredients - to make this a winner for both consumers who wanted to enjoy this as a full-flavor sandwich, as well as those looking for low-fat meal options.”

The Buffalo Chicken sub is being introduced nationwide after extensive testing in selected markets where it was well received; frequently turning into a customer favorite.

Snooze. Am I right?

If I might, Subway, here's what I think you're really trying to say:

SUBWAY DOES THE UNTHNKABLE, ROLLS OUT BUFFALO CHICKEN SUB. THAT'S RIGHT, BUFFALO CHICKEN.
You didn't think it was possible. There are already so many delicious subs to choose from. But hold onto your pants, party people, because there's a new sub in town.

And if your mind isn't already completely blown, get this - it is low fat AND it tastes like an awesome sub.

Hey, so, have you ever heard of chicken? Of course you have. But have you ever heard of Buffalo chicken? No? Well, check it out - it's still chicken, but it's spicy.

It's crazy - we know. But guess what? It doesn't end there. We take that spicy chicken, and using our secret Subway recipe, we turn it into a sandwich. That's right. We put it on bread. Then we add some lettuce. And then we add some other various sandwich accoutrements.

When we approached Chef Chris with this idea, he was all like, "Woah. WOAH. Guys, listen up. There are a lot of fans of Subway out there, and there are a lot of fans of buffalo chicken in general. By adding this Buffalo Chicken sub to Subway's menu, we are treading some very dangerous waters. I mean, if we were dealing with people that have never experienced the nirvana that is Subway, or maybe people that have never had buffalo chicken, that would be one thing. But these people, they're no dummies. What I'm saying is, let's not fuck it up."

And we didn't. And for a limited time, you're welcome.

Oh and P.S. - apple slices are healthier than potato chips.

Flying with freaks

2010-01-27T22:39:00.005-05:00

Things were looking good for my flight from LA to Cleveland. And by that I mean, no one was sitting in the middle seat of my row, providing a nice buffer between me and Mr. Aisle Seat. I was also relieved for the nonexistent middle passenger because Aisle Seat was a pretty girthy gentleman, and anyone sitting next to him would certainly have had their seat space encroached upon, thereby forcing them to lean right and encroach upon my space. Actually, I guess that's just me being happy for my own selfish reasons. Whatever.

But as it was, Aisle Seat posed no real threat to me. He didn't try to engage me in chit chat and that's really all I ask of a seatmate. Good old comfortable silence.

The woman sitting directly behind me, on the other hand, was a different story. As soon as she got settled into her seat, she was yapping away on her phone. And she wasn't using her indoor plane voice. Oh no. And it also sounded like she was giving the person at her credit card company some serious sassitude.

After finishing her credit card business, she called a friend to talk about something that, from what I gathered, was "unbelievable." Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Aisle Seat shooting frequent irritated looks backward, in the direction of Row 11 Phone Talker.

Several minutes went by and at this point, the plane was fully boarded. When the plane started to move, I heard her say, "Oh, I think I have to go." Before she could wrap up the call, though, a flight attendant walked by, and Mr. Aisle Seat stopped her and said in an urgent hushed voice "Hey, that lady's on her phone." The flight attendant told the woman she needed to turn off her phone and Aisle Seat looked pretty pleased with himself.

Aisle Seat! I am shocked by your behavior! What kind of grown person tattles on someone? And just to be perfectly clear - Aisle Seat did not appear to be 8 years old.

Now I wonder if his tattling is limited to airplanes or if he also lurks near the express lane in the grocery store, just waiting for someone who dares to walk up with 13 items. Or perhaps he hangs out at the local gym, keeping an eye out for someone who spends more than 30 minutes on the cardio equipment during peak times. I might support his cause if he were doing something useful like blowing the whistle on restaurant employees that don't wash their hands after using the lavatory, but I think this was a classic example of a wasted tattle. The flight attendant surely would have noticed if the woman continued to talk. See, I believe that you get a finite number of tattles in a lifetime, and, well, Aisle Seat, I think you should choose them more wisely from here on out.

You tell me

2010-01-22T16:17:00.006-05:00

I've been consuming more caffeine than my body is used to for the last few days, so this might just be the drugs talking. But doesn't this cartoon person kind of look like me?

Ignore the fact that it says "fertility aid" on the package. I don't want you reading anything into that. Besides, I'm probably barren because I eat a lot of Teflon. I just like to smell these aromatherapy inhalers and the fertility one happened to be on sale. (I also bought one called "smoke less" and seeing as I don't smoke at all, it's going to be pretty tough.) Anyways, I just like the aroma of clary sage, geranium, and fennel. Nothing weird about that.

But see how they stole my face?

No? Just me?

Dream Job

2010-01-22T00:56:00.003-05:00

I was doing my normal search for jobs, hoping to find one that might allow me to stay at home in my sweatpants, when I came across this gem: Editorial Assistant at Tiger Beat magazine.

Here's the cover letter I wrote. I think I'm a shoe-in.

To the Editor of Tiger Beat :

I learned of the Editorial Assistant position at Tiger Beat through what I can only imagine to be divine intervention. There I was, halfheartedly searching for jobs that I might apply for only to put them on my unemployment claim form, when there it was - a glimmering beacon of hope in my otherwise grey and dreary existence.

To say that this is a dream job is something of an understatement. My dreams normally consist of horrible brutal violence against close friends, family members, and the occasional minor celebrity. But working for Tiger Beat magazine is so much more than a dream. It's the dream of every girl I've ever known. (Except for maybe the lesbians.) Ever since I was a little girl, Tiger Beat has been my ultimate news source. I vividly remember playing in my friend Jaime's bedroom in first grade, ripping pages out of your magazine and taping them to her walls. I also remember that Jaime liked to "play house" which usually involved a good deal of spanking. But that's neither here nor there. What I mainly remember is the magazine.

Where would I be today without those clean girlhood fantasies of Jonathon Taylor Thomas? Well, first, I might be attracted to real men, but so what?

I think that I am the ideal candidate for this job. Not only do I understand the psyche of tween girls, but I understand what it is to LOVE tween boys, as well as much older men that portray tween boys on television.

Sincerely,

Bean Quincy Adams

What was going on in the late 90's?

2010-01-19T17:18:00.002-05:00

I've recently discovered the joys of streaming Netflix. This is a big step into the right millenium, as I live in a household without things like Tivo or even old-fashioned cable tv. I feel that now it is my civic duty to watch as many movies and tv shows as I possibly can. Fortunately, I don't have a job or anything standing in the way of my civic duty.

But oh the decisions! I think I've spent more time browsing my options than I have actually watching anything. There are so many categories - do I want to watch a suspenseful comedy? A cerebral horror movie? Netflix seems to think that I do, but I'm not so sure. I am crippled by the sheer magnitude of choices laid out before me.

Speaking of crippled, I ended up first settling on a PBS documentary about FDR. After which, I decided to change it up. Somehow, the movie 10 Things I Hate About You popped up in my recommendations and I went for it.

In case you're not familiar with this title, it's a late 90's teen movie. Now, despite me actually being a teen in the late 90's, I had not yet seen this movie. In fact, I can only think of one teen movie that I saw as a teen, and that was the classic not-really-ugly-ugly-duckling tale, She's All That.

So now, after watching 10 Things, I have seen a total of 2 90's teen movies, so I'm something of an expert on the subject. And I can't help but notice a trend. In She's All That, there is a bet placed among high school guys and one of them has to make this really ugly (attractive but glasses-and-overalls-wearing) girl into the prom queen or something. Apparently, he has nothing better to do. Or more realistically, he realizes that this girl is actually hot and she's just a bad dresser with low self-esteem so she will probably be easy.

In 10 Things I Hate About You, the main female character is an attractive yet sort of manly-voiced girl who NO ONE would EVER date because she's so mean and has such a large vocabulary. But her sister is cute and stupid, therefore very desirable. Their father has an extremely stupid rule that prohibits the girls from dating, but then he revises the rule to say that they can date, but only so long as they both date. Which by the way, if he's actually trying to prevent them from dating, I don't see the logic for this compromise.

Because high school boys have such high standards, the guy that wants to date the nice sister has to pay a dude money to take the other sister out.

I've heard that art imitates life, so this brings me to my question: Is this a common practice in high school? Or was it, say during the years of 1998-1999? It's weird because I was actually in high school during that period of time, and yet I was wholly unaware of any such transactions. But based on these teen movies, I am led to believe that there were a good number of bribe/bet-based relationships.

I wasn't really in the loop in high school, so I don't think it's out of the realm of possibilities that I just missed this fad. But I do think it's kind of weird. I always assumed high school guys dated girls not for sport or money, but for the hope of procuring some poon.

Flashback Friday: Kindergarten Sucks

2010-01-15T18:17:00.011-05:00

I find myself thinking about kindergarten a lot these days. My nephew started kindergarten this year, and every time I hear about him going to school, I just feel so bad for him. From what I understand, he actually enjoys it, but I don't really see how that could be possible. School is the worst. But kindergarten is the worst of the worst.

Preschool was all fun and games. I went for a few hours a day, a few times a week, maybe. Once, we even had a beach day where we got to wear our bathing suits inside and they filled little plastic swimming pools with sand and water. Fun, right?

Well there was none of that in kindergarten.

But it wasn't just the lack of indoor beach parties working against kindergarten. My teacher was also kind of a jerk. Her name was Mrs. Randolph. Upon getting my class assignment, I thought she sounded alright. Randolph reminded me a lot of Rudolph, and I liked reindeer well enough. They carry Santa for Pete's sake! Unfortunately, Mrs. Randolph did not seem to have any kind of relationship with Santa. I don't know if they ever met, but I suspect Santa would have found her a little salty for his liking.

Mrs. Randolph was old. I don't know exactly how old she was, but she had that short, old lady haircut. If I remember correctly, she also suffered from the flappy neck syndrome. I'm not saying I'd hold these things against an otherwise pleasant person, but they certainly didn't help. My point is this: she was scary and even the tautest of neck skin wasn't going to change that.

It wasn't a complete waste of a year. I learned some valuable things in kindergarten. Most notably, I remember learning to use chopsticks. Aside from the whole 'learning to read' thing, chopstick usage is pretty much the only skill I acquired in school that I still use on a somewhat regular basis. I eat with chopsticks far more often than I do long division. Or any division, really.

But mainly what I learned was the horrible injustice of life. I may have already mentioned this, but it was a pretty major event in my life. One day, while we were all working at our desks, Mrs. Randolph walked around the room, scrutinizing us, apparently looking for something to criticize. She stopped at my desk, and grabbed my hand. She held it up and announced to the class that I was holding my pencil "the wrong way." The way I see it, there is no "wrong" way to hold a pencil, assuming it is somewhere in your hand. Unless you don't have hands, and then I say do whatever you need to do, but don't let Mrs. Randolph see you.

But the injustice didn't end there. Another day were were drawing self portraits. I know I can't prove it, but mine was pretty awesome. You'll just have to take my word. I was doing a very detailed full-length portrait. I recall that I spent a lot of time on the hair. Chrissy, the girl sitting next to me, had pretty much just drawn a circle with eyes. It probably took all of 11 seconds. But during Mrs. Randolph's rounds, she made sure to loudly praise Chrissy for drawing such good eyes. The eyes, you see, were not perfectly round, but instead a little more almond-shaped. Big deal. Her person didn't even have a body! It was just a floating face! I mean, there wasn't even a neck. I'm pretty sure that Mrs. Randolph only complimented Chrissy to stick it to me.

And just when I thought kindergarten couldn't get any worse, we read the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Sure, it sounds innocent enough, but Mrs. Randolph decided to select students to represent the characters as she told the story.

"Now who should be Goldilocks?" she wondered aloud. "Well, Jeanne has nice curly gold locks!"

Who me? It was true. My hair was a light golden brown, and it had some nice body, but I never imagined that Mrs. Randolph would favor me for anything, especially something as big as portraying Goldilocks!

But Mrs. Randolph changed her tune. "But Heather has such nice blond hair. Maybe she should be Goldilocks instead."

What?!

That's right. She dangled the carrot right in front of my face, only to yank it away and feed it to the girl who had blonder hair. Nice.

I guess it's all for the best. Perhaps without Mrs. Randolph's soul-crushing, I might have aspired to be an artist, or an actress, or a blond person. Instead I learned to hate at a very young age. But more importantly, I can eat rice with chopsticks.

New year, same old tales from the grocery store

2010-01-06T00:20:00.004-05:00

So it's 2010. And to celebrate, I thought I'd talk about some of the hardships that I face at the grocery store.

Today, I went to Trader Joe's to buy milk. Crazy, I know, but I swear this is a true story. I was pretty excited, this being my first gallon of milk in the new year and all.

As I was preparing my credit card for swiping, I witnessed this scene, one line over:

Girl getting ready to check out: Oh my GOD! I forgot to get hummus! (To cashier) Can I go run and get some hummus??

Cashier: Sure.

This is one of those common grocery store occurrences that really puzzles me. The employee at Trader Joe's doesn't care that you forgot your hummus. Here's what you need to do:

Get out of line. Get your hummus. And now, get back in line. You don't even need to ask permission. It seems to me, that by asking if you can "run" and get it, you think that the line will cease to operate until you're back with your hummus and all is right with the world. I know you're trying to convey the speediness with which you can procure hummus, but no matter how fast you are, you are wasting people's time.

There was only one person in line behind her. So, naturally, as the girl was on her great hummus run, the cashier started ringing up the next person. And when she returned, I'm sure she was confused. "Wait? Why is this other person paying for their groceries? I was just running to get the hummus. I even asked if it was okay!"

I think the problem is that a large number of people in this country don't understand how a line works. I'm going to venture a guess that it's somewhere around 15 percent. Because this also happens all the time: I'm standing in a long line at the grocery store. A person gets in line behind me. Then they tap my shoulder and say, "Oh, could you save my spot? I'll be right back." They proceed to leave their cart or basket in the empty space behind me, while they presumably run to get some hummus or whatever.

Inevitably, the line begins to move (as lines often do). Now I'm faced with a dilemma. Should I shirk my responsibilities as spot-saver, or do I now have to also move their cart/basket as the line moves so that there's not that confusing gap in the line? I know that if I don't move it, someone else will come up to the line and say to me, "Is this yours?" And I'll have to say, "No...but, it's, I'm saving... this spot."

Once again, if everyone understood the complicated mechanics of a line, this wouldn't happen. First of all, a line works when people stand in it. You stand in it, and eventually, you get to the place you're trying to go. But if you get in it, and then you realize that you have to leave for some reason, you just get out. And then, when you're ready, you can get back in the line. But not where you once stood. No sir. You start over. You go to the end of the line. It's very simple. And if you are so bold as to ask for someone to save your spot, it would not be the person who's already in front of you. They have no interest in what happens behind them in line. You have to ask the person behind you. And if there is no person behind you, then you're not really losing much by getting out of the line, are you?

Good luck, my fellow Americans. If you have any further questions about standing in a line in the grocery store, I should be happy to answer them. I'm something of an expert on this matter.

Flashback Friday: Gym Class

2009-12-11T16:38:00.003-05:00

I know I'm not the only person who hated gym class, but I also know there are a number of people who actually thought it was fun. I was originally going to call this flashback "Things that are supposed to be fun but actually aren't fun at all" but then I realized that that phrase applies to far too many things (dancing, parties, Monopoly, live music, New Year's Eve, college, horseback riding, and the list goes on). Anyways, someday I'll delve deeper into my hatred for basically everything in life, but today I'm going to limit it to gym class activities.

I always hated gym class. Even in the earliest years of school, I hated it. I think I have one fond memory in my entire history of "physical education" and it was climbing a rope in elementary school. That was sort of fun and it wasn't the kind of thing I could really do outside of the Ledgeview gymnasium.

My mind was constantly whizzing, trying to think of a valid excuse for which I would not have to participate. I remember being forced to "crab walk" laps around the gym in early elementary school, which, by the way, is an incredibly disturbing image. 30 small children scrambling around a gym floor, belly-side up? I'm not quite sure what I was supposed to gain physically or otherwise from such an exercise, but I did it. Anyways, someone once stepped on my hand, and while it didn't hurt that much, I hoped that it might be my ticket out of gym for the day. It was not. All I know is that this class was certainly the punishment for some terrible crime which I had not yet comitted.

Middle school, predictably, was the worst. We focused on various sports for a number of weeks at a time: 2 weeks of badminton, 3 weeks of soccer, and so on. I think it was sometime around the 2nd or 3rd day of the softball unit that I was forced to actually play. I always got to the very back of the line, usually ensuring that I never had to bat, but somehow the teacher got wise to that trick.

So there I am, holding a bat, and pretty sure that I'm supposed to hit something with it. I can't recall if I ever did. But all of a sudden, people, my "teammates" most likely, start yelling at me. I don't understand what they're saying, so I just stand there in a confused panic. Then someone tells me "just run!" So I placed the bat on the ground, and started to "just run." This was followed by even more yelling. Evidently, I had run in the wrong direction. How was I supposed to know?

I never made that mistake again. But that's only because I made sure to sit out for the remainder of the unit, nursing my possibly broken pinky toe.

But it wasn't just softball that I hated. It was really everything where fast movement, quick reactions, and teamwork were involved. I think volleyball was just as bad, if not worse. At least with softball, no one expects you to do anything for the majority of the game. In volleyball, everyone's playing all the time, and the ball is always bouncing around, threatening to hit you on the head and make you look stupid.

For the most part, when an object the size of my head comes flying at me, my inclination is to duck and avoid being hit by it, but I learned that this also elicits yelling from your teammates. Most of my energy in gym class was spent testing my undeveloped powers of kinesis, willing various balls not to land anywhere near me. Unfortunately, I never really mastered it.

During one memorable game, the volleyball came directly to me and I reacted in the appropriate fashion, whacking it over the net. I was glad to be rid of it, but my triumph was short-lived as it smacked some poor girl right in the face. Hard. I would have felt bad regardless, but I'm pretty sure the girl was somewhat mentally retarded. 7th graders are extremely cruel beasts. I remember someone going so far as to congratulate me on nailing the handicapped girl in the face, to which I could only reply that I didn't really mean to.

The only good thing I can say about gym, was that I was never forced to take group showers or anything. I can assure you that if I had, I would have a lot to say about that.

Flashback Friday: Dentist Edition

2009-12-04T19:11:00.003-05:00

I've always been kind of obsessed with perfection. Unfortunately, I've never been big on actually putting forth the requisite effort in order to achieve perfection. I remember the first time I was going to get a B on a report card. I was in 4th grade and I wasn't doing that well in Social Studies. I believe it was mainly due to my trouble with maps. I don't know where states or cities are, let alone rivers.

But in all honesty, I don't think I tried that hard. I just expected to get an A because that's how it should be. When I found out that I was getting a B+ I felt as though life as I knew it was over. And in a way, it was. I remember going home and lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, and crying until I could cry no more. I thought about the long-term repercussions of this B+ and how I would never escape this black mark on my record. (I didn't.)

Anyways, I felt similarly about dental health. Getting a cavity was something akin to getting, I don't know, a D in social studies. It also means that you are bad and dirty.

I probably only had a few good years of perfect teeth, but I quickly grew accustomed to going to the dentist and having him congratulate me on my great brushing skills. But when I was maybe 6 or 7, Dr. Lis told me, very gently, that I had a little "sugarbug." I wasn't sure how or where I picked up this sugarbug, but I trusted him when he said it was no big deal and it wasn't my fault.

I was totally cool with a little sugarbug. I've never been a fan of bugs in general, but a sugar bug sounds kind of cute. Like it might be pink.

Unfortunately, it was soon brought to my attention that we needed to return to Dr. Lis so he could fill my sugarbug. That's when I got wise to this whole "sugarbug" ruse. Apparently, a sugarbug is just another word for a cavity!

I was crushed. I was so devastated that I couldn't even cry. It was so completely unreal, that I was sure I must be dreaming.

I literally got into bed that afternoon, set my alarm clock for 15 minutes later, and laid there with my eyes closed, convinced that I was having a terrible dream. I was certain that by the time the alarm went off, I would open my eyes and experience the great relief of realizing that it was all just a dream. Maybe as an added bonus it would also be Halloween.

Alas, my alarm went off, I still had a cavity, and it wasn't any kind of holiday.

Somehow, I survived. I learned to live with a few cavities, and a few more B's on report cards. But I'm not ruling out the possibility that the last 2 decades of my life may have been a very long dream and I will wake up tomorrow and still be 6 years old with perfect teeth. I'm going to set my alarm just in case.

Flashback Friday: Painful Edition

2009-11-27T17:32:00.008-05:00

I have a code by which I live my life. It consists of just one very basic principle: You should never feel compelled when talking to someone to share your thoughts on who you think they resemble. It's harder than it sounds. Sometimes it's really tempting. But there are very few possible outcomes in this situation.

You tell someone that they look like a very attractive/appealing celebrity:
1. Oh, thanks! That person is very attractive/appealing.

You tell someone that they look like a minor and arguably not that attractive celebrity:

2. * Oh, thanks! (*sarcasm, mentally plan to kill self)

You tell a person they look like someone who they have no reason to know, like your best friend in seventh grade's brother.

3. Oh, really? Weird.

I can tell you right now, it is rare for the result to be the first outcome.

My first memory of someone doing this to me is in 5th grade. I can't even remember who it was, but a girl in my class had one of these amazing revelations that she fell compelled to share with me. She told me that I looked like that lady in Hocus Pocus. I was, of course, familiar with the film. It was about three witch sisters that are resurrected after being burned at the stake in the Salem Witch Trials 300 years ago. They proceed to create some amount of havoc in 1993 Salem. The witches were played by Better Midler, Kathy Najimi, and Sarah Jessica Parker.

I didn't know how to react, because I had no idea who this girl could be talking about. I assumed she meant the youngest one, Sarah Jessica Parker. She was definitely the most appealing of the bunch, although that comparison leaves you wondering if you have a huge nose.

No, she said. The one with the red hair.

Bette Midler??

Yes.

I was speechless. I was 10 years old and I'm pretty sure that I didn't resemble Bette Midler, let alone Bette Midler playing an ugly witch with false teeth. I don't know what my classmate was thinking, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't trying to be mean. But she pretty much sent me down a path of trying to look as un-Bette Midler-y as I could for the rest of my life. Which I guess isn't the worst thing, but it was scarring nonetheless.

Then there was the incident in 8th grade English class. Our textbook was full of various excerpts from books and plays and we were about to start reading a portion of The Diary of Anne Frank. Our teacher told us what page to turn to, and there was a short summary of the play, accompanied by a picture of Anne Frank.

Jenny Daugherty took one look at it and called out for all the class to hear, "Look! It's Jeanne!"

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to admit that in 8th grade, I really did kind of look like Anne Frank. But it's still not the sort of thing you want to acknowledge. Because I really feel bad harboring this kind of resentment toward poor Anne. I know she went through a lot. But then again, she never got compared to Bette Midler, so, you know. I had my own problems.

On a sidenote, when I was 16, I was cast to play Anne Frank's sister, Margot, in a shabby community theater production of that play. I was feeling pretty hot, because the director said I was too pretty to be Anne. But my friend Caitlin thought it was pretty hysterical and often reminded me how confused the audience would be by the fact that someone who looks exactly like Anne Frank was playing a different character.

Anyways, I just want to encourage you to think twice before you tell someone that they remind you of Al Gore or Kirsten Dunst or Celine Dion. Even if you think it's a favorable comparison, it's better left unsaid. Because some people think Jessica Biel is really hot. But I might think she looks like a dude.

Twitter

2009-11-25T14:24:00.002-05:00

Have you heard of this Twitter thing? What's that all about? Is it another way for predators to find my children?

I'm just playing. I know what it is. And I don't normally like to join in the discussion on such hot topics as Twitter. Fortunately, I don't really have anything to say about Twitter.

But I kept hearing this sound bite on the radio while I was driving the other day. It was something about Twitter and the guys that started it and the one guy recalls how someone in the early days said about it, "Yeah it's fun, but it's not useful." And then one of the founders retorts, "So is ice cream."

Yeah!

Wait, what?

Ice cream is great and all, and I guess it's not NOT fun. But I don't think it's a very good parallel. I see what you're trying to do. You're saying, "Hey, ice cream might not have a real purpose, but people still buy it and eat it and love it. Our stupid thing is like that." But here's the problem. Twitter is not food.

Ok, Twitter guy. I'll break it down for you. Ice cream is something you eat. Twitter is...not that. Ok, I lied. I don't really get what Twitter is, still. But I DO know that you cannot eat it. To my knowledge, it contains no sugar, cream, or morsels of candy.

It does, however, seem to occupy a lot of people's time. Free time, work time, ice cream time. It's always working its way in there. And I will grant that maybe people might find it fun.

But when you open a carton of ice cream, and bring it to the table, no one goes, "Oh! What fun!"

No, they like it because it tastes good. And sometimes it fills the void that exists deep inside you where love and happiness should be. They might say, "Mmm." Or "Yum." Something along those lines. Or "Aack, this won't make bathing suit shopping any easier!" I guess maybe that last one only applies if you dine with Cathy from "Cathy." But you get it. When describing ice cream, one would tend to use words that indicate that it tastes good.

I'll be straight with you. I don't even like ice cream that much. I mean, I enjoy it when I eat it. But I would rather have some chips and salsa. Like, right now. But I don't think that's tainting my perspective on ice cream. I hear people talk. And I have never heard something call ice cream, "fun."

I'll prove it.

Word I've heard people use to describe ice cream:
Delicious
Decadent
Tasty
Creamy
Lactose-y
Rich
Heavenly
Lip-smacking-tacular

Words I have never heard people use to describe ice cream:
Fun

So now who's smart, Twitter guys? Maybe if you learned some new, more appropriate adjectives, you wouldn't have to boil every thought down to 140 characters. Hm?

The truth about science

2009-11-20T03:15:00.007-05:00

I don't know much about science. I know I was taught science for a good many years of my schooling, but I only vaguely remember bits and pieces of it. In elementary school, I remember growing a bean sprout in a wet paper towel. That's probably the only science I can get on board with. It was all downhill after that.

I know that in middle school, we had to do a rock collection. Collecting rocks from a stream in the Metroparks was kind of fun, but today I honestly can't even tell you the three types of rocks. Are there three types? I don't know. Igneous, sedimentary and the other kind. Mesozoic? I have no idea. It's like naming the seven dwarfs. Impossible.

After that, science classes started having labs and labs meant lab partners. (I'm sorry Amy, because you did all of the work for all of our labs in 8th and 9th grade. But if it makes you feel better, you probably know the ins and outs of dissecting an earthworm, an owl pellet, and a crayfish, while I do not.) But labs were good for me, because I think they really allowed my laziness to mature. Before that, I was always trying. But labs taught me that even if you don't try to try, you can still succeed.

I took honors physics my junior year of high school. I wasn't real keen on showing up to school on a regular basis, and after a prolonged period of freqeunt absences, my nice frizzy-haired teacher took me aside to make sure I wasn't dying. I wasn't, but I thought it was nice that she was concerned. Needless to say, I did not learn a lot of physics. On the plus side, I lived.

Anyways, I'm not in school anymore, but I just can't escape it. Society is always forcing this science garbage down our throats. They have a channel on television, for crying out loud. But I don't need it. Because I'm pretty sure I've got a handle on things.

For instance, we've all been here - you walk into a bathroom and it smells... not so fresh. I know my inclination is to stop breathing. But unfortunately, according to SCIENCE, I have to breathe or something will happen, I forget what. Now, I want to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. But no! If you breathe through your mouth, you will literally draw the smell particles into your mouth. You will eat the poo. And we can't have that. We cannot. So, if possible, you should stretch your shirt over your mouth and nose and breathe your clean chest air. If your shirt does not easily convert to a mask, you can at least hold your sleeve over your face and use that as a makeshift filter. I can't be sure, but I believe these tips have saved many lives.

Or how about we move to the kitchen? Everybody loves some Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, right? It simultaneously fills your needs for sodium, love, and orange dye. And it's delicious. But only for approximately 30 minutes. And then it completely loses all of its cheese-like flavor. Tell me science, why is that? Well, science won't tell you. But I will. You see the cheese powder belongs to the same family as the glow stick. You crack a glow stick and it's awesome and bright, but soon, it fades and it's just a stupid piece of plastic. That's how the cheese pouch works when you rip that paper. The only difference is that it glows with tangy cheesey flavor, and when it burns out, it's a disgusting flavorless paste. It is imperative that you eat the whole box in one sitting.

And there you have it. Science you can use.

Cop-out Friday

2009-11-06T14:46:00.003-05:00

Just when you thought I couldn't get any lazier.

This Friday, I bring you neither a flashback, nor original content. Well, it's kind of a flashback in the sense that I posted this on facebook last June.

That's right. It's the wildly popular re-naming of all the teams in the NBA. I still don't follow sports, but someone said something about basketball and I think this might be timely again. So here it is.

----

In the spirit of Pat watching boring basketball, I am going to rename all of the teams in the NBA so that I can more easily remember them. Thanks in advance to wikipedia for providing me with all the current names.

Boston Baked Beans
New Jersey T-Shirts
New York Bastards
Philadelphia Tom Hanksers
Toronto Pterodactyls
Chicago Oprahs
Cleveland Clinics
Detroit Racial Tensions
Indiana Daylight Savings
Milwaukee Vowels
Atlanta My Parents Went There For the 96 Olympics-ers
Charlotte Webs
Miami Vices
Orlando I Want to Go to Disneyworlds
Washington Wizards*
Denver Soy Chik'n Nuggets
Minnesota I Don't Know Where That Is-es
Oklahoma City Domestic Terrorists
Portland Lesser Known Hipsters
Utah Salty Mormon Lakers
Golden State Ashamed to be from Oaklanders
Los Angeles Team B
Los Angeles Team A
Phoenix, University of-ers
Sacramento Potato Sack Racers
Dallas Fort Werther's Originals
Houston Linxes
Memphis Mid-Southerners
New Orleans Tits
San Antonio Banderases

*I have no objection to the name Washington Wizards because wizards do magic and I love magic.

---

Note: This has been bothering me ever since I originally posted it. I left the Washington Wizards as is, because wizards do magic. But, I renamed the Orlando Magic to reflect my love of Disney World. Explanation: I love wizards and magic, but if you think about it, Disney World IS magical. So there you go. I think we can all agree that my logic is sound.

Flashback Friday: Halloween

2009-10-30T14:09:00.004-04:00

I know you've been waiting all week for a blog here, so I feel bad for doing this, but I don't really have a choice. This is going to be a special holiday-themed entry. Lame. I know.

So I've deduced that tomorrow is Halloween. And that got me thinking about costumes of my past. I had some pretty pathetic ones. This is not meant to be a criticism of my dear mom. I can hardly blame a woman for opting not to hand-stitch a princess dress for a 5-year-old with a proclivity for changing her mind. As proof of such, when I was in kindergarten, I was supposed to be a little Indian princess. That is, a Native American princess. In 1989 I don't think this was considered culturally insensitive yet. Anyways, I had a really nice costume and real moccasins and everything. I wore it to school, but when it came time for trick-or-treating, and I found out that my brothers were going as ninjas, I decided I wanted to be a ninja too. So goodbye nice costume, hello makeshift ninja costume. (Black sweatsuit.)

Most years, we would go through the box of old clothes that we took out of the attic, and that's where our costumes came from. Most of the contents of the box were just relics of my mom's outdated wardrobe. I do believe this led to a lot of cross-dressing for my brothers. Or maybe it's the chicken and the egg. I don't know. But my mom would pick up an article of clothing and say something like, "Here, this could be a gypsy skirt." Or, "You could wear this and be a rock star."

So, in second grade I was a gypsy. And in third grade I was a rock star. The rock star costume consisted of me wearing shiny black leggings and a black glittery top that I think my mom probably wore at some point for New Year's or something. The costume was completed with a black fedora and a tranny amount of purple eyeshadow and heavy blush. And while it wasn't exactly part of the costume per se, I also wore enormous purple glasses that covered half my face. (Thanks a lot, myopia.) Anyhow, I suspect that neither my mom nor I had ever actually seen a rock star, so this seemed like a perfectly fine costume at the time.

By fourth grade I had at least abandoned the big purple frames, but I was getting older, weirder, and considerably less cute. When it came time to prepare for Halloween, all I knew was that we got a black kitten that year, and I wanted to incorporate her into my costume. So out of the clothes box came a big, billowy red dress. And so it was proclaimed a "she-devil" costume. So I wore a giant long red dress with long sleeves, and a red cowboy hat. And I carried my cat, Kramer. She was scared and confused, rightfully so. We even made her a red cape. I think this was the only sewing that ever went into one of my costumes. But I was happy because I got to take Kramer to school. Why a she-devil would carry a kitten, let alone a kitten wearing a cape, I have no idea. It was only years later that I realized I had unknowingly dressed up as a crazy cat lady.

Flashback Friday: Peer Pressure

2009-10-23T00:11:00.006-04:00

I was pretty susceptible to peer pressure as a child. In fact, I'm still pretty susceptible to all kinds of pressure, for that matter. From peers, from children, from the elderly, from people that stand outside grocery stores asking for donations to various causes. It doesn't matter. You can count on me to be easily swayed.

Once when I was in kindergarten, my next-door neighbor, Erica persuaded me to call 9-1-1, just to see what happens. Erica was in first grade, so I assumed she had her reasons. I called 9-1-1 from my house and hung up when an actual person answered. I knew that I had done something wrong, so we fled the scene. But it turns out that when you call 9-1-1 and hang up, they do not just assume that it was a wrong number. They call back.

I got a talking to for that one. As I remember it, someone probably died because of me. My parents didn't say this in so many words, but I think it was implied. Anyways, I never called 9-1-1 again, because honestly, it really didn't do that much for me. There was better mischief to be made.

For instance, we could be burying one of the other neighborhood kids' shoes in my backyard sandbox. Again, I think this was Erica's idea, but I supported it. Brad was a real crybaby and I did not like playing with him. It seemed only fair that someone should steal his shoes and bury them in a sandbox. You know, to teach him a lesson.

My best friend lived across the street. Her name was Stefanie and she had long blond hair and was much nicer than next-door Erica. I enjoyed going to Stefanie's house. Her mom was really nice and she introduced me to a wonderful snack called "saltines with butter."

Stefanie was also a year older than me and seeing as I actually liked her, it was only natural that she would possess a certain amount of power in the relationship. One day, we were playing in her backyard. I think plans were in the works for some sort of secret club. It was going to be pretty awesome, I'm sure. We decided that we needed a secret club meeting spot. Her yard didn't have much in the ways of secret spots, but there was a small canopy of trees separating her yard from the neighbors. It was nicely landscaped, and they had placed a little bench and a birdbath tucked away in the shade. This would be the spot, we decided.

Naturally, the next thing we would have to do, according to Stefanie, was poop in the woods. Wait, what? Yes. Stefanie wanted to dig a hole, and then we would poop in it. I don't recall if this in any way related to the club, or if it was more of an impetuous pooping adventure, but I was not real keen on it. I wasn't even sure if this was something we could get in trouble for, but that wasn't really the issue.

Even at the age of 5, I had a pretty highly developed sense of shame about pooping. I didn't really feel like it was an experience I wanted to share with anyone. Not even Stefanie. But I was supportive. If Stefanie wanted to poop in a hole in her backyard, then who was I to stand in the way of her dreams? I don't think I watched, because that would be weird. So I just stood there, quietly as not to disturb the process, while my best friend pooped in a hole.

Stefanie moved away the following year. I was sad at the time, but in retrospect, I think it might not have been the worst thing for me. And to this day, I have never been coerced into pooping. No matter how appealing the person, or the hole.

Flashback Friday: Wart Edition

2009-10-16T16:27:00.002-04:00

When I was in second grade, I discovered the tumors. Well, they weren't actually tumors. They were plantar warts and they were on my feet. But they were hard and foreign and I had seen enough episodes of 20/20 to diagnose them as tumors and that is how I came to the conclusion that I was stricken with the foot cancer. Because I was 7, I didn't know that foot cancer isn't so much a concern. But I decided I should just keep it quiet as not to worry anyone. Maybe the cancer would heal itself and I would still be able to go to Disney World over spring break.

But the warts really hurt. They were deep in the balls of my feet and it made walking very painful. So I went to my mom and tearfully confessed my secret foot tumors. I was ready to say my goodbyes and give away all my worldly possessions, but she assured me that it was not cancer. I still had my doubts.

I was then hauled off to some sort of doctor to treat my apparently non-fatal but rather gross affliction. I don't know the exact medical terminology, but as I recall, they performed a wartectomy by strapping me to a table and digging at my feet with rusty razors. Or something like that. It hurt like a bitch and seemed to go on forever and ever. I was pretty sure that these "plantar warts" were several feet deep.

The problem with this treatment was that it didn't actually help the pain. In fact, it made it much much worse. I couldn't even wear shoes. I cried because I didn't know how I would go to school if I couldn't wear shoes. Most likely, I was just trying to get out of going to school, but my crafty mom saw through this lame attempt at truancy and said I could wear soft slippers. I cried more. I didn't want to wear slippers. I wouldn't even be allowed to wear slippers to school.

But as it happened, I was allowed to wear slippers to school. And I guess I did. I was certain that everyone would make merciless fun of me for wearing slippers to school and no one would be my friend. But, strangely enough, that didn't happen. Or at least, not for a few more years. And by then it was less slipper-related, I think.

The point is, I survived. And I learned my lesson about watching 20/20. Well, not really. But I should have.

Dear Humans, I don't get you.

2009-10-13T20:10:00.002-04:00

I feel like, lately, the world has been going out of its way to remind me how weird some people are. So I present to you three examples of puzzling human behavior:

1. Having a jam session at 10 am on a Monday.

This particular offense come courtesy of my weird neighbor. I don't really know him, but he lives about 10 feet away from me, and I'm pretty sure that he disappears for months at a time. When I do see him, he usually doesn't seem to notice or recognize me. For a long time, I thought I had offended him somehow, but then I figured out that he is just a crackhead. When it's 100 degrees outside, you might see him hurrying down the sidewalk in a hooded sweatshirt and a winter hat. He lives in a studio that is approximately 200 square feet. I saw it once. He doesn't really have anything in it. It's just a murphy bed, and of course, a drum kit. In the 2 years or so that he's lived there, I have never once heard him play his drums. That is, until this Monday. I was sitting on my couch, watching my normal daytime programs, when I saw him and another guy, walking back to his place. They then proceeded to have a little Monday morning jam session. It lasted for about an hour. It wasn't the worst thing I've ever heard, but it was sort of confusing to me. This seemed like an odd time to rock out, in my opinion. 10 am is a good time to get brunch. Or be at work, if you're so daring. But to have a buddy over to play some sweet percussive tunes? I don't know.

2. Spitting your chewing gum out on the elliptical machine at the gym.

I belong to a gym. LA Fitness, to be exact. And as someone that occasionally washes the bottom of my shoes because I am concerned with the germs that might be living on them, I think it's safe to say that I have some issues with the cleanliness of gyms. You have all these people sweating and touching things, and sometimes grunting (which I realize isn't a sanitary issue, but it grosses me out nonetheless.) It's disgusting. But I've learned to accept it. I just try to touch as few surfaces as possible and take a scalding shower as soon as I get home. The point is, gyms are disgusting enough as it is. That is why you, disgusting LA Fitness patron, should not feel the need to put your used chewing gum on the ledge of the elliptical machine. I understand your predicament. You're chewing gum. You're going to work out. You don't want your gum anymore. What do you do??? Obviously, getting off the machine and throwing it in some sort of waste receptacle isn't an option. I mean, I don't know why it's not an option, but I assume that if it were an option, that's what you would have done. And you don't want to swallow it, because I heard in 2nd grade that if swallow gum, it will stay in your stomach for 7 years. And we can't have that. And I'm sure you couldn't have just kept it in your mouth. Because that's unpleasant. It had probably lost its flavor. Well. I guess you did what you had to do. Nevermind.

3. Writing a comment to no one in particular, in a library book.

I recently got some books from the library. I actually hate library books. Oddly enough, part of that is for reasons of cleanliness and gum. (One of the last library books I checked out had a big wad of hardened gum stuck to the cover. Maybe it's me?) But I am thrifty, so I'm not going to buy every book I want to read. I just started reading what appeared to be a clean and gum-free library book, when I got to a little handwritten note in the margins. A line in the book read "he seemed to me wise - silent and massive like a Buddha in wire-framed glasses." In blue pen, someone has put quotes around the words "silent and massive" and then drawn an asterisk. In the blank space below it, they have written *The Buddha was NOT fat.

Now, first of all, the book doesn't even say that the Buddha is "fat." Second of all, I'm no expert on the Buddha or anything, but I think I get what the author is going for here. I think it's some sort of literary thing. I don't know. But this blue pen wielding library patron is not going to stand for this misinformation. My god! I might have gone on reading this book, thinking about how fat the Buddha is, if not for his/her correction. Thank you, defender of truth and Buddha.

Flashback Friday: Cross Dressing edition

2009-10-09T16:49:00.005-04:00

I don't remember a great deal about first grade. I mean, I know that kindergarten was full of horrible pain and injustice, but for the most part first grade was alright. I had a nice teacher and I was still naive enough to think I might not be wasting the best years of my life in stupid school.

But there is one incident that stands out in my memory. It was 1991 and Simpsons merchandising was at an all-time high. Actually, I don't know if that's true. But I do know that I had a Bartman t-shirt. Remember Bartman? I don't really know what that was all about, to be honest. But those were the early and confusing days of The Simpsons where they had the occasional full-length music video and the accompanying licensed apparel. The shirt was just an image of Bart Simpson, wearing a cape and mask, along with a cartoon speech bubble that read, "Watch it, dude."

But the point is, I thought my Bartman t-shirt was extremely cool. I felt that wearing it made me extremely cool. I'm guessing that I wore it to school approximately once a week, and I wore it with great pride. Bartman was a badass and I wanted to be a badass. Think about it. "Watch it, dude." Who is he calling dude? And why do they need to watch it? You don't want to know, man.

There was a girl in my class named April. I was not a big fan of April. She was a roly-poly first grader with a bossy streak and a messy desk. I hated the kids with messy desks. It also kind of annoyed me that she was nothing like the pretty, plucky reporter April in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She gave Aprils a bad name, and I didn't like that. On behalf of Aprils of the world, this girl offended me.

One day, April loudly and accusatorily informed me that my awesome Bartman shirt was "a boy's shirt." I did not appreciate this bit of information. First of all, this was the 90's. If I wanted to wear a so-called "boy's shirt" then by god, I would wear a boy's shirt. And besides, what makes a shirt a boy's shirt anyways? Because the cartoon character on the shirt is, in fact, a boy? It was a t-shirt. What if the shirt had a puppy on it? Would I have to determine the sex of the animal before I could rightly wear it? And what about your shirt with Jason Priestley on it? Apparently that's okay. Apparently Jason Priestley is "girly" enough. But where can I find these rules? Because I just don't know, April.

But somehow, I managed to make it through the rest of my educational career, boys' shirts and all. Because let me tell you, that was not the last boy shirt I wore, no sir. I had two older brothers and absolutely no fashion sense.

Anyways, when I was recently reminded of this incident, I told Pat, knowing that he would be similarly outraged and sympathetic to my 6-year-old self.

Me: "And she said it was a 'boy's shirt'!"
Pat: "Oh, that's totally a boy's shirt."

Well. Some husband.

Flashback Friday: Sex Ed

2009-10-02T18:36:00.003-04:00

Towards the end of my fifth grade year, there was a lot of chatter about the day that the boys and the girls would get split up for a mysterious and most likely dirty lesson. This was a much-anticipated event. In fact, I think for us fifth-graders it was right up there with "field day." (Field day was a yearly event and it was much better. It is the only time that I excelled on any sort of field. I recall winning ribbons in both the 50-yard dash AND the potato sack race.)

Anyways, we all knew this sexy day was coming. And I think I can speak for many of my former 5th grade classmates and say that we were pretty excited about it. I had heard of sex education, but being 10, did not have a very clear idea of what that might entail. Some of the students with older siblings had heard rumors, but all I had gathered was that there was some sort of video involved. Sexy videos for 10-year-olds? Take that, religious right.

When the day finally arrived, the Ledgeview Elementary rumor mill was working overtime. I'd say it was almost entirely fueled by one extremely loud and obnoxious girl, who I'll call Rochelle. Rochelle was in the first group, before lunch, to hear the talk, and she spent most of recess regaling the playground with her version of the lesson. I don't know how accurate her re-telling was, but it was thrilling nonetheless. (It's worth mentioning that I recently heard it through the grapevine that Rochelle had a baby not too long ago and that she didn't know she was pregnant until she went into labor. Odd. I wonder now if she was in the right room on that fateful day in 5th grade.)

That afternoon, the boys were led out of our classroom and an extremely old woman came in. She had short gray hair and we were told that she was a registered nurse. Much to my dismay, she started saying words like "menses" and "fallopian." It really doesn't get any less titillating than looking at diagrams of the reproductive system and listening to a 60-year-old nurse explain your lady stuff.

She did offer a brief one-sentence description of intercourse, which I found enlightening, but that was it for the actual dirty stuff. Then we watched the much talked about video. Unfortunately, the video was also about menstruation. I think the plot was something about a girl getting to go to a school dance and then, well, you can probably guess where this is going.

Then Nurse Esther showed us a sanitary napkin. She also told us about some other lady contraptions that I had never even heard of. Something about a belt? I had no idea what she was talking about and I suspect that she was a little behind the times. (I don't know if her name was Esther, but it seems appropriate.)

But all in all, I have to say, this was the most disappointing day of my entire elementary school career. I don't think I ever heard what went on in the boys' room, but I imagine that they handed out Playboys and said, "You've got 40 minutes. Have at it!" Oh the injustice.

I Fixed It!

2009-09-30T18:00:00.002-04:00

I'm not very good at doing things. This isn't me wallowing in self pity - I'm simply acknowledging that I usually quit before I start. And if that's not the case, my attempts at productivity routinely become what might be described as "hijinks." I think that's what makes me so charming.

And thus I was more than a little disappointed in myself when I decided to tackle a small car repair and it ended in success. The task seemed pretty simple: replacing a burnt-out turn signal bulb. But confidence was low when it came to actually completing said task. I went so far as to purchase the replacement bulb at Auto Zone at least 3 weeks ago. But I felt that once I actually owned the bulb, the rest would just follow. Like, perhaps bluebirds would flutter out to my car, figure out how to access my front headlights, and I would wake one morning to a functioning turn signal. While they braided my hair. And chirped a merry tune.

Alas, the only bird I have seen as of late is the dead crow outside on the sidewalk. I would like to think he was on his way to my living room to pick up my turn signal bulb, but then I might feel partially responsible for his death, and I just don't think I can handle that right now.

So "replace turn signal bulb" has been on my to-do list for the last several weeks. Before that it was ""consider buying turn signal bulb." I know what you're thinking: "You have a to-do list? Can't you remember to watch Oprah on your own?" Well, yes, I can. But sometimes I have to remember not to watch Oprah because Chris Rock is on and that looks stupid.

Anyways, I was determined to make something of this day, so I looked up directions on replacing a turn signal bulb, and headed out to my car solo. Without even a posse of songbirds to back me up.

The elementary school on our street was letting out right then, so the sidwalks were bustling. I thought that this was sure sign that I would have a hilarious/embarassing episode. But against all the odds, I managed to replace the bulb pretty quickly and without incident.

I was feeling pretty good. Too good. So I decided to do a little investigating into myself. Exactly how long ago did this bulb burn out anyways? I know that I emailed my dad when I first noticed it, so I did a little search in my gmail records.

May 14th. Wow. I mean, it was May 14th 2009, but still. 4 1/2 months. What have I been doing for 4 1/2 months? I have no idea. Oprah was on summer hiatus for a majority of that time, so I don't have a clue. Anyways, that's what I get for feeling good about myself. Way to go me. I deserved to be knocked down a peg or two.

Flashback Friday: Mistakes I've Made

2009-09-25T15:56:00.002-04:00

We all have regrets, things we wish we could do over, if only we could just turn back time. I know Cher, for one, agrees with me on that. I know I can think of at least a few things I wish I could take back.

I remember one night, the whole family was driving in the ol' station wagon. It was dark and we were cruising down I-271. As I gazed out the window, I saw the bright lights of an Embassy Suites hotel. I was young, and I felt compelled to read a lot of signs aloud for no reason. I said, to no one in particular, "embassy suites." Only I pronounced it like "suits." I was corrected. "No, no. It sounds like sweets." What a fool, I was! Of course if there's an 'e' at the end of the word, the 'u' becomes a 'w' and the 'i' turns into a long e! Idiot! But at least I learned a valuable lesson that night. Well, I guess it wasn't that valuable. But every time I see an Embassy Suites, I feel a distinct pang of embarassment. Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? If only.

A couple years later, I was still suffering from the annoying disease that causes a person to read things out loud for no apparent reason. My brothers were participating in Science Olympiad, a competition which, as I understand it, only lets really cool kids in. I was sitting on the couch, reading the list of events and their descriptions, when I came to the word "organisms." Ignoring a few letters, I said "orgasms." There was a collective giggle from the room. I can only assume that this is why I hate science.

In 4th grade, I made my greatest mistake of all. It was the class spelling bee and it was down to the final few contestants. I was feeling pretty cocky, spelling-wise. And then I got the word "Florida." Simple, right? I thought so. Yes, I remembered the capital F. But for some reason, I thought that Florida had another trick to it. In retrospect, I'm pretty sure I was confusing it with California. I think I got confused because I associated them both with touristy t-shirts bearing smiling neon-colored suns. So I spelled it "F-l-o-r-i-d-i-a." I still really hate myself for this one.

I try not to live in the past, dwelling on mispronounced words and lost spelling bees. Every day is a struggle. But until time travel is perfected, I just have to take comfort in the fact that I won the 5th grade spelling bee. Booya!

Checkout Chat

2009-09-21T17:42:00.005-04:00

You never know what might happen at the grocery store. Actually, that's not true. You almost always know what will happen when you go to the grocery store. Or at least I do. I know that when I go to Trader Joe's I will be disappointed by the food sample, they will be out of something that I want to buy, and that I will forget why I went there in the first place.

Well, today was different. For one, they were sampling instant chocolate pudding. It was excellent. Also, I was shopping with a list this time, and I'm pretty sure I that I found everything on it. Crazy, I know. All in all, it was shaping up to be a pretty good outing.

But even more unexpected than the delicious pudding or my fine organizational skills was the conversation I ended up in while I was at the checkout. I'm usually prepared for the normal amount of checkout line chit-chat. "How are you?" "Did you find everything okay?" These are questions I am prepared for. But every so often, someone throws me a curveball.

I'm going to get a little personal here. I was buying alfalfa sprouts. I don't normally buy alfalfa sprouts, but I was planning on making a sandwich for lunch. And the overly friendly cashier guy was not going to let this slide.

"So what do you do with these?!" he asked.
"Oh, um. I like to put them on sandwiches actually. Kind of like lettuce."
"Oh wow, that's awesome! Yeah, that makes sense. I could see that. I bet they're less messy."

I agreed, but was actually wondering what kind of problems this man has that he considers lettuce to be a messy food. Making a sandwich must be quite a terrible ordeal for him. I don't even want to think about what a salad must be like.

"So they must be really good for you, huh?"

I was beginning to suspect that I was on some sort of hidden camera show. I was glad I put a bra on today.

"Yeah, I guess so. They're probably not bad for you," I told him.

At this point, another employee decided to join in. A girl came over to bag my fascinating groceries, and picked up the container of sprouts and began inspecting the nutritional information. I was starting to get a little nervous.

And then he picked up the bag of carrots.

"Oh man, these are the old-fashioned kind of carrots! You know, I call them Bugs Bunny carrots," he said.

"Oh....yes."

I myself just call them 'carrots' but that's fine. To each his own.

"Yeah, you gotta wash these, peel 'em and everything," he commented.

The bagging girl pointed out that these carrots are a very popular item. They sell a lot of carrots, apparently. I felt good about this. They must be some fine carrots.

They talked a bit more about carrots as he continued to ring up my groceries. You know, baby versus regular, that kind of stuff. To my knowledge, there was no hidden camera. Not one. This guy was just really interested in my sprouts and carrots. I thought they were kind of boring, but I don't know, maybe I'm just jaded.

I just hope he didn't buy any sprouts before he went home. Now that I've had some time to think about it, I don't know that he's ready to move on from lettuce just yet. Sprouts can be a little tricky.

Me and Carnie

2009-09-15T18:59:00.005-04:00

Well, today was our taping of The Newlywed Game, hosted by Carnie Wilson. Seeing as I woke up at 6:17 am and spent all of last night having newlywed-related dreams/nightmares, I'm not really ready to relive the experience yet. So instead, I will recount all the details unrelated to the actual game show.

It was really cold. So cold that I wanted some vodka.
There were bagels and muffins and donuts. Oh my! But seriously, where's the vodka?
We learned that on GSN, you are not allowed to say "clitoris" but you are allowed to say "rhymes with Dolores." You are allowed to say "a visit from Colonel Lingus" but you may not say "cunnlingus." Also, curiously, you are not allowed to say "Jesus Christ" unless you are talking about the man himself. I wonder if you are allowed to exclaim "rhymes with Beezus Feist!"
Lunch was provided by Subway. I normally like Subway, but a vegetarian sub can go very wrong. And that's how you end up with 3 inches of bread, lettuce, onion, and one triangle of cheese.
On the plus side, there was champagne.
On the minus side, they would only give me one tiny glass. Plus the tiny glass I stole from Pat. I am confident that had they given me a whole bottle, the show would have been much better.
They put so much lip gloss on me. I felt like Jessica Simpson when she wears too much lip gloss.

Anyways, that's all I can remember. It was exhausting. Then we came home and listened to Wilson Phillips' hit song, "Hold On."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2L9IKVe9LA

Redbox Roundup Labor Day

2009-09-09T19:19:00.005-04:00

As some of you may know, Monday was Labor Day. Labor Day, from what I gather, is a holiday for people that work. It is also often confused with Memorial Day. I do not work, but I am a rebel, therefore I went ahead and celebrated your working man holiday along with all the poor working stiffs. And what better way to cap off a holiday weekend than with a terrible Redbox rental?

17 Again was calling and I answered.

If your powers of deductive reasoning are not so good, and you're not familiar with the commercials for this "fantasy comedy film" starring Zac Efron, the basic plot is that a 30-something guy, played by Matthew Perry, becomes...17 AGAIN! Wow! But how??!

Well, it's not entirely clear how. It has something to do with hating his life, returning to his old high school, a creepy janitor, and some sort of magical cyclone/vortex/wormhole that returns him to his 17-year-old body. It's sort of a Freaky Friday meets It's a Wonderful Life meets that movie where Drew Barrymore goes back to high school and for some reason no one thinks she has Down Syndrome.

The worst part about 17 Again was that it wasn't nearly as bad as I had hoped and expected. It was downright watchable. I mean, sure, the plot is a little far-fetched, but it's a fantasy comedy. What do you expect?

Well, for one, I did not expect Zac Efron's character to be a big shot basketball player. But he is. Now, I've never seen High School Musical, but apparently, Zac Efron plays Troy, captain of the basketball team. Now I can't help wonder, what is it about Zac Efron that makes people look at him and automatically say, "basketball." I don't see it. But in the spirit of full disclosure, I don't think I've ever watched a game of basketball. If fact, there were two basketball game scenes in this movie and I made sure to avert my eyes until they were over.

In general, I think the movie taught us some valuable life lessons. First, don't get your girlfriend pregnant in high school. And if you do, don't marry her because it will ruin your life. But I think the most important thing I learned from this movie is that time will be very cruel to Zac Efron, assuming that he will grow up to look just like Matthew Perry in all his baggy-eyed glory. So Zac, listen to me. Enjoy your taut skin while it lasts.

Park it

2009-09-03T16:19:00.003-04:00

It's been a pretty uneventful week. And that, I assume, is why the fates have bestowed upon me the gift of a good altercation.

It's been really hot this week. Like bursting into flames hot. My car has no air-conditioning. It barely has four functioning windows. Anyways, I found that when it's parked in front of the elementary school on our street, the shade from the building allows my car to stay at a temperature that might be able to sustain human life. I find that to be preferable.

I had to leave my magical parking spot when I went to the air-conditioned gym. I've been working out a lot for that reason. Eventually I hope someone to say, "Hey you're in good shape. What do you do?" "I don't have air-conditioning," I'll say. "Not even in my car. Sometimes the windows don't work." Unfortunately this will never happen because I eat cheese for breakfast.

Anyways, I returned from the gym today, and much to my dismay, my shady parking spot was occupied. We live on a non-major street in a somewhat undesirable area, so parking is never much of a problem. In fact, the parking is plentiful enough that I am never even forced to attempt actual parallel parking. This is good, because I don't think I've ever successfully parallel parked anything. Even at my driver's test. I hit a cone and it wobbled, but did not fall down. So I passed. That's a lesson for you, kids.

There weren't any three-car-length spots on the west side of the street, so at the stop sign, I decided to make a U-turn and park on the other side. About a hundred yards ahead of me , there was a green van. The van was turning onto a side street, or possibly turning around too. I couldn't really tell.

So I turned around and pulled head-first into a very large spot. As I went to back up and straighten out, I saw that the green van was now wedged diagonally into the back of the spot in which I was attempting to park. I had no idea what they were doing, and I couldn't really back up while they were there. I thought they perhaps were trying to do some sort of synchronized parking with me, and I'm just not into that.

I couldn't really do much, so I just sat there, waiting for the van to move. Then the guy pulls up alongside me and this is the exchange:

Him: "That's fine. There's room for both of us. That's fine."
Me: "What?"
Him: "It's just, I was ahead of you, and I was going to park there, and then you went and cut in front of me is all."
Me: "Wait, what?"
Him: "I was turning around so that I could park there, but it's fine."

He obviously does not think it's fine.

Me: "Hold on. How was I possibly to know that you were turning around to park in this exact spot?"
Him: "No, I see. I just don't know if I'm going to be able to fit in there too."
Me: "Ok, what do you want? Do you want me to move?"
Him: "Oh no, it's ok. I was going to park there, but I'll just park somewhere else. It's just, I live right there."
Me: "Yes, I also live right there. And there are many other parking spots on the street."
Him: "Yes there are. "

A car finally honked at him because he was blocking traffic to have this conversation with me. But I decided that this man was not a man to be trusted with the knowledge of where my car is parked. Despite his many assurances that it was fine, I couldn't help but think that if it really was fine, he wouldn't have approached me, and insinuated that I "stole" a spot that he was nowhere near. So as soon as he turned the corner onto a side street, I vacated the spot in question.

I parked a good four blocks away from my home, despite the ample parking on my street, but I feel it was a success. Because by the time I had walked from my new secret spot, back to my home, passing that disputed territory, the spot was empty. That's right, crazy guy. This is how it's going to be. NO ONE gets the spot. My shady spot was also empty by then. But I wasn't in the mood to tempt fate.

Flashback Friday: The Peanut Butter Ball Incident

2009-08-28T16:17:00.003-04:00

The Ledgeview Elementary Cafeteria was one of those gymnasium/cafeteria/auditoriums. A gymterium, if you will. I have a lot of memories in that multi-functional room. I remember when I was in second grade, I was sitting at my table, eating my packed lunch, minding my own business, when a fourth or fifth grader standing in the nearby line to buy a lunch, pointed at me, and remarked, "Look. That girl eats like a rabbit." I spent the next decade trying to figure out how to chew with my mouth closed, without resembling a rabbit in any way. It's tough.

But that's not the story I meant to tell. That's a bonus flashback.

This story began in the lunchroom. I was in fourth grade, and I had bought my lunch that day. As was often the case, the dessert was a peanut butter ball. If you're not familiar with this delicacy, it is a greasy, doughy ball formed of peanut butter, flour, and probably lard. I think this was before people were concerned about childhood obesity. Anyways, peanut butter balls were a pretty big hit among the elementary school crowd.

It was forbidden to take food out of the gymterium, but this was not an easily enforced rule. On this particular day, I had not finished my lunch, (probably as a result of trying to be as un-rabbit-like as possible), and I still had the peanut butter ball on my tray. Lunch was over and it seemed a travesty to throw it out, so I hid it in my palm and made my way to recess.

I saw Bryan in the hall. He was a classmate of mine, and we had an on-and-off relationship from grades 1 through 5. By that I mean in first grade, we got in trouble for kissing on the playground, and in fifth grade he gave me a heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates on Valentine's Day. As we neared the doors to go outside for recess, I had a brilliant idea. With a peanut butter ball in my hand, and a ceiling above my head, what else was I to do?

Well, I had a hypothesis about what might happen next. And it turned out I was right. We looked up and there was my peanut butter ball, glued firmly to the ceiling. It was a satisfying experiment. Bryan thought it was pretty awesome, and let's be honest, it sort of was. Bryan quickly procured another peanut butter ball, and in what seemed like a very romantic gesture at the time, he launched it at the ceiling, where it joined mine. They were a perfect pair. And I saw them as a symbol of our love.

But the good feelings were soon replaced by terror. I had acted impulsively, and I didn't have an exit strategy. So I fled the scene of the crime. But it was too late - I had inspired quite a few copycat peanut butter ballers. By the time all the students had gone out to recess, there were a good half-dozen more balls stuck to the ceiling, all in the same general location.

I didn't enjoy recess that day. Then again, I didn't often enjoy recess. Not a fan of running around, or throwing balls, I usually spent recess standing against the building, waiting to go inside. But this was a particularly unpleasant recess. I sat on the asphalt, racked with guilt, waiting for the inevitable.

I was sick. 10 more minutes and I probably would have turned myself in. But I didn't have to. Finally, one of the recess aides walked over to me, and informed me that the principal would like to see me in his office. It was the beginning of the end.

I had never been to the principal's office before. Well, actually, I had. But only to get my picture taken for being Student of the Week. This was different.

His name was Mr. V. He was a nice guy and he kept a jar of those little caramel squares on his desk. But I sensed this was not going to be a candy-eating occasion.

Bryan had been apprehended as well. Mr. V sat us down and instructed us to write letters to our parents explaining what we had done, why it was wrong, and how terribly we felt about it. I did not have to lie. I was a wreck. I had broken the rules and now the janitor would have to scrape peanut butter off the ceiling, all because of me. Mr. V collected our letters and informed us that he would mail them to our parents.

I couldn't imagine a worse punishment. The waiting would kill me. When I went home from school that day, I tried to act like nothing was wrong, but I just couldn't do it. That night, I broke down in tears and confessed to my mom. I assumed I would be shipped off to boarding school. A boarding school that didn't serve anything in ball form. I was sure that my parents would be furious. I had been sent to the principal's office; I had sullied the family name. But in a shocking turn of events, my mom laughed. She hugged me and said, "Oh Jeanne, we'd still love you if you threw 100 peanut butter balls at the ceiling." Of course I would never waste so many precious peanut butter balls, but I was comforted nonetheless.

Life would return to normal. And as it turns out, Mr. V never mailed those letters. I felt a little betrayed. I also wondered what he had done with them. Did he keep a file of confessions written by 9-year-olds, just in case he ever needed to blackmail someone? Perhaps. But what I didn't know at the time was Mr. V was a very disturbed Vietnam vet. The following year, he instituted a program of calisthenics designed to punish troublemakers. And the year after that, he killed himself.

But Mr. V did succeed in scaring me straight. I never threw another dessert. And while the punishment seemed cruel at the time, looking back on it, I'm really glad I didn't have to do any jumping jacks.

Private Eye

2009-08-27T15:11:00.002-04:00

Upon returning to LA, I am usually prepared for two things: 1. Being disappointed that my apartment is, in fact, as small as I remembered it. 2. Needing to fix something with my car.

The ol' Oldsmobile Intrigue punishes me for leaving. And this time was no different. Although this time, it was leaking gasoline. I've heard this can be bad, so I sucked it up and took it to the shop. Having no idea how long I would be waiting, I went next door to a cafe and settled in for a leisurely lunch.

I have never eaten so slowly in all my life. I even ordered coffee in the hopes that it would prolong the time that I could reasonably sit in the air conditioned facility. I don't normally drink coffee, but it seemed like the thing to do.

I lasted exactly one hour and ten minutes. I ventured back out into the non-air conditioned world. I approximate the temperature to have been around 380 degrees. According to weather.com, it was 87. But you really can't trust everything you read on the internet.

As I passed the auto shop, I saw that my car was still parked on the street. I began to worry. It's been over an hour, and I've pretty much exhausted my waiting options. So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I stalked some college kids in a grocery store.

I didn't initially plan to. But as I stood behind these two backpack-wearing gentlemen, waiting to cross Venice Blvd, I got to thinking. Why are they wearing backpacks? Where are they going? Would they notice if I followed them? Should I probably not drink coffee ever again?

So I followed them. I followed them across the street, and straight into the Ralph's grocery store. Guy Number 1, I'll call him Sunburn, grabbed a basket. Interesting. So Sunburn and Jansport took off. First stop, the meat section. I observed as Sunburn studied the various grades of ground beef. He settled on 80% lean. I pretended to study salad dressings.

Next they moved on to poultry. They spent a long time studying the chicken. Jansport was not going to rush into anything with the poultry. Though, if they were observing me, I would have appeared supremely engrossed in the varieties of rice. Ultimately, they decided against chicken. They grabbed some flour tortillas and took off.

Next stop, booze alley. Oh yes. These were college dudes. And they spent a long, long time weighing the pros and cons of beer vs. liquor. I perused the greeting cards, and Sunburn stared long and hard at a bottle of "Prestige Edition" tequila. With an 8.99 price tag, tequila really doesn't get more prestigious than that.

Jansport led the way to household items. A 12-pack of Charmin. Respectable. I myself have a hard time buying large quantities of toilet paper.

I then decided that I was awfully conspicuous, walking around the grocery store without a cart or a basket, so I quickly grabbed an angel food cake from the bakery. It was perfect. "Oh me? I'm just a regular shopper. See? I have an angel food cake under my arm."

But this little cae jaunt caused me to lose my targets. And where did they run off to, but the liquor section! Sunburn was having second thoughts. He replaced the Prestige tequila, opting instead for a Prestige light rum (only $5.99) and a $1.99 Mai Tai mix. I wasn't able to tell him this, but I think he made the right decision. Especially in this tough economic climate.

Armed with my cake, I followed them to the frozen section. I'm pretty certain there is no way that they failed to notice that I was following them. But what's crazier? Following strangers around a grocery store, or accusing a stranger of following you around a grocery store? Well, I guess it's the following strangers around a grocery store. But who are they to judge? Sunburn grabbed a frozen pizza and Jansport got a bag of ice. Surely, this was the end of the trip.

But wait! They forgot the taco seasoning. That was a close one, Jansport.

They got into line, and I considered getting behind them, but I didn't actually want to buy the angel food cake. Instead I perused an Oprah magazine and observed my subjects.

It was pretty boring, so I went to return my cake. As I returned, I saw them walking to the exit, bags in hand. I prepared my mental goodbyes, and just as they went through the doors, the security alarm went off. I think it was fate. I don't think any of us were ready for this to end. But end it did. And as they backpacked their way home, I had a lot to think about. First, I don't think I would make a good private eye. Second, I hope they think of me when they drink their cheap Mai Tai's. Third, if anyone needs me to follow somene around a grocery store and report on what they buy, my rates are negotiable. And finally, I don't think I should drink coffee anymore.

Flashback Friday - Special Edition

2009-08-14T14:46:00.006-04:00

It's a very special Flashback Friday, folks. First of all, it's a Wednesday. And second, I'm currently in my hometown, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. The memories are everywhere I look. Happy memories are plentiful, but today I'm reminded of some dark days. It might come as a shock to you, but I've done some things I'm not proud of.

As the youngest member of the family, my brothers had plenty of reasons to hate me. But Jeff, being the middle child, was my natural enemy. First of all, my mere birth pretty effectively stole his thunder. I was the newest model and, of course, I was a girl. (I still am a girl.) The point is, with my arrival, Jeff was old news. By the laws of supply and demand, as I understand them, I was a rare species, therefore I deserved the biggest bedroom and the most love.

But as far as I can remember, he handled it pretty well. I think he secretly knew that someday he would be a respected doctor, and I would be an unemployed blogger who talks to squirrels.

Anyways, one day, Jeff had a friend over. I was probably 8 or 9 years old at the time and naturally, I wanted a piece of that. I assumed that as Jeff and Andy were 4 years older than me, they must be cool. I didn't know any better at the time, but they were not at all cool. But I was determined to get in on their action, (the action, being hanging out in the basement). I skulked around for a while, and was likely told to leave repeatedly.

But finally, my sleuthing efforts proved useful. I overheard Andy saying something about being a "sweaty mess." I had a hilarious idea. I scurried off and retrieved one of the men's deodorants from the upstairs bathroom. I raced back to the basement and, armed with a speedstick, took a flying leap at Andy. I got a few good swipes in before I was taken down.

But all in all, the mission was unsuccessful. The boys were not impressed. Jeff had even more reason to hate me. And I had bought myself a one-way ticket out of the basement.

I feel pretty bad now about assaulting my brother's good friend with a personal hygiene product, but then again, they eventually exacted revenge on me in the now-infamous Crisco Incident of '94. (They informed me that Crisco tastes really good, but only if you eat a lot of it. It turns out, that is not exactly true.) In the end, Jeff and Andy got into more trouble than I could ever know for persuading me to eat shortening. But what they don't know is that every time I see Mennen Speed Stick, I feel a little pang of guilt. And also, the Crisco really wasn't all that bad.

So long

2009-08-11T18:33:00.003-04:00

Well, I'm taking off for Ohio tomorrow. I realize that this fact does not greatly affect you for a couple of reasons:
1. It is conceivable that I can blog from Ohio. It does contain the major elements of my everyday life - squirrels, boredom, Targets, couches, etc.
2. I am the only one reading this.

In travel news, I'm a little anxious about flying. It's not that I'm concerned about the plane crashing, although, let's be honest, I am. I just hate everything associated with travel. I don't like rushing. I don't like taking my shoes off in public. I really don't like holding my garbage until someone comes by to collect it. And I don't like sitting in close proximity to strangers. God forbid my seatmate tries to strike up a conversation. Not only do I dislike talking to strangers, but my real problem is the face-to-face distance on a plane. I feel like polite conversation cannot occur naturally when the two parties' faces are about 4 inches apart. I don't like the things that I notice about someone's face at that distance, and I like even less thinking about what they're noticing about my face.

Anyways, I'd better go find a respectable book to read, so that I can avoid human interaction. I don't want a repeat of my last trip when someone caught me reading "My Sister's Keeper." That was embarassing.

Flashback Friday

2009-08-07T18:59:00.007-04:00

I don't really do much these days. I mean, I do things, but nothing very blog-worthy. Like, there are only so many game shows I can audition for to entertain you. And I do a lot of laundry, but people aren't usually interested in hearing about that. (A lesson I learned the hard way in the 5th grade science fair, when I did my project on "Which Laundry Detergent is the Best?" I took 2nd place, winning a 50 dollars savings bond, and the assurance that I would never have many friends.)

Anyways, that's why I came up with Flashback Friday. I've decided that snappy alliterative titles are the way to go. Flashback Friday will bring you assorted memories that really have no business being on the internet. But let's face it. My life was more interesting back then. Oh young Jeanne, if only you knew what the future had in store for you...

I wouldn't say I was a teacher's pet in elementary school, but I was pretty obedient. I was respectful of authority and I was terrified of the slightest reprimand. That's why I distinctly remember things like getting my name written on the board in 2nd grade. I think it was a three strike system. You got your name on the board for the first offense, a check mark for the second, and another check mark for the third. That's when you got punished. Anyways, I'm pretty sure I only got my name written on the board just the one time, for spending too much time washing my hands at the sink (no lie), but it still stings.

Recess detention was the worst fate I could imagine. Not because I liked recess so much. In fact, I probably would have just assumed never have recess. I don't particularly like running around, being outdoors, or really any kind of forced socialization. But the stigma! I wasn't the type to get a recess detention. That is, not until 3rd grade.

Looking back, 3rd grade is when it all changed. Aside from that name on the board incident in 2nd grade, I don't think I'd had any run-ins with teachers or law enforcement.

My music teacher was Mr. Patrick. He was very old and he wore those short-sleeved dress shirts that were pretty much completely transparent. He also hated me. I don't know why. I guess it was because I was completely incapable of filling the letters in on the chromatic scale. I don't know why, but it's the same feeling I get when trying to read a map. It just does not compute.

But we took these music tests every week. And every week he passed out the tests, and the pencils. The pencils all had those cap erasers on them, the ones that really don't serve any erasing purpose whatsoever. And the erasers all had numbers on them. The numbers all corresponded to our seat numbers. I think I was 12. Now that I think about it, this was a really weird, anal retentive thing to do. Why did he even bother providing pencils? I'm pretty sure we all had pencils.

So one week, after finishing the test, we turned in our tests and pencils, and Mr Patrick noticed that my pencil (#12) was missing the eraser! I was the prime suspect, of course. I still claim to this day that I did not touch that eraser, but my word was no good. There was no trial and I was found guilty of this egregious act against a pencil. My sentence? A recess detention.

I was so upset that I don't even remember the detention itself. But I imagine it involved clapping erasers and/or waterboarding.

So thank you, Mr. Patrick, for teaching me a valuable lesson. To this day, I've never not stolen a crazy person's eraser again.

Red Box Roundup

2009-08-05T22:52:00.006-04:00

Sometimes, I go to the grocery store for some blueberries and diet root beer, and as I pass the Red Box, I am suddenly powerless. I have no choice but to surrender a dollar in exchange for a terrible, horrible movie. This is the problem with the Red Box. It's only a dollar. Also, since there is no human contact involved in renting from the box, I am not subject to the much-deserved shame and judgement that would normally accompany picking up Lindsay Lohan's newest straight-to-video atrocity, Labor Pains.

But I did it. Am I proud of it? No. Is it even worse than you could have imagined. Absolutely, yes it is.

Have you ever heard of it? Probably not. Because it's not a real movie. I think it might have been on ABC Family or something.

*MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS*

The premise is that Lindsay is a somewhat functional adult woman with a job. I know, it's already pretty ridiculous. Anyways, she works at a publishing house and her boss is mean. She is about to get fired for talking shit about him, but makes a last-ditch attempt to save her job by saying that she is pregnant, though she is not. It was a really suspenseful scene.

And that's where it gets confusing. Her boss quickly consults with the legal team and concludes that he cannot, in fact, fire her. I'm not a lawyer, or part of a team, but i'm pretty sure this is not true. As long I can trust Yahoo Answers, and I know I can, you cannot fire a woman because she is pregnant. But for some reason, I don't think that prohibits you from firing a woman that is pregnant. Especially when said woman is clearly lying and/or Lindsay Lohan.

Lindsay's comrade at the office is played by Cheryl Hines. This seems an unlikely frienship and makes me feel sad. Why does this Cheryl Hines character need to be friends with this girl? Also confusing is that the cast might make you think this is a comedy. Cheryl Hines is funny. Her boss is played by Chris Parnell. But the movie isn't funny. Or at least, not in the traditional sense of the word.

Lindsay is apparently also completely incapable of doing math. As a girl, I understand this to a degree. But I usually find counting pretty manageable. But when questioned by her mean boss, she claims to be due in October which makes her 4 months pregnant. Oops! Then the older, wiser Cheryl Hines (who knows the truth) helps Lindsay out and tells her she needs to look pregnant or people will get suspicious. So she steals a padded belly from a maternity store and tells Lindsay to wear it. So the obviously non-pregnant girl, goes to having a decent-sized pregnant belly overnight. Is this not more suspicious? I guess the moral of the story, is that women are totally retarded. Or at least the ones that are secretaries.

There are also what I think are some really awkward references to present-day trainwreck Lindsay Lohan. In one scene, Cheryl Hines makes a joke about her having crabs. I feel like that might hit a little too close to home. I'm not saying I know if LiLo has ever had crabs, but I'm pretty sure she's been accused of having most every STD in the book, and that's something they might want to steer clear of.

Later, Lindsay goes to pick up her little sister, who she is inexplicably the custodian of, and her sister asks if she's been drinking. Lindsay then tells her sis, "You're 17. You're the one that should be drinking and smoking." Ahhhhh haha, see, that's funny. Because Lindsay Lohan herself was known for quite a lot of drinking and smoking as a teenager. That's funny right?

Anyways, I think I stopped paying attention sometime in the middle. Something happens where suddenly her boss is a young nice guy that she's going to fall in love with. And then she gets a promotion and she's in charge of some book about pregnancy. It seems to pick up toward the end - Lindsay starts acting really nuts and seems to think that she really is pregnant.

Naturally, she has to be discovered at some point, so her sister destroys the fake belly and Lindsay resorts to using a balloon to simulate her belly. Believe it or not, the balloon pops at an inopportune moment and she is humiliated and the nice guy is shocked and dismayed.

But don't worry. She wins his affections back in a confusing turn of events involving a talk show hosted by Janeane Garafolo.

Cut to two years later, and she is ACTUALLY pregnant and going into labor. Or so they want you to believe. I think in the sequel we will find out that it's a fake again and that she learned nothing from this experience.

So the point is, send me a dollar.

The Audition

2009-08-05T18:23:00.004-04:00

Well, we had our audition for the Newlywed Game. I can't say that it was entirely good or bad. And as is usual, Pat thought he was extrememly charming, while I, on the other hand, am filled with all kinds of self-loathing.

Now all we have to do is wait. On the plus side, I think we seemed like a decent choice compared to the other couple auditioning with us. Courtney and Flloyd were a little ... nontraditional. When asked why they wanted to be on the show, they answered that they thought it would be a good way to tell their family that they had gotten married. They've been married for over 4 months. I guess that's a good way to spread the news. It might not be the best way, but whatever. It's efficient if nothing else.

I think we also scored a few points by actually understanding the questions. One of the questions posed to the men was "When you go out on the town, which of your wife's friends will end up getting drunk and flirting with the bartender?" Flloyd answered, "She doesn't go out of town often."

But I have many regrets. Mainly, I could not help but cheat. Let me explain. I didn't want to cheat. I didn't think it would increase our odds of getting on the show. But Pat and I both had our three answers written on paper, and we were sitting next to each other. And the paper was completely see-through. I'm only human! It was completely unavoidable. And on top of that, they provided Sharpie markers as writing utensils! I feel like it was a test. And I failed. I couldn't NOT see what Pat had written. And now I'm pretty sure that they're over there at the game show network tape analysis lab, proving that I was reading Pat's backward answers.

And this is why I'm convinced that it was a total failure.

I think the silver lining here is that if we don't get called back, that drastically reduces the odds that I will ever have to talk about "making whoopee" on national tv. That is comforting.

Shark Summer

2009-08-03T19:07:00.008-04:00

Though I tend to fall in the "all talk" camp most of the time, I finally put my money where my proverbial mouth is and went to the Aquarium of the Pacific. So after months of seeing the commercials, singing the commercials (shark summer... it's terrific, the aquarium of the pacific...), and telling people we were going to the aquarium, Pat and I actually did it.

But I have a tip for other Southern California marine enthusiasts. I know money is tight in this economy. I do. And that's why we went on a "Shark Summer Sunday" after 5 pm for the discounted price of only 11.95. It turns out, we were actually not the only people who had that idea. Now, full price, at a hefty 23.95 is significantly more expensive, but it just might be the price you have to pay in order to enjoy the aquarium without 7 MILLION OTHER PEOPLE. Out of the 7 million other patrons, I'd estimate that 5 million of them were shrieking children. Assuming you ever got close enough to any of the exhibits to see them, the liquid mass of people would immediately envelop you and there you are, trapped between baby sea nettles and a gigantic mass of hot, loud people. (I mean hot, like generating heat, not like, sexy.)

Anyways, despite the crowds, it was still magical. There were sharks and colorful fish galore. But I think the most magical creature was found in the Aquarium Cafe.

Imagine yourself going to the aquarium. What to wear, what to wear? Sure, there's the obvious route - jeans, t-shirt, maybe even shorts. But let's say you're an aspiring actress. You're not going to stand out in a crowd of 7 million wearing normal people clothes. And that's why you decide to put on your big straw hat and your gold sequined mini-dress.

Sequins! Gold ones! Outside of ice skating competitions and dance recitals, this just isn't an acceptable textile in today's society. I just can't wrap my head around this young lady's thought process. There's simply no good explanation for wearing a dress made entirely of gold sequins to Shark Summer at the Aquarium of the Pacific. I'm just picturing her there, standing at her closet, getting ready to go see some sharks, and she picks out a dress that she very well may have worn last Halloween when she went as Beyonce.

It doesn't make sense. Maybe it was a prank. Her friends said, "Hey, we're going to hit the clubs tonight. We'll pick you up." And then they pulled up to the aquarium and she was like, "Guuuuyyyys!" And they all laughed, and dared her to go to the aquarium dressed like that. Her compromise was to wear a big straw hat so that no one would recognize her. I guess that makes sense.

Anyways, I made sure to take a furtive picture of her. But I don't think it really does the ensemble justice. But maybe goldi-dress will see this and offer me an explanation. I would appreciate that.

Newlywed Update

2009-07-31T18:34:00.003-04:00

Alright. It has come to my attention that people are pretty excited about the prospect of Pat and I appearing on the Newlywed Game. Unfortunately, the "audition" has been rescheduled for Tuesday. In other news, the fact that they referred to it as an audition makes me extremely anxious.

I'm also starting to worry that this is all a crazy dream. I have still not receieved the email they promised to send, informing us of crucial details such as where to go on Tuesday. But I strongly suspect that it is not a dream, because I haven't killed anyone, nor has anyone tried to kill me.

Hang in there. We'll try not to let you down.

The Newlywed Game

2009-07-29T18:34:00.002-04:00

Well, I wasn't going to say anything just yet, but seeing as nothing interesting has happened today and Oprah was really boring, I have no choice. This Saturday, Pat and I are going to meet with someone from casting at the Newlywed Game.

Unemployment has given me a lot of time with which to search Craigslist for hilarious opportunities like this one. I also recently came across a job posting for a jelly bean counter. That was pretty great, unfortunately, it was removed pretty quickly. I knew it was too good to be true.

But anyways, if I can manage to get on a gameshow, I think my life will finally be complete. And that's good, because if I can complete my life at the age of 25, I can relax for the next few decades without anything hanging overy my head.

Having never actually seen the show, Pat and I have been preparing as best we can. We're taking this very seriously. And now I can say with great confidence that Pat's favorite candy is Starbursts and his favorite amphibian is the salamander. We have also decided that if Pat had to describe my chest in a word beginning with the letter "C" it would be "chesty." Presumably, there are the sorts of things they will want to know.

Stay tuned for updates.

The Internet

2009-07-28T13:46:00.003-04:00

I had quite a scare yesterday. I lost my wireless internet connection. I kept my cool for about 10 minutes. But when it didn't come back, I pretty much had a complete meltdown. It was ugly. This was around 10:30 am. I think I pretty closely followed the classic grief cycle. I never quite accepted the loss - I spent most of the day hovering around anger and depression.

Here's how it went:

Denial: "This can't be happening. The internet will be back any second and I will not miss any good updates on Facebook."

Anger: "It's not fair!!! I was just about to send in my application to be on the Newlyweds game show and now I'll never win a second honeymoon! This is all Pat's fault somehow!"

Bargaining: "If I get back on the internet, I will apply for a job. I promise. Or maybe I will just blog about the experience."

Depression: "If I can't look people up on IMDB, I might as well be dead."

Acceptance: "I will never accept losing the wireless. But I might be able to accept the sweet release of death."

Anyways, it took until about 6 pm to resolve the problem. There were a lot of ups and downs. But it gave me some time to think. During my bargaining phase, I decided that this was a sign, and should I ever get the internet back, I would blog again. So, holding up my end of that bargain, here I am.

Unfortunately, getting kicked off the wireless network is pretty much the most eventful thing that's happened in a month. But I promise, there will be more hijinks any day now. I might even leave the house. Who knows?? It's about to get crazy up in here.

I don't get ads

2008-11-18T22:37:00.004-05:00

I have something on my mind and it's been bothering me for some time, so buckle up.

Now, I think it's pretty evident from the majority of my posts that I watch too much woman-centric daytime television. So you'll have to forgive me if you've never seen the incessant commercials for Glade scented candles. But I see them all the time. Mainly when watching The View. And they infuriate me every time.

Let me explain. They all revolve around a woman trying to conceal the fact that her air-freshening candle/plug-in air freshener is actually made by Glade. So, for instance, a group of women arrive at her home and say "Ohhh, it smells great in here! What is that lovely scent?" And the first woman replies in a very obvious lie, something like, "Oh, it's just this candle I picked up at this French boutique." But she is caught in her lie when it is discovered that she has peeled the Glade label off the candle and it is stuck to the back of her dress!

Her friends then point it out and say something witty like, "Oh, you mean Glah-day (pronouncing Glade with a French accent)?" And they all laugh and the first woman is horribly embarassed.

My GOD. I mean, I know this is a bad commercial, but it really gets me thinking. Is there such a thing as a French candle boutique? I've bought many a scented candle in my day, and not once did I ever consider that there was a much higher-end candle out there, but that I had to settle for the cheap discount store variety. Candles are cheap! I'll tell you right now, I buy candles from Target all the time, and I'm not ashamed.

No one buys candles from a "boutique." The classiest place I can imagine a person buying a candle is perhaps a Pottery Barn or something. Why is this woman so ashamed to buy a Glade candle in the first place? I just don't understand. And why is anyone friends with this pretentious lying candle snob? If you have to pretend that you only buy French boutique candles, I don't want to know you.

There's another very similar iteration of this commercial in which the lying woman has a Glade plug-in and her lady friends all come over to do yoga. First of all, let me just wonder aloud, why is a group of women all going to someone's home to do yoga together? That just doesn't happen. Is this friend a yoga instructor? I don't know. I do know she's a liar, Something isn't right abou this scenario.

But anyways, the ladies are all getting ready to do some serious yoga when one of them comments on the great smell. The yoga party host says "Oh, thanks, it's just this great boutique fragrance - it really helps me plug into my karma."

Then another woman, who is obviously not retarded, spots the Glade plug-in and says "More like a Glade plug-in!"

HAHAHAHAHA. What??! Aside from my original complaint about pretending that you buy everything at a boutique, why in god's name would you use the phrase "plug in" when you're trying to conceal that you have a Glade plug-in? Was it a Freudian slip? Does she want to be caught so she can stop living this ridiculous lie? Someone please explain this to me.

And while we're at it, I'm no yoga expert, but I don't think karma is a part of yoga. These commercials were clearly written by a person who has never owned a candle or done yoga.

Oprah

2008-10-22T18:36:00.004-04:00

I just heard Oprah reveal that she just got her first cell phone. Now first, I want to give you a minute to get over what is undoubtedly shock and awe that I was sitting at home watching Oprah at 3 pm on a Wednesday.

Ok now, you, like the live studio audience, are probably also shocked that Oprah, the most powerful, rich, scary woman in America, did not have a cell phone. OPRAH, of all people. No cell phone! She was real casual about it too. "Yeah, first one. Yeah, I didn't want one. I never wanted one. I just never wanted one. Now I have one," with that air of superiority that people who refuse to embrace technology usually have.

Anyways, this does not surprise me in the least, for a variety of reasons.
1. SHE IS OPRAH. She makes 225 million dollars in a year. She does not need a cell phone. She has an army of employees and assistants and possibly indentured servants. If she needs to reach someone, she has one of those many people call them. Because all of them have cell phones. It's like how Amish people claim not to use cars and shit, but they're perfectly happy to ride around in a car as long as someone else is driving. So there you go - Oprah and the Amish = hyprocrites.

2. She is 54 years old. Now, it's true that most 54 year-olds in this country probably have cell phones. But see point #1. If she is ever alone in her mansion and she needs to call her weird lady friend, Gail, she probably uses the landline like most 50-something people have.

3. She is OPRAH. If Oprah said she didn't have a toilet, I'd say, sure, that makes sense. She probably only likes to go to the bathroom in Fiji, so when nature calls, she just hops on her jewel-encrusted private jet so that she can tinkle in the pure Artesian water of the Yaqara Valley. And that would not surprise me.

4. She is Oprah. And she thinks she's better than you. And let's be honest. She probably is. I heard that she only pees in Fiji.

Happiest Place

2008-10-09T15:52:00.004-04:00

I'm kind of a freak when it comes to Disney. I mean, I don't have any sassy Tinkerbell bumper stickers, and I don't wear Winnie the Pooh pajamas (anymore), and I'm not getting married in Cinderella's castle or anything, but I feel a very strong attachment to the whole Disney thing. My family used to go to Disney World for every Easter vacation starting when I was 3 years old, so I have a lot of fond memories of all things Mickey.

Of course by the time I got to my surlier, more anti-establishment high school years, I went through a phase where I thought I was too cool and independent-minded for such evil corporate fun.

Well, that phase is over my friends. I went to Disneyland with my mom and dad a couple weeks ago and it is the happiest fucking place on earth. It turns out, I don't give a crap how giant and corporate Disney is. I don't care if they own everything on the planet from ABC to Miley Cyrus. I don't even care that a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar is 4 dollars. It's worth it. I have no problem selling my soul to Disney Corp in order to enjoy some good old-fashioned, overpriced fun.

Sure it's basically a living advertisement for all the tv and movies they own, but it's hard not to enjoy it. I don't mind that the Pirates of the Caribbean ride which inspired the hit movies now includes several animatronic Johnny Depp pirates, in a strange example of art imitating rides imitating movies based on rides. It's all fun.

And I appreciate that forgotten 80's movies like Honey I Shrunk the Kids with stars like Rick Moranis, who as far as I know have since fallen off the face of the earth, are forever immortalized in cheesy 3-D movie experiences, e.g. "Honey I Shrunk the Audience." Even though I know that when the mouse gets into the crazy inventor machine and hundreds of clone mice start running loose in the theater, something is going to come out from under my seat and tickle the back of my legs, I still get a kick out of the whole thing - Rick Moranis, 3-D glasses and all.

I like the new rides like Space Mountain, and the old ones like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. I appreciate that most of the old rides in Storybook Land are all pretty much exactly like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, only with different pictures on the walls.

I also like the creepy singing animatronic birds and flowers in the inexplicably musty-smelling Enchanted Tiki Room. And above all, I appreciate what a freak Walt Disney himself was for loving singing animatronics so very very much.

So yes it's a big corporate monster. And yes it's a money-gouging operation. And yes, Hannah Montana is a terrifying phenomenon. But it's undeniably fun. And I am fine with overlooking corporate greed and whatever else to partake in some creepy animatronic fun.

Wash my what

2008-09-13T14:38:00.003-04:00

Today I decided it was about time for my annual car wash. So I trudged out to the street, bucket in hand, and gave my poor, neglected Oldsmobile a little TLC. I must say, I did a pretty respectable job. But as I was finishing up with the final rinse, an SUV drove by, and the vehicle's occupant felt compelled to call out the window what I think was, "Wash my dick."

Now, I can't be 100 percent convinced, but that's what it sounded like. I mean, I'd like to think that I misunderstood this fellow, and that he is in no need of assistance in cleaning his genitals, but sadly, I'm pretty sure that I heard correctly.

Does this make sense to anyone? Either this man's dick is in such dire need of washing that he has resorted to ordering strangers on the street to wash it, OR, his dick is sufficiently clean, but upon seeing a girl with a bucket, made the split-second decision to say something, and that's the first thing that came to mind. "She's washing her car. What do I do, what do I do? ...Wash my dick! Yes! That's it!"

I find this strange. How does he even know that I have any dick-washing experience? I would have to imagine that it's considerably different from washing a car.

In other news, I got engaged last week.

Keeping promises

2008-08-29T12:16:00.003-04:00

Well, I said that I'd just write when I didn't see a cockroach, and I'm a lady of my word. It's official - I have not seen a cockroach for over a week now. I thought about making one of those signs like "It's been -8- days since our last cockroach sighting!" And hang it in the kitchen and change the number every day. But I think that might qualify as tempting fate. Especially if cockroaches can read.

In other news, yesterday I saw Topanga from the sort-of-hit sitcom Boy Meets World. Now, I know she has a real name. In fact, I know her real name, but let's face it, Danielle Fishel - you're Topanga. If I were the judge when she got her DUI or whatever, I would have scolded her like "Oh, Topanga, I'm sure your hippy vegetarian parents arevery disappointed in you, and so am I. Rememeber in season 1, when you said that your body was a master creation of Mother Nature? Well, drinking and driving is no way to treat such a creation." And then I would sentence her to 40 hours of meditation.

In case you're wondering

2008-08-21T12:20:00.003-04:00

I'm going to start blogging when I don't have a cockroach incident. Ok? Ok.

Wash me

2008-07-29T00:55:00.002-04:00

As you may know, I live in LA. And yes, I admit (with some reluctance) that it's got its perks. It's close to the beach, there are thousands of frozen yogurt shops, and if you're one of those people that likes beautiful, warm, sunshiney days, then you're in luck. But here's something you probably didn't consider, you cheerful sun-loving freaks. This is a dry, dusty city. And when it only rains like, 6 times a year, my car gets really, really dirty.

Car wash, you say? Hey, I'm not made of money, people. And if I was made of money, I'd probably just buy a new car whenever mine got dirty. I've never actually gone to a car wash on my own, and I don't really want to start now. And, really, who am I trying to impress in my '99 Oldsmobile Intrigue? I mean, my right side view mirror is held on with tape, for god's sake.

But I tried washing it by myself once. I bought a bucket and everything. Well, really just a bucket. And some 99-cent car washing liquid blue stuff. But when you park your car on the street, it's really a production. Carrying buckets of water from the house gets pretty tiring. Not to mention the risk of an audience. There's always someone out on the street and I don't need that sort of pressure. I'm know they're standing there, watching, judging. And, let me tell you, I can do without the judging.

Anyways, I tried my best. And it was definitely not good enough. In my attempt to rinse the top of the car, I actually poured an entire bucket of water all down my front. How did I do this? I'm not sure. But I assure you, it was not in that sexy, sudsy car-washing-girl way. It was just sad and cold and wet.

So I gave up on car cleaning quite a while ago. A light rain every few weeks or so is good enough for me. But it seriously has not rained in quite some time now, and my car is beyond filthy. People are writing in it and everything. First, I think there was something in Spanish on the rear window. And then of course, the classic "WASH ME." But today I noticed a new scrawl on the top of the trunk. It says "Zeus is my lover boy." First of all, I don't know who Zeus is, but he is definitely not my lover boy. Does my car have a lover boy? Maybe. I suppose if a car can request to be washed, it is also capable of having a lover boy. If so, maybe Zeus can step up and wash my car.

I'm just a girl

2008-07-10T04:57:00.002-04:00

Well, it was bound to happen. Pat has been out of town for almost a week and my most terrible nightmare became a reality tonight. A cockroach. A fast-moving cockroach. In my home. What the fuck am I to do?

I'll tell you what I did do. I came dangerously close to having a heart attack. I'm sitting on the couch, talking to my brother on the phone, when all of a sudden I see it. It's the size of a small dog and it bolts across the floor and disappears right under the vaccuum cleaner. I start chanting obscenities and tell Joe I'll call him back. I no longer have fine motor skills, but am somehow able to grab one of Pat's heavy shoes. I run over to the vaccuum. It might not even be under there anymore. For all I know, it is in my bed, just waiting to literally scare me to death.

I've got the shoe in my hand, but am seriously paralyzed in terror. My brain is trying to send messages to my body, but it just isn't responding. "Kick the vaccuum." "Pick up the vaccuum." "Do something." "Move in some way." But I can't do it. I'm staring at the shoe, wondering if I'm holding it correctly. Maybe I should put my hand in the shoes instead of holding the edge. Should I hold it by the toe or by the heel? I realize that I may be overthinking it, and finally I kick the vaccuum. Nothing happens which simultaneously scares and delights me. But it's still there. And it knows I'm here. I kick the vaccuum harder. Still nothing. I have a serious case of tremors. Finally, I try moving the vaccuum a little by the handle and shit! It scurries out and right back under in less than a second. I repeat this process several times. Each time it appears, it gets scarier. It actually starts jumping straight up in the air before retreating to under the vaccuum.

And then I have a moment of brilliance. It won't budge from under the vaccuum. So all I need to do is plug that baby in, hit the button, and it will be sucked into captivity. Shaking uncontrollably, I grab the cord, and plug it in, but my nerves are such that I seriously cannot figure out how to turn the vaccuum on. I vaccuum a couple times a week, so this is fairly unusual. I'm getting more frantic, wondering if it's possible that I somehow broke off the pedal that turns the machine on. And then I realize that it's the big red pedal. I hit it and jump back. I can see the dust and hairballs swirling around in the canister. But no gigantic cockroach. This is unsettling. Is it clogging the machinery? Or did it run away and jump into my bed? No, it is now on the wall, inches behind the vaccuum. In a desperate act, I pull the hose out of the vaccuum and point it at the monster. It disappears in the hose, but I still don't see it iappear in the canister. I then proceed to leave the vaccuum running for a good five minutes. It's now 1:30 am and my neighbors are probably wondering what the fuck is up.

I'm keeping my distance, but I'm still waiting to see it appear in the canister. I see dust. I see hair. But no cockroach. I call Joe back. And suddenly I see it! I'm ecstatic and tremendously grossed out. It's slowly crawling around in a circle, semi-covered in dust. Big-ass antennae and everything. And yes, I feel guilty for using what must be the most cruel and unusual method of trapping/killing a bug ever. So, I'm sorry, ok? But it was the best I could do. Anyways, an hour later, I'm still awake. I'm terrified that it's going to somehow be able to crawl through the inner workings of the vaccuum and escape in the night. Periodically, I turn the vaccuum back on, just to confuse him. I thought of just throwing the vaccuum outside, but I'm worried that as soon as I open the door, 3 more cockroaches will run inside.

If I had a shotgun, I would probably sit on the couch all night long, just watching my trusty Bissell Powerforce, waiting for any new developments. But alas, I do not own any firearms. It's probably for the best, because I'm a little jumpy.

But here's the point to take home from this. Ladies: this is why you need a boyfriend. Or a live-in manservant. Blah, blah, blah, feminism, but girls should not ever have to deal with something like this on their own. My Pat might not be a hulking man that could protect me from a grizzly bear, but he has proven himself against scary bugs on many occasions. So if you're a single gal, I say, grab the nearest guy and give him a shot. At the very least, he is a genetically superior bug killer. And if that's really not an option, you should at least have a bagless vaccuum. Seriously.

Reconsidering

2008-05-29T15:58:00.002-04:00

It's no secret that I hated LA when I first moved here. It was big and ugly and waaay too sunny for me. I also had no job, therefore no money. And yes, fine, I'll admit it - I'm not crazy about change, ok? Fine.

But gradually, things got better. And after crying for about 6 or 7 months, I stopped "hating" LA and started "not loving, but definitely tolerating" it. It helped that I was working somewhat consistently and living in a new and improved apartment without any silverfish.

Unfortunately, things have turned sour again. You see, in LA, it's a law that you have to belong to a gym. Being a law-abdiding citizen, I joined LA Fitness about a year ago. And several times a week, I put in the mandatory 30 minutes on an elliptical machine, which is possibly one of the most boring things in the world. Even with an ipod or a Harry Potter book, or even an ipod with a Harry Potter book on mp3, it is excruciatingly dull.

And that is how I became an avid fan of the fitness classes. I took my first cycling class exactly one year ago, and it changed my life. Classes are an hour long! And while I have never ever ever exercised for an hour on my own, the power of shame is a great one, my friends. In a class with a teacher, I can't just leave after 25 minutes because I'm tired or bored. I mean, other people can, but I am deathly afraid of drawing attention to myself and being silently judged. So I have no choice but to soldier on.

So I cycled as much as I could, but Kate was by far the best cycling teacher at my gym. Not only was she upbeat and encouraging, but she also frightened me a little. Because despite being an adorable little lady, she is roughly one zillion times stronger than me. She is like, superhuman strong. But not in the scary female bodybuilder way. More in the, wow, I aspire to have triceps like hers way.

I also enjoyed her mid-workout anecdotes. With other teachers, it's like, "C'mon guys. You can go faster than that! Go go go!" But with Kate it's like, "C'mon guys you can go faster than that! Do you want to be alone on Valentine's Day, eating hershey's kisses and rollerblading around your house because you're so bored?!" How could you not love that? So naturally, Pat and I became total Kate groupies. If Kate was teaching a class, then we were there. Eventually, she started teaching at a different location, so that's where we started working out. Perhaps she moved to that location because we were stalking her, but whatever. We may never know.

I even branched out to a class called Bodyworks. I did it the first time the day before Thanksgiving last year. Resultingly, I could not move my legs or arms for about three days. But I learned to love it as well. I decided that Kate was the greatest factor in my continuing to live in Los Angeles. I was pretty serious when I said that if Kate ever left, I would seriously reconsider living here.

Well, the worst has happened. Kate is moving. I'm pretty torn about this. I mean, Kate knows we love her. And I think she likes us enough to not be creeped out by the way we follow her around from gym to gym. But would I be classified as mentally ill if I started making major life decisions based on my cycling teacher? Like, I don't reallllly think I should move to Boston just because Kate will be there. But would it be the worst idea in the world? I don't know.

The Baskin Robbins saga continues

2008-05-07T17:40:00.003-04:00

Actually, I guess it's not really a saga. Yet.

But I did get a reply from the corporate headquarters of Baskin Robbins (Dunkin' Brands) in regards to my craptastic smoothie experience.

Their response to my strongly worded letter? 6 dollars worth of Baskin Robbins Bucks or some such nonsense. I think they missed my point. 6 dollars of fake pink money that can only be used at Baskin Robbins is not really appropriate compensation for wasting actual real money on their toxic smoothie sludge.

If they wanted to send me a Jamba Juice gift card or even a bottle of V8 Splash instead of actual money, that would be ok (and refreshing), although, I realize, not very likely. But forcing me to relive the terrible and disappointing experience of going to a Baskin Robbins is a slap in the face, I tell you! I don't want more Baskin Robbins - I want 5 dollars that can be used for good rather than their evil brand of grossness.

I think I may write them another letter to clear this up.

This has been bothering me

2008-04-30T18:00:00.002-04:00

Have you ever seen one of those commercials where they promise something like "We'll match any competitor's price or your ____ is free!"? I've never understood that.

I keep hearing this one ad for a mattress store and it's driving me crazy. They claim: "At Sit 'n Save we'll beat anyone's price or your mattress is FREEEE!"

Seriously. I don't get it. The first half is fine. They have competitive prices and that's just dandy. But is there actually any price that they, for some inexplicable reason, are unable to beat? Because from a business standpoint, that just doesn't make any sense. Will they ever really say, "Oohhh...The Sleep Depot is selling this mattress for only $219? Shit. Yeah, you got us. We can't beat that. That is one unbeatable price. Well, here's your free mattress."

Unless someone else is selling mattresses for 1 penny, I don't see when a deal like this would ever result in getting something for free.

Home Alone

2008-04-25T18:42:00.002-04:00

I was talking to Joe last night about the movie Home Alone. I think it was because Joe said he was home alone. Whatever.

I was 6 years old when the movie came out and I saw it in the theater with my next-door neighbor, Erica. Now I'm pretty sure I fell within the target demographic for this movie, but I really didn't enjoy the experience. Did anyone else think that this Kevin kid was supremely fucked up? I mean, yeah, you've got to defend yourself from the would-be burglars, and it's great that you're such a cunning 8-year-old, but as far as I can remember they didn't seem like violent criminals. Did these mildly threatening thieves really deserve such a brutal beating from this sadistic little shit?

I know I was a sort of sensitive kid. When I was in first grade, my bus driver honked the horn at me for crossing the street before he gave me the signal to go, and I cried for what was probably a week or so, and refused to ride the bus anymore. But it was a bus horn, which is scarier than a regular horn. But still, I think even a normal person should be more disturbed than amused by the torturous antics in Home Alone. Being pummeled in the face by paint cans and burned by hot irons and, I believe, somehow tarred and feathered? Seems a little on the extreme side if you ask me.

They were just a couple of lovably bumbling burglars. Probably down on their luck, needed some holiday cash, and they have the bad luck to cross paths with this horrible child that gets off on inflicting pain. Hardly a "family comedy" in my opinion.

And by the by, is anyone aware that this movie was nominated for 2 Oscars? I've been doing some research on imdb and I came across that little tidbit. Yeah, it was for the music, and yeah John Williams apparently did it, but still! From now on, I think it is imperative that Home Alone always be referred to as "the Academy Award-nominated Home Alone." Although, I realize not many people (other than me) are still talking about the Academy Award-nominated Home Alone in 2008, but just keep that in mind should it come up at a cocktail party or whatever.

My point is that this was a traumatizing part of my childhood, rather than a delightful romp, and I did NOT see Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.

A blessing

2008-04-22T21:02:00.003-04:00

I have a real sneezing problem. Mainly, in that I sneeze a jazillion times a day. It's brought on by the unfortunate combination of being allergic to everything while also having an inexplicable desire to smell everything I encounter in everyday life. It's a recipe for disaster.

When I spray perfume, I like to walk through the mist while inhaling the delicious smell molecules, inevitably leading to a 5-minute sneeze-fest. I bring it upon myself, I know. But most of the things I like to smell are probably pretty damaging to whatever "brain cells" I have. If a label says "Use only in a well-ventilated area," I'm pretty much guaranteed to like the smell of it. Cleaning supplies, instant hand sanitizer, and permanent markers totally kick the asses of flowers and cinammon rolls and whatever normal people enjoy.

When I was younger, I used to steal the Lemon Palmolive dishwasher detergent from the kitchen and take it to my room so that I could smell it at my leisure. Sad. I know. But it's so f-ing refreshing! Anyways, I'm pretty sure you can't get high or damage your brain with dishwasher detergent, but it also won't make you any friends. Probably. We'll see.

I don't know if anyone else out there shares my passion for dangerous smells, but I'm going to share this with you anyways. Pass it on if you know someone that smells of rubbing alcohol.These aromatherapy scent inhalers do not smell like bleach or hand sanitizer. But they do smell. And I have learned to love them. I currently have three in my purse. Ignore the fact that they have names like "gratitude" and "inner peace." They all smell sort of alike, but I am totally hooked. I don't know that they really create "positive thoughts to heal the nation", but I do probably owe the fine hippies at Earth Solutions my last remaining brain cells. Also, Pat's mom, because she bought them for us last Christmas. I'm a big fan of Lucid Dreams and World Peace.

I need to stop watching The View

2008-04-17T14:16:00.002-04:00

I can't help it. If I happen to be home at 10 am, I have to watch The View. I hate/love/hate/love/hate/hate it so much. Their discussions of hot topics are so maddeningly delicious. If you've never had the pleasure-pain, let me explain. Hot topics is the first 10 minutes or so of the show. The ladies sit around and discuss whatever awesome scandalous issue the news is most saturated with at the present. They weigh in on controversial non-news like teens having plastic surgery or the Marilyn Monroe sex tape, but it in the end it usually leads back to Elisabeth (she's the young blond Republican one) somehow defending Bush and the war and John McCain and then everyone else yells at her and Barbara Walters mispronounces something and makes a self-deprecating joke about how old she is. In short, it is must-see tv.

Anyways, this week, they got to gabbing about everyone's favorite mid-April topic: taxes. Finally, something we can all agree on. Taxes are the worst. Doing taxes, paying taxes, the whole shebang. Uncle Sam gets way too much of our money. And what do we get for it?

I mean other than roads, schools, law enforcement, medicare, medicaid, crap like that. Yes, it goes to the military as well. "Boooo," says everyone but Elisabeth. Anyways, it's not a very hot topic in my opinion.

But then, Whoopi Goldberg turns up the heat. She makes the assertion that it isn't fair that she, a celebrity of all people, should have to pay so much in taxes. She calls it her "celebrity tax." Wait what? I'm not an expert on the matter, but I'm fairly sure that celebrities don't pay special taxes just because their jobs aren't very hard. I think what she means is ever since she became famous she started making lots of money that she doesn't really deserve. Now, I don't know how much Whoopi makes in a year, but I guarantee it's too much. So she has to pay taxes. Don't you feel bad for her? She gets paid exorbitant amounts of money to sit around talking and doing other non-work and then the government has the audacity to make her contribute to society. Outrageous!

In the interest of full disclosure, I got a return on my taxes, so maybe that's why I don't share her outrage. But to be even more honest, I made approximately 13,000 dollars last year. So maybe that's part of it as well.

I guess what I'm getting at is that I used to sort of respect Whoopi. At least in relative terms, compared to other co-hosts of The View. She was all cool and weird and she doesn't wear makeup or even yell at Elisabeth every time she says something retarded. But now I hate for being a whiny celebrity complainer-face. And I don't like to hate people. But she leaves me no choice. So sorry, Whoop, you're on my list.

Fighting back

2008-04-14T16:48:00.004-04:00

I'm not much of a fighter. And holding a grudge really requires a lot more dedication than I can usually muster up. But yesterday, a really terrible smoothie inspired me to get back to my roots and write a letter of complaint. So watch out, Baskin Robbins, for you will feel my mild wrath. Nobody charges me (or Pat, rather) $4.69 for a small Fruit Blast made with tainted mango concentrate, and gets away with it.

The point is, if you're going to Baskin Robbins (which I don't recommend beacuse their sundaes contain approximately 8 bagillion calories and 900 grams of fat), don't get a smoothie. Even if it's insanely hot and your insides are burning and you just want something cold and fruity.

Anyways, I was just riled enough to go home and write a letter of complaint. Maybe it was the injustice, or maybe I was suffering from heat stroke, I don't know. But I wrote a letter and it's going in the mail today. Unfortunately, I only made it halfway through my letter to Kellogg's about the new packaging for Corn Pops, before returning to my normal apathetic state. (By the way, does anyone else know what I'm talking about? Corn Pops used to have the most awesome durable foil-lined bag and they finally replaced it with a much less awesome one. I tried to explain the bag tragedy to someone at work today and they said, "What are Corn Pops?") (And yes, my life is this sad.)

I'll let you know when I get a response from BR.

I'm confused

2008-04-11T00:07:00.003-04:00

So there's this billboard by my house for Tillamook cheese. And while I have nothing against the people at Tillamook, I am totally baffled by their new advertisement. It pictures a bag of pre-shredded cheese - you know, the kind that's been around for a number of years/decades, and it says something like "Introducing: Tillamook SHREDS." Then in the corner it proclaims, "99.9 percent convenient!"

I guess I appreciate their honesty, because truth be told, it's probably not 100% convenient. You still have to open the bag, I suppose. And sometimes when the bag says "tear here" it tears off too high and you have to cut it with scissors anyways. But on those occasions, I'd say it's probably 96% convenient at best. So why the deduction of a tenth of a percent of convenience? I'm no statistician so I don't know if this is some sort of margin of error thing or what. I don't remember how that stuff works because every time someone tries to explain math to me I cry for three days. But come on, Tillamook. I'd really like to know, why not a round 100 percent? This is advertising. I don't really believe that Kix was tested on children and approved of by all their mothers, but it sounds good so we let it slide.

Catch up

2007-02-21T17:51:00.000-05:00

I realize several months have passed since I last blogged it up here, but in my defense I've been pretty busy what with the holidays (halloween turns into thanksgiving which launches into christmas, then new years, then before you've finished celebrating martin luther king day, it's already president's day and then they're putting out the easter stuff.) But yes, things are different now, in 2007. Most of all, I'm "living" in Los Angeles. And when i say living, i of course mean drinking a lot. The best part about hating LA is that they sell cheap booze here, at CVS of all places! Anyways, the important thing is not how i moved across the country or found a job that i hate even more than my last. The thing that has inspired me to return to the world of blogging is this:
I've decided that if I could live the rest of my life without hearing any one phrase ever again, it would be "take the stairs instead of the elevator." The only exception might be if the elevator is broken and this sign is taped to the doors.

Snooze

2006-10-05T13:11:00.001-04:00

I know many of you out there have been wondering what I've been doing for the past month, year, etc. I've come to realize that my life is not hilariously entertaining because what with my busy schedule of working, complaining about work and watching television, I don't have much to report on. I've given it some serious thought and decided that aside from the aforementioned activities, the majority of my life involves eating and sleeping. Since I don't think anyone would like to read my dream journal, I'm going to tell you what I've eaten this week. It's been pretty good so I think you'll enjoy this meal diary. I'm only going to talk about dinner, because god forbid this get boring!

Monday - Portabella mushroom sandwich. This was an elegant affair at dear Heidi's home. A homecooked meal with the options of feta, goat cheese, pesto, and roasted red pepper. I had the goat cheese with pesto AND red peppers. Heidi then made soft batch chocolate chip cookies from an amish cookbook.

Tuesday - Miso soup (homemade) and pretzels. I've been craving sodium lately and this was my delicious salty reward. I highly recommend "Minute Miso" paste. For dessert, I believe I had a sampling of booze. It's been a long week.

Wednesday - An amazing creation of fresh vegetables, red curry sauce and rice. Shit. That was good. Eaten during the hail storm of the century. I heard it was the size of BASEBALLS, they say BASEBALLS! Weathermen are such liars.

Thursday - Well it's only lunchtime, but I'm going to make a prediction. It sounds like.... balcohol. Only time will tell.

No habla

2006-09-08T11:16:00.001-04:00

Next Monday will mark the beginning of my 12th week working here at the bore-factory. For some reason, in my mind, this arbitrary marker of time gives me permission to quit. I didn't think I'd make it a full month, and here I am approaching three! I've so exceeded my own low low expectations that I feel a deserved reward (or desert, as they say). What better motivation to work another week than quitting?

Anyways, it dawned on me today why I go unnoticed at my place of work. The reason? I am without a phone.

When I started, there were two copy editors that both sat against one wall and had desks complete with phones and computers. They put me at the empty desk in the middle of the room and found me an old computer that sort of works. But no phone. When Davina, copy editor # 2, left, they offered me her desk which I politely refused for a number of reasons, 1) I was comfortable and used to my desk, 2) she didn't like her job, so I thought if I "replaced" her, i wouldn't like my job either, 3) i didn't want the responsibility of a phone.

It turns out that this job is wretched, regardless of desk position, so I admit that some of my reasoning was flawed. I am glad, however, that I have still not acquired a phone. I hate using phones. I especially hate using phones in rooms with other people. One particularly unproductive day here, they gave me busy work that involved calling people on the mailing list and trying to sell them tickets to an event. I sweat profusely the whole time and suffered mild heart palpitations. I did this for about an hour and not once did I actually speak to a real person, but the very possibility that I might was quite terrifying enough for me. When it comes to quitting, I have a history of being "all talk" but on this day, I seriously considered quitting and running out the office in phone-induced hysterics.

Typically, the phones here are used for more benign purposes, predominantly inter-office calling. I don't really understand it, because only about 12 people work here and often, I can usually hear the person on the other end of the phone because their office is 10 yards away from ours. But because it would be ridiculous to walk all the way into our office, the fact that I don't have a phone and an extension means, essentially, that people cannot ask me to do things. And this, in turn, means that I can spend the majority of my day reading FAQ's on JK Rowling's web site.

Catch Up

2006-08-23T12:49:00.001-04:00

I'd really like to say that I don't have as much time for blogging and myspace surveys as I used to because things are really picking up at work, but I, unlike you, am not a goddamn liar. The truth is, I've been reading thesuperficial.com archives dating back to 2004. Also, I've been the learning geography of the Middle East and Africa. Between all my learning and making of tea, I barely have time to pretend that I'm busy working.

In other news, there was a brief period of excitement on Monday when I felt something out of the ordinary on the inside of my cheek. Upon inspection in the mirror, I found two dark red/black bumps that appeared to be some sort of plague. Fairly certain that I would pass out from the sheer grossness of it all, I mentally prepared to go home early, but alas, after talking to a dentist and an "ophthalmologist"(jeff), I was assured that it was probably not the plague. (Although, Jeff did suggest that it might be hoof in mouth disease. Jeff's so funny.) As disturbing as my mouth plague was, I was strangely sad when it disappeared overnight. Was it a dream? A figment of my under-utilized imagination? A good possibility, but at least it occupied some of my vast mental power for a while.

A final note: Pat, my domestic partner as you may know him, has gotten what I call "the boot" by the Akron Beacon Journal after a short few months. Allegedly, they did major lay-offs and cut 40 people or something, but I know that it's all part of god's plan to make Pat a male dancer. So if you know of any clubs that are hiring, let me know. Have a blessed day.

The Sun don't shine, or remember names

2006-08-16T13:56:00.002-04:00

I've been at my job for almost two months now. I mention this only because today marks the fifth time that the president and CEO of the company has failed to remember my name while introducing me to another person. Now, with a whopping 14 employees working for him, Sunny (yes that's his name) cannot be expected to remember every single person's name. The fact that I can spend all day reading blogs on myspace and learning state capitals (Montpelier, what?) without a single person caring does not make me feel insignificant. However, I take some offense to being what is apparently just another nameless white girl.

The strange thing is that Sunny is very good with the names of the strippers who work here. I mean, Sarah, Erica, Christina - I can barely keep them straight. But i suspect that after so many lap dances, a girl starts to leave an impression. A gigantic fake-breasted impression. I should think that by being the only non-stripping white girl, my uniqueness alone would set me apart from the rest and warrant a name, but I guess it's foolish to think that in Sunny's mind, I'll ever be anything but that little biscuit who doesn't take her clothes off for money. I'm just saying that if I'm ever the CEO of a fake publishing company, I will require name tags to be worn at all times. Or I will mandate that all employees show me their tits. Hollaaa!

Stay out of the kitchen

2006-08-02T11:37:00.003-04:00

One of the best and worst things about my job is that my desk is right outside the kitchen. On the plus side, I get to see what everyone eats and when they eat it. My close proximity also allows me to make tea and survey the cupboards whenever i please. In the minus column, I smell everything that is cooked, including delicious buttery popcorn, that leaves me hungry and resentful of the snackers.

Chris, the temp, has, hands down, the most disconcerting food habits. (Chris also has the wost job in the world, that being calling people and peddling books and outrageously expensive commemorative plaques. I feel a certain kinship with him because I suspect he also hates his life.) Shortly after he started here, I took note that he brought Chinese leftovers for lunch. I took note, as the refrigerator was broken and he was forced to leave the styrofoam container out on the kitchen table. I was jealous, and understandably so. I had only a peanut butter sandwich and a helping of baby carrots for lunch that day. My lust for fried rice grew every time I entered the kitchen. When finally, Chris sat down for lunch, a calm washed over me. At least the rice would be gone soon so that I could get back to pretending to work.

On my next trip into the kitchen, the savory smell of rice still lingering, I saw in the trashcan, the open styrofoam box, full of rice. It looked as if Chris had applied some soy sauce, raised his fork, then decided "No, fried rice is not for me." I was so so sad. Sad that no one got to enjoy the rice. Sad that it is disgusting to eat veritable strangers' leftovers out of the garbage. So sad.

I've come to accept that there will be days when popcorn is popped and soup is heated and I will be dissatisfied with my own meager lunch. But today, Chris took an early lunch around 11 am. This time he had a prepackaged frozen carton of chicken fried rice. Everyone who wandered into my kitchen-adjacent office during the 5 minutes or so that it was in the microwave commented on the delicious permeating smell.

As usual, I was angry. I didn't bring anything for lunch today, because I wasn't hungry when I left home at 8:15, so I couldn't imagine being hungry any time in the forseeable future. Chris probably saw me staring at the glowing microwave turntable and commented, "It's cool that they have soy sauce here." I paused before replying, "Yes. That is cool." I tried not to watch him eat, busying myself with "work," but when he finished and returned to his conference room, I went straight to the kitchen, and couldn't help but glance at the trash. And there it was. A paper plate, full of chicken friend rice and a few empty packets of soy sauce. I don't know why he does it, but I hate Chris. Because one of these days I'm going to be caught eating out of the trash and no one will see how it's all his fault.

Don't read this

2006-07-26T16:29:00.000-04:00

In honor of surviving almost one more day of horribly painful tedium, I've proclaimed today Hodgepodge Wednesday. More accurately, I've been searching the internet for black people's addresses all day and along the way I caught up on some very unimportant news.
The first item is : Lance Bass is a homosexual. I'll be honest. My initial reaction was "Who is Lance Bass?" I know that he was in a boy band and he's not Justin Timberlake. Is he the one who wanted to be an astronaut? Possibly. Should I be surprised that a member of a so-called "boy band" likes the company of other boys? I don't think so. But more importantly, it brightened my day for just a few seconds.
The next item: Ken Jennings has a blog. I guess that wasn't the point of the story i read, but basically Ken Jennings, the mormon Jeopardy champ wrote something in a blog about Alex Trebek being a robot. When people got all up in arms, (and, presumably his grill) about it, he retracted the statements, apologized and then called Alex Trebek a cyborg. So there you have it - Mormons can be funny. The thing that I don't understand is why this made the news. Has no one ever poked fun at Alex Trebek and/or his moustache? Or are we just disppointed that 74 wins on Jeopardy does not forge a relationship that transcends robot-name-calling? Whatever. I'm blogging about a blog now so I have to go kill myself. Oh dear me, I'm just kidding. It's because i hate my job and life that I'm going to kill myself. HA! Gotcha!

Autistic? More like awesome-tistic (it rocks)

2006-07-24T13:54:00.000-04:00

Today, while at work, of course, I've come to several conclusions: 1) I'm very hungry and my lunch is trapped in the conference room. 2) The saltine crackers from Wendy's that i found in the condiment drawer do not a satisfying lunch make. 3) I am autistic.
While doing a little research on this very current and therefore sexy disorder, I wondered if it is possble that I have gone undiagnosed for 22 years. Just take a look at this description of symptoms and think of me - the similarities are scary.

"Some children with autism develop troublesome fixations with specific objects, which can lead to unhealthy or dangerous behaviors. For example, one child insists on carrying feces from the bathroom into her classroom. Other behaviors are simply startling, humorous, or embarrassing to those around them. One girl, obsessed with digital watches, grabs the arms of strangers to look at their wrists.

For unexplained reasons, people with autism demand consistency in their environment. Many insist on eating the same foods, at the same time, sitting at precisely the same place at the table every day. They may get furious if a picture is tilted on the wall, or wildly upset if their toothbrush has been moved even slightly. A minor change in their routine, like taking a different route to school, may be tremendously upsetting. "

I admit, I am fascinated with feces (who isn't?), but I'm happy to report that I usually leave it be. On the other hand, I can't begin to tell you how much I demand consistency in my environment. There is only one stall that I can use in the resrtroom at work and when Pat does not close the cereal box by inserting the cardboard tab into the punch-out slot, I get very angry. I drink Green Tea Super-Antioxidant out of the same thermos every morning from exactly 8:30 to 9:30, filling the cup 1/3 of the way every ten minutes.

"In some people, the senses are even scrambled. One child gags when she feels a certain texture. A man with autism hears a sound when someone touches a point on his chin. Another experiences certain sounds as colors."

Sometimes I can't sleep because my clothes are making my skin crawl. And don't even get me started on the feeling of wooden spoons or popsicle sticks.
And if you need any more proof of my affliction, in sixth grade when I was in a summer production of School House Rock! the director told me "Stop rocking - you look like Rainman."
So there. Now I can join the host of trendy mentally diseased Americans.

Passion

2006-07-10T16:21:00.001-04:00

I know it's a couple years late, but I want to talk a little about the Passion of the Christ. I'm sure it's passion-packed as all as crucifixions tend to be, but it is not, as my coworker insists, the same as a documentary.

I told Davina that I did not see the movie because for me, it lacked entertainment value. Somewhat upset, she said that documentaries are not often meant to entertain. I gently responded that the Passion is not technically a documentary. While she is aware that Mel Gibson made the film, she argued that while it is not exactly a documentary, it is still "documented fact," thus essentially a documentary. I don't really know what to say to this.

A Complaint

2006-07-07T13:52:00.001-04:00

I'm here at the publishing company, and after putting stamps and address labels on about 600 envelopes, I decided to get a little snack. Working in an office adjacent to the kitchen is the most interesting part of this job, so I frequently wander off to peruse the communal food supply or wash the mugs that pile up in the sink.

The office food supply consists mostly of canned soda, crackers, baloney, wonder bread, and condiment packets from KFC. I took the liberty of opening a new and exciting box of something called "cheezit twisters". They're like cheezits, but in more the shape of a cheese puff. The box advertises "Two flavors! Big crunch!"

The crunch is, admittedly, pretty big, but as for the two flavors... Here's what they came up with: Cheddar and More Cheddar. Forgive me, Cheezit Twisters, but that sounds an awful lot like one flavor, regardless of how much cheddar there is. The other varieties are more distinct - there's Cool Ranch and Cheddar as well as Hot Wings and Cheesy Blue. It seems to me like the people at Cheezit wanted to break out of the cheese mold, but when they sat down at the flavor meeting, they could only come up with six, three of which are still cheddar.

I should probably get back to work, seeing as I can't afford to get fired from this job when I'm already on thin ice at the Tan Co. (For the record, apparently it's not Co. policy to let your boyfriend hang out while you're doing the ever so important job of tanning people, and let him act as a tanning apprentice. Whatever. If that's so wrong, I don't want to be right or tan.)