I am sort of out of it today, I guess. First, I started driving to the old offices this morning, and caught myself in time to add just about four minutes to my drive in. Secondly, I was logging in to write this, and instead of typing my actual password, I typed the word, "blogger." Needless to say I did not log in using that password.
So, yup, it's the first full week back and no one is chipper. I am noticing a lot of 'serious' faces today. I think this first full week back to work is the worst ever. It's so hard to find anything to look forward to right now. No holidays, no pretty lights on the houses, all the wreaths are down, and the elves have zippered up their jerkins once more for another year. January equals blahhh.
Today I am wearing my Slut Boots. These boots always make me feel powerful. They're those boots that are tight and zip all the way up the calf. Plus they have a heel that spanks the hard floors with every step. I am a Punisher today. Yeeow.
And hey, this weekend, I was anything but. I sort of lounged around and did a lot of shopping. I was on a mission to buy a folding bookcase from Target. You know the one; it's a dark walnut color and it's thinner on the top that it is on the bottom. Anyway, I saw in the circular that it was only $44 and I knew I HAD to have it. So I set out on a mission, and it took me to two different Targets before I found it. I am pleased to say it also required no real assembly. All I had to do was fold out the shelves and stand it against the wall. I was so happy about that. One thing I really didn't feel like doing was pulling out the screwdrivers and mallet (yes, I have a very nice mallet, thankyaverymuch) and frigging around with those horrible instructions with the pieces labeled A, B, C and D1 and D2. And those weird silver-nut things that you screw in and then insert the long pointy screw and turn to lock... you know I love you, Cheap Furniture, but your assembly is growing tiresome.
Have you ever assembled a piece of Cheap Furniture and realized that you failed to notice which side was "The Finished Side" and the "Unfinished Side"? And you have inadvertedly placed a bookshelf upside down, with the pretty particle-board finish showing? And then you need to take the whole fucking thing apart again and re-assemble it so the fantastic finished side is up? And you pinch your fingers in between the shelves when trying to lower them down onto the little "shelf support brackets" (bullshit plastic things that fall out every time anyway) and then end up kicking the side of the bookshelf so its white finish ends up with an ugly black scuff on its side? And you always keep a potted plant or a strategically-placed pile of crap next to it to hide the scuff? Yeah, well, I have.
I still need to build my new CD tower/organizer. I have about 500 CDs, and I can't seem to get rid of any of them. (I always find myself digging out the oldest, weirdest CDs when I am doing sound design) I bought this "thing" in Best Buy a few weeks before Christmas that promises to hold at least 496 of my CDs. It took me until last week to finally haul the box into the house from the back of my car. Now I guess I should just build that motherfucker already. Unlike the folding bookcase, this one will definitely require assembly, and I am pissed off already at that prospect. Once upon a time I used to like assembling furniture; I would experience a glow of all-American pride whenever I walked past What I Built With My Own Two Hands. Nowadays, I think about taking up drinking. Times they have a-changed.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Friday, January 02, 2004
Thoughts at random:
John Madden is a doughy man-bitch.
My bladder is apparently the size of a baby squirrel's nutsack.
Yellow doesn't look good on anyone.
"Lacerate" is another word for "slash."
Despite common myth, women cannot "bulk up" when they lift weights because they don't produce the testosterone needed.
I hope to see "Big Fish" this weekend.
I recommend seeing the movie "The Station Agent."
I think you should skip watching "Paycheck."
Somehow or other, I must find a way to release my creativity. And the monkeys.
John Madden is a doughy man-bitch.
My bladder is apparently the size of a baby squirrel's nutsack.
Yellow doesn't look good on anyone.
"Lacerate" is another word for "slash."
Despite common myth, women cannot "bulk up" when they lift weights because they don't produce the testosterone needed.
I hope to see "Big Fish" this weekend.
I recommend seeing the movie "The Station Agent."
I think you should skip watching "Paycheck."
Somehow or other, I must find a way to release my creativity. And the monkeys.
What is it about the holidays that always seems to make people get sick? Tom says it's because everyone is out shopping and those stores become incubators for germs, what with all the open-mouthed coughing and breathing. I think the problem is also compounded by stress and trying-to-do-too-much-in-your-time-off. Either way, it sure is a good thing they give us New Year's Day off.
I spent the better part of yesterday feeling weird. Headachy, and very weak and dizzy. I think it's sinus problems, like usual. Blehh. It didn't stop me from setting a new high score record on my Gameboy, though. On "Kirby's Pinball Land," which to most people might seem like a stupid little game but to me it is da bomb, yo.
Next up, I spent more time than I wanted to watching TV. Watched more of "I Love the 80's" even though it's starting to get so old now. And who decided that Juliette Lewis was an 80's expert, anyway? Some of the people who comment just need to be slapped around a little. She's one of the worst. Michael Ian Black, on the other hand, can say whatever the hell he wants. That man is cool. The best deadpan delivery I've seen in a long time.
And "Friends" sucked last night. Christina Applegate guest starring as an idiot. I don't know, it just didn't grab me. "Friends" did not sink in its usual comedy tetherhook and leave me bleeding with laughter last night. I was saddened. I ate some ice cream pie.
Finally I turned all this crap TV off and tried to do some writing, and only ended up making lists. Lists of what...? Wouldn't YOU like to know.
Here we are on Friday. Back in the NEW OFFICES! They are almost done building the kitchen, which is across the hall from my office. I had to do a phone interview on Tuesday and while I was talking, the workmen were sawing and drilling away only about 20 feet from my desk. I am transcribing the tape of the interview today and I can't wait to hear if it came out. The ironic thing is that the guy I was interviewing was the same guy I interviewed before and the tape didn't come out clearly enough because we recorded it in-person in a room with loud A/C ducts. I am not fated to speak with this person for stories anymore.
They also did this strange thing the other day where a workman came into my office to drill a hole in my desk to push the wires and cords through so they are not visible. (Our entire office suite is about 80% ceiling-to-floor glass panels so everything is on display, including my yawning, lazy ass. Not my whole body, just my luscious ass!) Anycrap, I left the room while they did their drilling. I returned to see that the drill was laying on the floor, still plugged into the wall, and my desk was covered in sawdust. The hole was only halfway drilled. For some reason, the workman had disappeared right in the middle of making a hole. I don't know, but I had always thought that men would never stop in the middle of making a hole, unless there was some sort of "lift" problem or they thought about baseball out of the blue. Ohhh, my sweet heaven above, I am so funny. Hooo.
Anyway, the hole wasn't fully drilled until a few hours later. I am pleased to report I have a full hole now, and the cords are pushed into it like a dildo into Bruce Villanch's ass. Hip hip hooray! There was something last night on TV about Bruce Villanch being a celebrity guest at some Bingo game somewhere. I can't remember much else, which is making me think I dreamed it. But why would I dream about Bruce Villanch? What sort of cruel prank is 2004 already playing on me?
I guess my final thought is this: sawdust sucks, and I can't seem to get excited about Bingo and will probably not play Bingo in 2004. And it's not even 9 AM here yet and I am ready to leave for the day already.
I spent the better part of yesterday feeling weird. Headachy, and very weak and dizzy. I think it's sinus problems, like usual. Blehh. It didn't stop me from setting a new high score record on my Gameboy, though. On "Kirby's Pinball Land," which to most people might seem like a stupid little game but to me it is da bomb, yo.
Next up, I spent more time than I wanted to watching TV. Watched more of "I Love the 80's" even though it's starting to get so old now. And who decided that Juliette Lewis was an 80's expert, anyway? Some of the people who comment just need to be slapped around a little. She's one of the worst. Michael Ian Black, on the other hand, can say whatever the hell he wants. That man is cool. The best deadpan delivery I've seen in a long time.
And "Friends" sucked last night. Christina Applegate guest starring as an idiot. I don't know, it just didn't grab me. "Friends" did not sink in its usual comedy tetherhook and leave me bleeding with laughter last night. I was saddened. I ate some ice cream pie.
Finally I turned all this crap TV off and tried to do some writing, and only ended up making lists. Lists of what...? Wouldn't YOU like to know.
Here we are on Friday. Back in the NEW OFFICES! They are almost done building the kitchen, which is across the hall from my office. I had to do a phone interview on Tuesday and while I was talking, the workmen were sawing and drilling away only about 20 feet from my desk. I am transcribing the tape of the interview today and I can't wait to hear if it came out. The ironic thing is that the guy I was interviewing was the same guy I interviewed before and the tape didn't come out clearly enough because we recorded it in-person in a room with loud A/C ducts. I am not fated to speak with this person for stories anymore.
They also did this strange thing the other day where a workman came into my office to drill a hole in my desk to push the wires and cords through so they are not visible. (Our entire office suite is about 80% ceiling-to-floor glass panels so everything is on display, including my yawning, lazy ass. Not my whole body, just my luscious ass!) Anycrap, I left the room while they did their drilling. I returned to see that the drill was laying on the floor, still plugged into the wall, and my desk was covered in sawdust. The hole was only halfway drilled. For some reason, the workman had disappeared right in the middle of making a hole. I don't know, but I had always thought that men would never stop in the middle of making a hole, unless there was some sort of "lift" problem or they thought about baseball out of the blue. Ohhh, my sweet heaven above, I am so funny. Hooo.
Anyway, the hole wasn't fully drilled until a few hours later. I am pleased to report I have a full hole now, and the cords are pushed into it like a dildo into Bruce Villanch's ass. Hip hip hooray! There was something last night on TV about Bruce Villanch being a celebrity guest at some Bingo game somewhere. I can't remember much else, which is making me think I dreamed it. But why would I dream about Bruce Villanch? What sort of cruel prank is 2004 already playing on me?
I guess my final thought is this: sawdust sucks, and I can't seem to get excited about Bingo and will probably not play Bingo in 2004. And it's not even 9 AM here yet and I am ready to leave for the day already.
Monday, December 29, 2003
My thought for the day is simple:
You are responsible for your own attitude. Sometimes things don't always go according to your mental plan. But you are responsible for how you react and how you far you let your negative attitude take over your thoughts.
Today we moved into our new office building. It was a comical day for several reasons. The suite wasn't completed when we arrived, which resulted in much grumbling and mummering and in some cases, near-tears. Then, we really had nothing to do except get in the way of the workmen and the movers, so everyone spent the day shuffling around in different areas of the suite; except for Rob, who had to ready to pass out by the time he left today-- he was running around everywhere. I lost track of where he was. A group of us had lunch in the deli downstairs, and I thought to myself: "Wow, we have really hit paydirt here-- we're in a building with its own deli!" And I meant it semi-excited, too, not all sarcastic. I would say the ratio was about 45% sarcasm, 55% genuine awe. Yes, this is what my life has been reduced to. Deli Excitement.
The funniest thing was when the fire department showed up and decided to test the fire alarms. Without giving any of us notice. So there we were, about six of us, sitting around in my new office, when all of the sudden ear-shattering alarms start going off for about 5 or 6 minutes straight. It was so loud we all just sat there with our fingers in our ears and yelled, "Turn them off!" at random intervals. Everyone had that look on their face of "startled toddler." You know the look. A jump, a blink, followed by a pained expression and perhaps some blushing over the audible intrusion.
And once wasn't enough for these firemen. Oh nooo. They tested the alarms 2 more times. The last time, we did get warning, which was nice. But it really was funny--at least, to me-- to steal glances at my co-workers at the crucial moment when the sirens started wailing again. Everyone looked so, I don't know, delicate. Ahhhh! Help! It's loud! One of the first things that popped into my head (after smiling at the strange situation) was that scene in "Benny and Joon" when Sam (Johnny) is cleaning the kitchen with the loud music playing on the boom box, and Joon comes in and holds her hand over her ear and points with the other hand at the boom box and yells over the music, "Ahhhh!"
Oh, and this is sort of disturbing: In the ladies' room, the liquid soap that comes out of the dispensers is dark red. It looks pretty foul on your hands. And then later on in the afternoon, I visited a different ladies' room and not only did I hear a lady crying in one of the stalls (made me think of Moaning Myrtle, of course-- I am no slouch when it comes to Hogwarts mythology), but one of the sinks had a black, inky substance floating in it-- I think it was copy machine toner powder, from the look of it. It was mixed with old soap suds. I wonder if the crying lady was freaking out because of an unseen copier disaster. Well... Happy New Year to you, lady! 2004 is a fresh start. Now get out the Lanier manual and fix that bitch.
You are responsible for your own attitude. Sometimes things don't always go according to your mental plan. But you are responsible for how you react and how you far you let your negative attitude take over your thoughts.
Today we moved into our new office building. It was a comical day for several reasons. The suite wasn't completed when we arrived, which resulted in much grumbling and mummering and in some cases, near-tears. Then, we really had nothing to do except get in the way of the workmen and the movers, so everyone spent the day shuffling around in different areas of the suite; except for Rob, who had to ready to pass out by the time he left today-- he was running around everywhere. I lost track of where he was. A group of us had lunch in the deli downstairs, and I thought to myself: "Wow, we have really hit paydirt here-- we're in a building with its own deli!" And I meant it semi-excited, too, not all sarcastic. I would say the ratio was about 45% sarcasm, 55% genuine awe. Yes, this is what my life has been reduced to. Deli Excitement.
The funniest thing was when the fire department showed up and decided to test the fire alarms. Without giving any of us notice. So there we were, about six of us, sitting around in my new office, when all of the sudden ear-shattering alarms start going off for about 5 or 6 minutes straight. It was so loud we all just sat there with our fingers in our ears and yelled, "Turn them off!" at random intervals. Everyone had that look on their face of "startled toddler." You know the look. A jump, a blink, followed by a pained expression and perhaps some blushing over the audible intrusion.
And once wasn't enough for these firemen. Oh nooo. They tested the alarms 2 more times. The last time, we did get warning, which was nice. But it really was funny--at least, to me-- to steal glances at my co-workers at the crucial moment when the sirens started wailing again. Everyone looked so, I don't know, delicate. Ahhhh! Help! It's loud! One of the first things that popped into my head (after smiling at the strange situation) was that scene in "Benny and Joon" when Sam (Johnny) is cleaning the kitchen with the loud music playing on the boom box, and Joon comes in and holds her hand over her ear and points with the other hand at the boom box and yells over the music, "Ahhhh!"
Oh, and this is sort of disturbing: In the ladies' room, the liquid soap that comes out of the dispensers is dark red. It looks pretty foul on your hands. And then later on in the afternoon, I visited a different ladies' room and not only did I hear a lady crying in one of the stalls (made me think of Moaning Myrtle, of course-- I am no slouch when it comes to Hogwarts mythology), but one of the sinks had a black, inky substance floating in it-- I think it was copy machine toner powder, from the look of it. It was mixed with old soap suds. I wonder if the crying lady was freaking out because of an unseen copier disaster. Well... Happy New Year to you, lady! 2004 is a fresh start. Now get out the Lanier manual and fix that bitch.
Sunday, December 28, 2003
I don't really have very much to say. So of course, now is the perfect time to go online for a few moments of pure empty bliss.
Thought #1: They changed the salads at Arby's without consulting me. I was outraged, I tell you! Outraged! No, well, actually, those salads sure look tasty on the poster. I'll have to try some of 'em.
Thought #2: "Return of the King" was a wonderful film. I am very happy I saw it. Yes!
Thought #3: Sentences comprised of "Yes!" are stupid.
Thought #4: Today it is way too cold for Arizona. This is not what I signed up for when I moved here. Yesterday, for instance, it was in the 50s during the day. No, that is not a typo. I am too delicate a flower for this sort of temperature drop.
Thought #5: Damn. Turns out, my fifth thought is the thought that I don't have a fifth thought. Bummer.
Thought #1: They changed the salads at Arby's without consulting me. I was outraged, I tell you! Outraged! No, well, actually, those salads sure look tasty on the poster. I'll have to try some of 'em.
Thought #2: "Return of the King" was a wonderful film. I am very happy I saw it. Yes!
Thought #3: Sentences comprised of "Yes!" are stupid.
Thought #4: Today it is way too cold for Arizona. This is not what I signed up for when I moved here. Yesterday, for instance, it was in the 50s during the day. No, that is not a typo. I am too delicate a flower for this sort of temperature drop.
Thought #5: Damn. Turns out, my fifth thought is the thought that I don't have a fifth thought. Bummer.
Friday, December 26, 2003
This was a nice Christmas. I also noticed that this was the first Christmas that I stayed calm throughout. Whenever someone close to me freaked out or got all stressed about something (this could have ranged from the church situation to what size plates go on the table at breakfast, and did), I kept myself calm and ended up laughing off the dumber crisis. I am glad that Christmas went well, and that everyone enjoyed my cooking and my handmade Craft-gifts, but I am also excited that Christmas is over for another year!
No more planning out my budgets--nothing but rampant spending from here on out. Seriously though, the gift-buying frenzy has dissipated once and for 364 days. I also don't have to think about the question that become 2003's Most Asked Question: "Who's baking the lasanga?" See, there was a big controversy going on between my Mom, my sister and me about who would be making this pasta treat for our family dinner. For awhile it seemed Trish was doing it. Then my Mom. Then Trish would make the sauce for it and I would prepare the lasagna. Then , confusion set in when any one of us would talk on the phone with any of the others. It became something like a "who's on first?" routine after awhile. Finally, it was decided once and for all that Trish would make the sauce and the ice cream pie for dessert (and if you don't think that isn't delicious, you're crazy!), I would make the dinner itself, including salad, and Mom would buy the bread. Of course, on Christmas Eve, my mom suckered me into buying the bread so she was the only one who did nothing.
I also made some fantastic cinnamon french toast yesterday morning that everyone agreed was yummy. I was a cooking dynamo. Luckily, this was only for one day and I can now return to my slacker-chef ways (dinners must be prepared in under 15 minutes or I am just going to eat out somewhere).
The gifts were all nice. I received many lovely things, including some DVDs and wine glasses. Up until yesterday, I did not have wine glasses, so whenever people want to drink in our house they needed to use Solo cups. I am all growed up now. The best gift was a DVD/VCR combo Tom presented to me early. And, the photo album my Mom assembled for me with old pictures of me as a little kid. Trish got one, too, and we agreed it was the most personal gift exchanged.
But then, after gifts and eating was slowing down, I started to want some serious alone time; just so I could read and chill out after this two-day blowout. Trish and Kane hung around for awhile after dinner; we were a little buzzed on Lancer wine and watched some of the "Honeymooners" off the new DVD set I'd just opened; and then more Mystery Science Theatre. Trish fell asleep, but Kane and I were cracking up over the bread wholesaler short and some other stuff. It was fun.
And now, today is the day after Christmas, and it is starting to get dark out. Tonight, I am supposed to go see "Return of the King" with Trish and Kane. I also need to document the fact that I did two loads of laundry and washed the dog today. I feel productive and happy, although a little full of too much food.
And again, thank God Christmas is over! Now on to the rest of the winter already.
No more planning out my budgets--nothing but rampant spending from here on out. Seriously though, the gift-buying frenzy has dissipated once and for 364 days. I also don't have to think about the question that become 2003's Most Asked Question: "Who's baking the lasanga?" See, there was a big controversy going on between my Mom, my sister and me about who would be making this pasta treat for our family dinner. For awhile it seemed Trish was doing it. Then my Mom. Then Trish would make the sauce for it and I would prepare the lasagna. Then , confusion set in when any one of us would talk on the phone with any of the others. It became something like a "who's on first?" routine after awhile. Finally, it was decided once and for all that Trish would make the sauce and the ice cream pie for dessert (and if you don't think that isn't delicious, you're crazy!), I would make the dinner itself, including salad, and Mom would buy the bread. Of course, on Christmas Eve, my mom suckered me into buying the bread so she was the only one who did nothing.
I also made some fantastic cinnamon french toast yesterday morning that everyone agreed was yummy. I was a cooking dynamo. Luckily, this was only for one day and I can now return to my slacker-chef ways (dinners must be prepared in under 15 minutes or I am just going to eat out somewhere).
The gifts were all nice. I received many lovely things, including some DVDs and wine glasses. Up until yesterday, I did not have wine glasses, so whenever people want to drink in our house they needed to use Solo cups. I am all growed up now. The best gift was a DVD/VCR combo Tom presented to me early. And, the photo album my Mom assembled for me with old pictures of me as a little kid. Trish got one, too, and we agreed it was the most personal gift exchanged.
But then, after gifts and eating was slowing down, I started to want some serious alone time; just so I could read and chill out after this two-day blowout. Trish and Kane hung around for awhile after dinner; we were a little buzzed on Lancer wine and watched some of the "Honeymooners" off the new DVD set I'd just opened; and then more Mystery Science Theatre. Trish fell asleep, but Kane and I were cracking up over the bread wholesaler short and some other stuff. It was fun.
And now, today is the day after Christmas, and it is starting to get dark out. Tonight, I am supposed to go see "Return of the King" with Trish and Kane. I also need to document the fact that I did two loads of laundry and washed the dog today. I feel productive and happy, although a little full of too much food.
And again, thank God Christmas is over! Now on to the rest of the winter already.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
You know what I think? I think that new Peter Pan movie is totally going to get creamed. You can't open any movies right now. It's all about the Hobbits.
In other news, someone somewhere has done a Google search on "creamed on Peter Pan" and found this site. And that someone is Michael Jackson.
Ahhh, shoot. I just don't seem to get tired of the young boys thing. This movie must be such a high for the guys that have always dreamed of the day when Peter Pan would be played by an actual young boy.
That brings me to a point. I was always a little worried as a kid about the Peter Pan thing. I remember not understanding why Sandy Duncan was playing a young boy. Why not just get a real boy? What IS this shit, I thought? (I was one of those kids with the preternaturally adult inner monologue) But it's true: why does this happen? Maybe Mr. Carroll should have just written a story about Petra Pan, the Russian girl who flies around and stalks a girl named Wendy because she has vague lesbian tendencies coupled with a desire to have a new Mommy. I honestly think this would be a solid tale for the youngsters.
I just cracked myself up with a visual I probably shouldn't type, but it is packing day for The Move and I am off in space somewhere anyway. What if Captain Hook was Captain Speculum? A very vicious 'gina snapped off his hand once and now he is on the prowl for the evil labias that did him in.
Wow, I think I just ruined Peter Pan forever now. Whenever I see that commercial with the kids flying to that Coldplay song, I will be picturing Jason Isaacs holding up a hand with a speculum at the end.
"Smee! Over there, off the starboard! Argh, it's the Vagina! It's comin' for me, Smee!"
In other news, someone somewhere has done a Google search on "creamed on Peter Pan" and found this site. And that someone is Michael Jackson.
Ahhh, shoot. I just don't seem to get tired of the young boys thing. This movie must be such a high for the guys that have always dreamed of the day when Peter Pan would be played by an actual young boy.
That brings me to a point. I was always a little worried as a kid about the Peter Pan thing. I remember not understanding why Sandy Duncan was playing a young boy. Why not just get a real boy? What IS this shit, I thought? (I was one of those kids with the preternaturally adult inner monologue) But it's true: why does this happen? Maybe Mr. Carroll should have just written a story about Petra Pan, the Russian girl who flies around and stalks a girl named Wendy because she has vague lesbian tendencies coupled with a desire to have a new Mommy. I honestly think this would be a solid tale for the youngsters.
I just cracked myself up with a visual I probably shouldn't type, but it is packing day for The Move and I am off in space somewhere anyway. What if Captain Hook was Captain Speculum? A very vicious 'gina snapped off his hand once and now he is on the prowl for the evil labias that did him in.
Wow, I think I just ruined Peter Pan forever now. Whenever I see that commercial with the kids flying to that Coldplay song, I will be picturing Jason Isaacs holding up a hand with a speculum at the end.
"Smee! Over there, off the starboard! Argh, it's the Vagina! It's comin' for me, Smee!"
This sanctuary is completely awesome. Monkeys are so amazing, and they deserve a place like this, after all the shit we give them.
The office is moving to a new building on Monday. In the meantime, the atmosphere around here is so strange. Everything we have has to be labeled, including the chairs. This cracks me up for some reason. Sticking coded labels on the chairs and securing them with tape... this is not what I went to school for. Then again, my whole job is not what I went to school for.
Today is the final full workday before The Move. People are allowed to wear crappy clothes today because they are in packing mode. There are boxes piled everywhere, and these boxes are making me want to move them around and make forts. Perhaps me and the sales guys could have a war. I would win, because Malcolm is here with me today. I will be able to capture precious fort territory when I send Malcolm out into No Man's Land. His CUTE will stop the fighting. What am I talking about? Forts? Wars? Jeez, it's Christmas. Tidings of comfort and joy and all that. I need to get with the Jingle program.
Also, lots of dust is being kicked up in all this packing. I am sneezing a lot as I try to type. This is not doing wonders for my keyboard. I'm going to have to employ the Clorox wipes before the day is through.
The most amusing thing about this upcoming move is that someone has taken down the hot dog picture. Yes, the oversized photo of a juicy, delicious hot dog (on a bun and everything) has been taken down from the kitchen and labeled. It is coming with us! Someone had to take it down and label it; someone has already thought of where in the new building the glorious hot dog artwork is going to be hung. I have been laughing over this hot dog for two years now. Every time I go in the kitchen, I can't help but notice this gigantic HOT DOG leering down at everyone who dares to rummage through the Candy/Snack Tray(tm) or operate the microwave. It's very sobering to realize a large hot dog model is watching your every culinary move. If it's not the bosses watching what you are doing at your desk, it's the fancy pork product lording it over you as you try to eat or snack. Never a moment's rest around here.
Malcolm is asleep already. He is obviously unaffected by The Move. I think I will curl up behind my desk and go to sleep, too. Because I am also unaffected. I just decided.
Today is the final full workday before The Move. People are allowed to wear crappy clothes today because they are in packing mode. There are boxes piled everywhere, and these boxes are making me want to move them around and make forts. Perhaps me and the sales guys could have a war. I would win, because Malcolm is here with me today. I will be able to capture precious fort territory when I send Malcolm out into No Man's Land. His CUTE will stop the fighting. What am I talking about? Forts? Wars? Jeez, it's Christmas. Tidings of comfort and joy and all that. I need to get with the Jingle program.
Also, lots of dust is being kicked up in all this packing. I am sneezing a lot as I try to type. This is not doing wonders for my keyboard. I'm going to have to employ the Clorox wipes before the day is through.
The most amusing thing about this upcoming move is that someone has taken down the hot dog picture. Yes, the oversized photo of a juicy, delicious hot dog (on a bun and everything) has been taken down from the kitchen and labeled. It is coming with us! Someone had to take it down and label it; someone has already thought of where in the new building the glorious hot dog artwork is going to be hung. I have been laughing over this hot dog for two years now. Every time I go in the kitchen, I can't help but notice this gigantic HOT DOG leering down at everyone who dares to rummage through the Candy/Snack Tray(tm) or operate the microwave. It's very sobering to realize a large hot dog model is watching your every culinary move. If it's not the bosses watching what you are doing at your desk, it's the fancy pork product lording it over you as you try to eat or snack. Never a moment's rest around here.
Malcolm is asleep already. He is obviously unaffected by The Move. I think I will curl up behind my desk and go to sleep, too. Because I am also unaffected. I just decided.
Monday, December 22, 2003
From Weird Al Yankovic's classic song, "I Want a New Duck" (to the tune of "I Want A New Drug" by Huey Lewis and his 'News'):
I want a new duck
Not a swan or a goose
Just a drake I can dress real cute
Think I'm gonna name him Bruce
One that won't raid the ice box
One that'll stay in shape
One that's never gonna try to migrate or escape
Or I'll tie him up with duck tape.
... That is my definition of a fine song. Thank you. Quack quack, quack quack quack.
I want a new duck
Not a swan or a goose
Just a drake I can dress real cute
Think I'm gonna name him Bruce
One that won't raid the ice box
One that'll stay in shape
One that's never gonna try to migrate or escape
Or I'll tie him up with duck tape.
... That is my definition of a fine song. Thank you. Quack quack, quack quack quack.
Today I remembered college.
Sometimes I forget I actually went to college and that I earned myself a bachelor's degree. College flew by in an intense wave of not-making-any-lasting-friends and worrying-more-about-what-I-was-doing-outside-of-classes; such as working and doing theater and writing stories. So yeah, college was not memorable, really. Not a bad time, per se, but still it wasn't something I need to write home to anyone about. It's a bunch of yawns, really.
But the thing I remembered today was I took some halfway decent creative writing classes. In one class, I wrote a short story about invisible mute people who go on talk shows. Another story involved a blind date some girl has with a guy who plays in a band called "Pineapple Suck Muffin." That right there was literary genius. I wrote some interesting stuff back in the day. I am curious about where the hard copies of those stories are right now. Maybe that's something I need to look into. I think the world may finally be ready for a well-edited version of the story about the guy from Pineapple Suck Muffin. At last.
Sometimes I forget I actually went to college and that I earned myself a bachelor's degree. College flew by in an intense wave of not-making-any-lasting-friends and worrying-more-about-what-I-was-doing-outside-of-classes; such as working and doing theater and writing stories. So yeah, college was not memorable, really. Not a bad time, per se, but still it wasn't something I need to write home to anyone about. It's a bunch of yawns, really.
But the thing I remembered today was I took some halfway decent creative writing classes. In one class, I wrote a short story about invisible mute people who go on talk shows. Another story involved a blind date some girl has with a guy who plays in a band called "Pineapple Suck Muffin." That right there was literary genius. I wrote some interesting stuff back in the day. I am curious about where the hard copies of those stories are right now. Maybe that's something I need to look into. I think the world may finally be ready for a well-edited version of the story about the guy from Pineapple Suck Muffin. At last.
Friday, December 19, 2003
I really can't wait to go see "The Return of the King." I haven't had the time all week so far, and I need to go with someone who will appreciate the movie, and I don't know when that can be since some people's schedules are very busy straight through Christmas. I really hope I don't have to wait until after Christmas to see this movie. Christmas is, like, 6 days away, and that is too long.
Of course, I do need to watch my extended-version DVDs of "Two Towers" this weekend, first. But still. I simply can't wait much longer. A lot of people have seen it already and I am really glad no one is spoiling anything for me. I have not read the books. One day, I might, but truth be told, they seem a little long. I'm afraid I must admit that I am more about the instant gratification these days.
I am having Christmas Decorations Anxiety a little bit today. I'm having an office party at my house tonight for a couple of hours, and I think my house isn't decked out enough in wreaths, garlands and lights. Maybe I can do a little last-minute decorating today. Maybe I should get the staple gun out and staple things all over the walls and windowframes, and perhaps to the bushes out front as well. What sort of things, you ask? Who knows? I have boxes labeled "decorations" and I really don't know what evils lurk in the hearts of cardboard. But heck, I will decorate with whatever's in there, even if it's dead squirrels and wadded-up tissues.
I am on the verge of joining an all-women's gym. This is exciting news for me, because I have been missing having good workouts, and because my medical problems/ prescriptions caused me to gain some weight this year that I can't wait to shed like a snake skin. I visited LA Fitness yesterday, and the guy at the desk was this lunkhead guy named Matt who "couldn't find his keys." Or so he said. He was listening to me and nodding, but he was feeling around under the desk for his keys. After I had just finished a lengthy dissertation on why the atmosphere of a gym in so important to my workout, he looks at me with a blank look and says, "Sorry, it's just that I can't find my keys."
An awkward pause followed, in which I said, "Yeah, well. If you can't find your keys, that can leave you discombobulated, that's for sure." To which he stared a little more, and with an open-mouthed grin, he finally nodded. "Oh, yeah, right." He had never heard that word before.
He gave me a tour of the gym... or, I assume the only places we could get into without his keys. It was crowded and it stank of sweat and chlorine. Normally, this wouldn't bother me--I have come to expect these smells in a gym-- but I had already visited the cool little women's gym, and they actually had aromatherapy scents in there, and it was lit very nicely and was not crowded at all. I realized how much guys really can screw things up. They are bigger, they sweat more (and it's smellier sweat), they are noisier, and they can't seem to leave the free weights area. This gym in particular was so crammed with equipment in too small a space that there were treadmills in the hallways, with guys running on them as we squeezed past. "Matt" showed me the room where they had elliptical trainers and bikes, and it reminded me of those big stalls on cattle farms, where the cattle are lined up in little pens on top of one another, awaiting their death. The machines were directly on top of one another, and in very tight rows. The walls were white and sterile, with fluorescent lights overhead. Two TV screens were blinking out close-captioned news stations. Boring and depressing as hell.
Needless to say, I didn't join and Matt tried his best to give me the hard sell, dropping down the monthly fee by about 3 dollars (whoa there, Matt, slow down!) but I told him why I didn't like the gym. I even got into why I don't want to go to a gym with men anymore. I probably shouldn't have told him that I am looking for a place where we can have Menstrual Yoga classes, but I was feeling fiesty.
Wonder if Matt ever found those elusive keys. He was still hunting around in his pockets as I walked to the parking lot. Oh, man, gross.
Of course, I do need to watch my extended-version DVDs of "Two Towers" this weekend, first. But still. I simply can't wait much longer. A lot of people have seen it already and I am really glad no one is spoiling anything for me. I have not read the books. One day, I might, but truth be told, they seem a little long. I'm afraid I must admit that I am more about the instant gratification these days.
I am having Christmas Decorations Anxiety a little bit today. I'm having an office party at my house tonight for a couple of hours, and I think my house isn't decked out enough in wreaths, garlands and lights. Maybe I can do a little last-minute decorating today. Maybe I should get the staple gun out and staple things all over the walls and windowframes, and perhaps to the bushes out front as well. What sort of things, you ask? Who knows? I have boxes labeled "decorations" and I really don't know what evils lurk in the hearts of cardboard. But heck, I will decorate with whatever's in there, even if it's dead squirrels and wadded-up tissues.
I am on the verge of joining an all-women's gym. This is exciting news for me, because I have been missing having good workouts, and because my medical problems/ prescriptions caused me to gain some weight this year that I can't wait to shed like a snake skin. I visited LA Fitness yesterday, and the guy at the desk was this lunkhead guy named Matt who "couldn't find his keys." Or so he said. He was listening to me and nodding, but he was feeling around under the desk for his keys. After I had just finished a lengthy dissertation on why the atmosphere of a gym in so important to my workout, he looks at me with a blank look and says, "Sorry, it's just that I can't find my keys."
An awkward pause followed, in which I said, "Yeah, well. If you can't find your keys, that can leave you discombobulated, that's for sure." To which he stared a little more, and with an open-mouthed grin, he finally nodded. "Oh, yeah, right." He had never heard that word before.
He gave me a tour of the gym... or, I assume the only places we could get into without his keys. It was crowded and it stank of sweat and chlorine. Normally, this wouldn't bother me--I have come to expect these smells in a gym-- but I had already visited the cool little women's gym, and they actually had aromatherapy scents in there, and it was lit very nicely and was not crowded at all. I realized how much guys really can screw things up. They are bigger, they sweat more (and it's smellier sweat), they are noisier, and they can't seem to leave the free weights area. This gym in particular was so crammed with equipment in too small a space that there were treadmills in the hallways, with guys running on them as we squeezed past. "Matt" showed me the room where they had elliptical trainers and bikes, and it reminded me of those big stalls on cattle farms, where the cattle are lined up in little pens on top of one another, awaiting their death. The machines were directly on top of one another, and in very tight rows. The walls were white and sterile, with fluorescent lights overhead. Two TV screens were blinking out close-captioned news stations. Boring and depressing as hell.
Needless to say, I didn't join and Matt tried his best to give me the hard sell, dropping down the monthly fee by about 3 dollars (whoa there, Matt, slow down!) but I told him why I didn't like the gym. I even got into why I don't want to go to a gym with men anymore. I probably shouldn't have told him that I am looking for a place where we can have Menstrual Yoga classes, but I was feeling fiesty.
Wonder if Matt ever found those elusive keys. He was still hunting around in his pockets as I walked to the parking lot. Oh, man, gross.
Thursday, December 18, 2003
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
They are fucking liars. Because, look out, world, Malcolm has learned a new trick.
He will stand up on his hind legs and dance for a piece of cheese. He only started doing this a couple of weeks ago.
And he is 13 years old. With cataracts. What's that I hear; is that the sound of naysayers shaking their heads in disbelief? Well, quiet down out there, loudheads. It's true.
What you can't teach an old dog to do is find a decent looking hooker on a Saturday night. They always bring home the "shaky" ones. Sorry. Science has only come so far.
They are fucking liars. Because, look out, world, Malcolm has learned a new trick.
He will stand up on his hind legs and dance for a piece of cheese. He only started doing this a couple of weeks ago.
And he is 13 years old. With cataracts. What's that I hear; is that the sound of naysayers shaking their heads in disbelief? Well, quiet down out there, loudheads. It's true.
What you can't teach an old dog to do is find a decent looking hooker on a Saturday night. They always bring home the "shaky" ones. Sorry. Science has only come so far.
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
The other day when Tom and I went to see "The Last Samurai," I admit I did partake in some graffiti in the bathroom.
There I was in my stall after the movie... which is very long and will make your bladder ache with pain if you drink lots of soda, which I did... and I look over and see someone had scratched into the gray wall:
I LOVE REGIN (with an unfinished A, so I knew it was supposed to read, REGINA)
I had a flash of inspiration. When I finished my bidness, I stood up and pulled a pen out of my purse and wrote my own embellishments to the graffiti.
I added a little "A" after the "E" and before the "G", and drew the "I" out so it looked like an "A". I turned the unfinished "A" at the end into an exclamation point. Then, I wrote the name "RONALD" under the word "LOVE". Finally, I added my own sentence at the end... "ME TOO!"
So now, anyone else visiting that stall in the ladies' room at the UA Pavillions movie theatre in the Scottsdale Pavillions will read on the wall in that stall:
I LOVE RONALD REAGAN! ME TOO!"
I was pretty damned impressed with myself with that one. I am normally a law-abiding citizen, but I had to take this opportunity for a little random comedy. Lord knows I would laugh if I saw that on the wall while I was pissing! Ohhh, hoo boy, I am just a funny, funny, bitch.
There I was in my stall after the movie... which is very long and will make your bladder ache with pain if you drink lots of soda, which I did... and I look over and see someone had scratched into the gray wall:
I LOVE REGIN (with an unfinished A, so I knew it was supposed to read, REGINA)
I had a flash of inspiration. When I finished my bidness, I stood up and pulled a pen out of my purse and wrote my own embellishments to the graffiti.
I added a little "A" after the "E" and before the "G", and drew the "I" out so it looked like an "A". I turned the unfinished "A" at the end into an exclamation point. Then, I wrote the name "RONALD" under the word "LOVE". Finally, I added my own sentence at the end... "ME TOO!"
So now, anyone else visiting that stall in the ladies' room at the UA Pavillions movie theatre in the Scottsdale Pavillions will read on the wall in that stall:
I LOVE RONALD REAGAN! ME TOO!"
I was pretty damned impressed with myself with that one. I am normally a law-abiding citizen, but I had to take this opportunity for a little random comedy. Lord knows I would laugh if I saw that on the wall while I was pissing! Ohhh, hoo boy, I am just a funny, funny, bitch.
Sons of Norway meetings were really sumthin' special to me and my sister. Whenever we got that call from our Oma that she wanted to take us to a special SoN picnic or "rummage sale", were were all a-twitter. And by "a-twitter", I mean we were "actively trying to beg our mother not to make us go."
What was so bad about a little picnic or junk sale? It was just boring and weird. Every year my grandmother would say the same thing: "Oh, this year there will be a LOT of kids going. Not like last year. And... they're having watermelon!" And every year we would be forced to go (my parents would say thigns like, "It's nice to spend some time with your grandmother") and every year there would be NO KIDS there and the watermelon would be warm and/or non-existant.
No kid in their right mind wanted to go to these events. Whenever we got suckered into going, and I would see the lack of children, I knew there were a lot of kids that were smarter than me who had managed to get out of going. I know I tried the "sore throat" route once or twice; and one year did get out of it because I was going to camp.
The Sons of Norway is a group of people who get together to celebrate their Norwegian heritage. They apparently have "meetings" where they do something Norwegian, I guess, and eat gross foods and say words with umlauts over the a's and o's. It's almost exclusively a club of people 65+ years of age, with very dry, very dull, senses of humor. These are the grandparents that, when a 5 year-old grandkid comes up to them and asks for a soda, they will say things like, "No, I have a better idea, how about some of this carrot juice? Come on now, drink up." Then they'll go back to talking to their boring friends about Paul and his new Norwegian goat-hair cardigan and how so-and-so's wife is in the hospital again with that bronchial infection that's going around, and so on and so forth. VERY fun indeed.
The grandparents always did this yearly summer family picnic thing to get their families to come out and appreciate the Norwegian heritage. There would be some grown children there, looking tired and bored, and that was about it. Like I have already said, there were hardly ever ANY little kids there. When you are 7 years old, you totally have to have other kids to play with when you are stuck in a stuffy VFW hall for 6 hours on a Saturday, when you could be home playing Atari or swimming in your pool.
The thing is, all the grandparents ever wanted to do was SHOW OFF their grandkids. Trish and I would have to wear cute little outfits and our mom would give us matching ponytail ribbons or something, and then Oma would parade us around the VFW hall to all her old cronies, who all looked exactly the same and all smelled like mothballs. After that, we were sent off to "play." There was nothing "family" at all about this picnic. She had to talk to her friends. And ignore the grandkids, again.
"Play" consisted of coloring some ditto-ed picture of a barn and some kids wearing traditional Norwegian garb, using some dull colored pencils; wandering around the hall and jumping from tile to tile in a vain attempt to amuse yourself; visiting the bathroom and repeatedly hitting the hand-dryer button and putting your head under it; sitting in a chair quietly and not making a lot of noise. The last one was the grandparents' suggestion.
Food was always sucky. One year we had boiled hot dogs on rolls that were sort of stale. Share this bag of chips, kids. Soda? Here you go; here's a Tab. No, we don't have full sugared soda here because sugar makes kids crazy. Have a cookie out of this tin someone picked up at the drugstore on the way here, because we realized we hadn't planned on any other kid-friendly foods. If you want, you are welcome to have some boiled lutefisk, creamed fish eggs on crackers, beef brisket simmered in lard with salmon, and other things I am making up right now to try to illustrate how gross the food was. Sure hope you like fish, because that's all you're getting.
The funniest things I remember involve the other "children" who actually did attend these picnics. They were always mutated in some way. We had deaf kids, who were very hard to play with if you didn't know ASL, which of course, we didn't. We followed that up another year with the Blind Girl. She spent the whole time sitting in a folding chair, smiling in the direction of the adults, and fingering some sort of Braille toy. No chance of running around the VFW hall with the Blind Girl. We also had some of those hyperactive, no-sugar kids, and a few kids in wheelchairs or with Downs, I think. Point is, there were NEVER any kids like us. The good news was, we won the "cutest kids at the picnic" contest every year, by default. (There was no contest. But hypothetically speaking, we damn sure would have won.)
The Sons of Norway held a play one time when I was a little older. It was an original play, by one of the members. It had something to do with these two people laying in bed and dreaming all this fucked-up shit. For instance, they "dreamed" that there were two fishermen in a boat. The "fishermen" were actually two old ladies dressed up in bait-and-tackle hats, sitting on the floor behind a woman in a brown leotard, who was laying on her side on the floor. This woman in the leotard was portaying "the Boat." At one point, the "fisherman" broke a bottle on the side of the "boat" to christen it. And bruise the woman, I guess. The audience was in hysterics!
For the finale, the people in the bed dreamed of a wedding. And here comes my grandmother, making her big theatrical debut... she came on stage wearing an old curtain on her head for a veil--for she was the bride-- and carrying a bunch of fresh carrots as her 'bouquet'. Her "groom" was a woman dressed as a man, with a fake drawn-on mustache and slicked down hair. It was highly disturbing. Luckily, I had brought one of my best friends, and she and I (and Trish) spent the whole "show" laughing our asses off and making up mean names for all the people in the play.
And finally, the Sons of Norway felt a need to hold an annual Rummage Sale around Christmas time. All manner of junk was thrown all over these tables at the VFW hall, mixed in with Christmas-themed crap, like those reindeer made out of twigs and styrofoam balls with red pom-poms glued to them to be snowmen, or something... cripes, I hate that shit. One lady was selling a table full of crocheted tights. You know, like pantyhose, only it's... tights. They looked so itchy and so dorky. My Oma offered to buy us a couple of pairs, but we got out of it by telling her we had "plenty of tights at home" and taking her up on her offer to buy us small chocolate Santaheads instead.
That was the Sons of Norway. A vaguely uncomfortable celebration of your "whiteness." Ehhhh. Can't say I endorse this. Glad you're proud of your heritage and all, but god damn... do you have to be so BORING about it??
What was so bad about a little picnic or junk sale? It was just boring and weird. Every year my grandmother would say the same thing: "Oh, this year there will be a LOT of kids going. Not like last year. And... they're having watermelon!" And every year we would be forced to go (my parents would say thigns like, "It's nice to spend some time with your grandmother") and every year there would be NO KIDS there and the watermelon would be warm and/or non-existant.
No kid in their right mind wanted to go to these events. Whenever we got suckered into going, and I would see the lack of children, I knew there were a lot of kids that were smarter than me who had managed to get out of going. I know I tried the "sore throat" route once or twice; and one year did get out of it because I was going to camp.
The Sons of Norway is a group of people who get together to celebrate their Norwegian heritage. They apparently have "meetings" where they do something Norwegian, I guess, and eat gross foods and say words with umlauts over the a's and o's. It's almost exclusively a club of people 65+ years of age, with very dry, very dull, senses of humor. These are the grandparents that, when a 5 year-old grandkid comes up to them and asks for a soda, they will say things like, "No, I have a better idea, how about some of this carrot juice? Come on now, drink up." Then they'll go back to talking to their boring friends about Paul and his new Norwegian goat-hair cardigan and how so-and-so's wife is in the hospital again with that bronchial infection that's going around, and so on and so forth. VERY fun indeed.
The grandparents always did this yearly summer family picnic thing to get their families to come out and appreciate the Norwegian heritage. There would be some grown children there, looking tired and bored, and that was about it. Like I have already said, there were hardly ever ANY little kids there. When you are 7 years old, you totally have to have other kids to play with when you are stuck in a stuffy VFW hall for 6 hours on a Saturday, when you could be home playing Atari or swimming in your pool.
The thing is, all the grandparents ever wanted to do was SHOW OFF their grandkids. Trish and I would have to wear cute little outfits and our mom would give us matching ponytail ribbons or something, and then Oma would parade us around the VFW hall to all her old cronies, who all looked exactly the same and all smelled like mothballs. After that, we were sent off to "play." There was nothing "family" at all about this picnic. She had to talk to her friends. And ignore the grandkids, again.
"Play" consisted of coloring some ditto-ed picture of a barn and some kids wearing traditional Norwegian garb, using some dull colored pencils; wandering around the hall and jumping from tile to tile in a vain attempt to amuse yourself; visiting the bathroom and repeatedly hitting the hand-dryer button and putting your head under it; sitting in a chair quietly and not making a lot of noise. The last one was the grandparents' suggestion.
Food was always sucky. One year we had boiled hot dogs on rolls that were sort of stale. Share this bag of chips, kids. Soda? Here you go; here's a Tab. No, we don't have full sugared soda here because sugar makes kids crazy. Have a cookie out of this tin someone picked up at the drugstore on the way here, because we realized we hadn't planned on any other kid-friendly foods. If you want, you are welcome to have some boiled lutefisk, creamed fish eggs on crackers, beef brisket simmered in lard with salmon, and other things I am making up right now to try to illustrate how gross the food was. Sure hope you like fish, because that's all you're getting.
The funniest things I remember involve the other "children" who actually did attend these picnics. They were always mutated in some way. We had deaf kids, who were very hard to play with if you didn't know ASL, which of course, we didn't. We followed that up another year with the Blind Girl. She spent the whole time sitting in a folding chair, smiling in the direction of the adults, and fingering some sort of Braille toy. No chance of running around the VFW hall with the Blind Girl. We also had some of those hyperactive, no-sugar kids, and a few kids in wheelchairs or with Downs, I think. Point is, there were NEVER any kids like us. The good news was, we won the "cutest kids at the picnic" contest every year, by default. (There was no contest. But hypothetically speaking, we damn sure would have won.)
The Sons of Norway held a play one time when I was a little older. It was an original play, by one of the members. It had something to do with these two people laying in bed and dreaming all this fucked-up shit. For instance, they "dreamed" that there were two fishermen in a boat. The "fishermen" were actually two old ladies dressed up in bait-and-tackle hats, sitting on the floor behind a woman in a brown leotard, who was laying on her side on the floor. This woman in the leotard was portaying "the Boat." At one point, the "fisherman" broke a bottle on the side of the "boat" to christen it. And bruise the woman, I guess. The audience was in hysterics!
For the finale, the people in the bed dreamed of a wedding. And here comes my grandmother, making her big theatrical debut... she came on stage wearing an old curtain on her head for a veil--for she was the bride-- and carrying a bunch of fresh carrots as her 'bouquet'. Her "groom" was a woman dressed as a man, with a fake drawn-on mustache and slicked down hair. It was highly disturbing. Luckily, I had brought one of my best friends, and she and I (and Trish) spent the whole "show" laughing our asses off and making up mean names for all the people in the play.
And finally, the Sons of Norway felt a need to hold an annual Rummage Sale around Christmas time. All manner of junk was thrown all over these tables at the VFW hall, mixed in with Christmas-themed crap, like those reindeer made out of twigs and styrofoam balls with red pom-poms glued to them to be snowmen, or something... cripes, I hate that shit. One lady was selling a table full of crocheted tights. You know, like pantyhose, only it's... tights. They looked so itchy and so dorky. My Oma offered to buy us a couple of pairs, but we got out of it by telling her we had "plenty of tights at home" and taking her up on her offer to buy us small chocolate Santaheads instead.
That was the Sons of Norway. A vaguely uncomfortable celebration of your "whiteness." Ehhhh. Can't say I endorse this. Glad you're proud of your heritage and all, but god damn... do you have to be so BORING about it??
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Psst, hey, kid. Wanna go crazy? I have a real quick way you can go crazy in time for the holidays. It's called Singing the Uff Da Song.
This all started because the other night, Tom and were driving behind a car that had the phrase "Uff Da!" on its license plate frame. We got all excited, because that is a phrase Tom says all the time. He "inherited" it from his father. Basically, you say, "uff da" when you are full after a meal; when you have sneezed an excessive number of times; when something was exasperating, in general. It's kind of like saying, "Oh, MAN!" or something, I guess.
Tom said he thought it was a Swedish phrase. Swedish. Well, anyway, besides me being in love with a semi-Swede, I decided it was time for me to finally do a Google search on "Uff Da" once and for all. Who knew what I would find?
Turns out, I find it's actually a phrase of MY PEOPLE, the Norskys. Know what a Norsky is? It's a "Fun loving Norwegian." Hot damn! Norwegians say Uff Da. I guess the Swedes might, too, they probably steal a lot of stuff from the Norwegians. I can just see the Swedes backing up their old van to the border of Norway in the dead of night and them all rushing out and taking things of out of Norwegian homes while the Norwegians sleep, all passed out on lutefisk and curdled goat cheese.
Anycrap, in my little searches on Uff Da, I came across the following song, which was posted on a "Norwegian Jokes" page:
"Here is my favorite norwegian joke. I sing it all the time in the shower. This song can be sung to the tune of "The Camptown Races":
Norskie ladies sing dis song....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Bake dat lefse all day long....All da uff da day
(CHORUS)
Gonna bake all day! Gonna bake all night! Ill spend my Kroner
on potatoes und flour to have me an Uff da day!
Vent to da store for some lutefisk....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Vether vas so cold und brisk....It vas an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a mackinaw....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Greatest yacket I ever saw....Lefse saved da day!
(CHORUS)
Vent down town in my Model T....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Tire vent flat und I said "poor me"....It was an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a patch....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Now I got to bake me anodder batch....All da Uff Da day!
Well, know that you have that stuck in your head, I believe my job here is done. I think I need to do a little more Norwegian research, and soon, I will post more about the Sons of Norway meetings my sister and I were routinely subjected to as children. Teaser: what do fish balls, your grandmother wearing a curtain on her head to pose as a "bride", blind children, crocheted tights and warm Tab soda have in common? A lot.
This all started because the other night, Tom and were driving behind a car that had the phrase "Uff Da!" on its license plate frame. We got all excited, because that is a phrase Tom says all the time. He "inherited" it from his father. Basically, you say, "uff da" when you are full after a meal; when you have sneezed an excessive number of times; when something was exasperating, in general. It's kind of like saying, "Oh, MAN!" or something, I guess.
Tom said he thought it was a Swedish phrase. Swedish. Well, anyway, besides me being in love with a semi-Swede, I decided it was time for me to finally do a Google search on "Uff Da" once and for all. Who knew what I would find?
Turns out, I find it's actually a phrase of MY PEOPLE, the Norskys. Know what a Norsky is? It's a "Fun loving Norwegian." Hot damn! Norwegians say Uff Da. I guess the Swedes might, too, they probably steal a lot of stuff from the Norwegians. I can just see the Swedes backing up their old van to the border of Norway in the dead of night and them all rushing out and taking things of out of Norwegian homes while the Norwegians sleep, all passed out on lutefisk and curdled goat cheese.
Anycrap, in my little searches on Uff Da, I came across the following song, which was posted on a "Norwegian Jokes" page:
"Here is my favorite norwegian joke. I sing it all the time in the shower. This song can be sung to the tune of "The Camptown Races":
Norskie ladies sing dis song....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Bake dat lefse all day long....All da uff da day
(CHORUS)
Gonna bake all day! Gonna bake all night! Ill spend my Kroner
on potatoes und flour to have me an Uff da day!
Vent to da store for some lutefisk....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Vether vas so cold und brisk....It vas an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a mackinaw....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Greatest yacket I ever saw....Lefse saved da day!
(CHORUS)
Vent down town in my Model T....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Tire vent flat und I said "poor me"....It was an Uff Da day!
Used my lefse for a patch....Uff Da! Uff Da!
Now I got to bake me anodder batch....All da Uff Da day!
Well, know that you have that stuck in your head, I believe my job here is done. I think I need to do a little more Norwegian research, and soon, I will post more about the Sons of Norway meetings my sister and I were routinely subjected to as children. Teaser: what do fish balls, your grandmother wearing a curtain on her head to pose as a "bride", blind children, crocheted tights and warm Tab soda have in common? A lot.
This may be the most exciting story about rival bus gangs you will ever read about this week. And to think-- it appeared on busride.com!
Bus Ride. When you want to impress your cellmates.
Bus Ride. When you want to impress your cellmates.
Today me and my sister were talking about the topic of women named Judy who have "issues." Anyway, we came around to the most famous of all Judys, and that is of course, Judy Blume.
Turns out Trish never read "Blubber." When I asked her why, her answer was: "It's too mean-spirited."
There it is. Blubber= mean-spirited.
We're OK with "Superfudge" and "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing." But no on the "Blubber" and whatever that one was about Sheila the Great. Sheila, as drawn on the cover of the book, had big nostrils and bad pants.
Turns out Trish never read "Blubber." When I asked her why, her answer was: "It's too mean-spirited."
There it is. Blubber= mean-spirited.
We're OK with "Superfudge" and "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing." But no on the "Blubber" and whatever that one was about Sheila the Great. Sheila, as drawn on the cover of the book, had big nostrils and bad pants.
Monday, December 15, 2003
An advertiser/ manufacturer of bus parts sent me an Olde-Fashioned "Country Santa with Waterball" recently. Oh, it is glorious. It's a resin six-inch-tall statue of Ole Saint Nick, and he's leaning on a water ball. A water ball is apparently a lot like a snow globe, only there is a resin squirrel inside holding an acorn and smiling out at Santa's jacket.
This beautiful treasure was all the sweeter because when I opened the box, it was already broken. Somehow, Santa's wintery, holly-festooned walking staff had snapped off, leaving the tip and a resin cardinal (bird) in the bottom of the box.
Like anyone who is appreciative of a free gift, and anyone who appreciates the random humor of broken Santa resin figurines, I placed the Country Santa AND his Waterball on my desk in a very visible, high-traffic spot (next to inbox), with the broken staff/cardinal piece lying alongside it.
When my coworkers come into my office, they almost always pick up the broken piece and try to 'attach' it to the Country Santa. It demonstrates that well-known psych 101 principle of mental completion. We always mentally complete a picture of a circle with one piece of the circle missing, or a broken line becomes a complete line in our minds. This Country Santa with Waterball is always mentally completed by the employees of Power Trade Media.
Let's see them complete it when I smash it out in the hallway. It will be funny to see them scramble. And, of course, it will be most fun to smash something. It's been awhile since I purposely smashed anything. I think I could use a good smashin'.
This beautiful treasure was all the sweeter because when I opened the box, it was already broken. Somehow, Santa's wintery, holly-festooned walking staff had snapped off, leaving the tip and a resin cardinal (bird) in the bottom of the box.
Like anyone who is appreciative of a free gift, and anyone who appreciates the random humor of broken Santa resin figurines, I placed the Country Santa AND his Waterball on my desk in a very visible, high-traffic spot (next to inbox), with the broken staff/cardinal piece lying alongside it.
When my coworkers come into my office, they almost always pick up the broken piece and try to 'attach' it to the Country Santa. It demonstrates that well-known psych 101 principle of mental completion. We always mentally complete a picture of a circle with one piece of the circle missing, or a broken line becomes a complete line in our minds. This Country Santa with Waterball is always mentally completed by the employees of Power Trade Media.
Let's see them complete it when I smash it out in the hallway. It will be funny to see them scramble. And, of course, it will be most fun to smash something. It's been awhile since I purposely smashed anything. I think I could use a good smashin'.
Friday, December 12, 2003
I am busy so here are some random thoughts/ observations:
* I edit with a green (not red) pen; must be very fine point, never medium otherwise my edits look messy on the copy
* I saw "Willard" the other day. So weird! And I loved it for that. Crispin Glover could end up being one of my sorta-heroes, because he is so unique. Although it was super sad when the orange cat named Scully tried to get away from the rats to no avail. Well, as a whole, the movie entertained me.
* I also saw "Dumb and Dumberer," and that bitch of a movie is worth it, if you can believe it. It's really worth it for the scenes with Bob Saget. Bob Saget could also become one of my new sorta-heroes. Although I have liked him since "Half Baked" to be perfectly honest.
* I think my rib is out of place. I can't breathe right. I hope the chiropractor can help! See what coughing too much can get you, kids? That's right, not enough oxygen.
* I think I'm sorta "fat." But then again, I think anyone who caught the rerun of "The Simple Life" last night is thinking they are fat compared to super skinny Paris Hilton. Cripes, that's another thing; I can't believe this no-talent pile of bones is getting so much attention these days. Seems like every time I turn on the radio or TV, or check my e-mail, there is a mention of Paris this, Paris that. Blah Blah Blah. Shut up! Let's see some more pictures of cute kids, like Maddox (Angelina Jolie's cute little baby) and of course, Jack and Lily Rose Depp. That'd be something schweet.
* Chuck Barry, Guy From My High School Homeroom, ended up visiting my father's house the other day and ended up writing me an e-mail today. It's a small world, after all. Hi Chuck. :)
* I have now spent about 12 minutes of time writing this entry, when I should have been completing my latest article. I so, like, totally, have to go. Ohmigod.
* I edit with a green (not red) pen; must be very fine point, never medium otherwise my edits look messy on the copy
* I saw "Willard" the other day. So weird! And I loved it for that. Crispin Glover could end up being one of my sorta-heroes, because he is so unique. Although it was super sad when the orange cat named Scully tried to get away from the rats to no avail. Well, as a whole, the movie entertained me.
* I also saw "Dumb and Dumberer," and that bitch of a movie is worth it, if you can believe it. It's really worth it for the scenes with Bob Saget. Bob Saget could also become one of my new sorta-heroes. Although I have liked him since "Half Baked" to be perfectly honest.
* I think my rib is out of place. I can't breathe right. I hope the chiropractor can help! See what coughing too much can get you, kids? That's right, not enough oxygen.
* I think I'm sorta "fat." But then again, I think anyone who caught the rerun of "The Simple Life" last night is thinking they are fat compared to super skinny Paris Hilton. Cripes, that's another thing; I can't believe this no-talent pile of bones is getting so much attention these days. Seems like every time I turn on the radio or TV, or check my e-mail, there is a mention of Paris this, Paris that. Blah Blah Blah. Shut up! Let's see some more pictures of cute kids, like Maddox (Angelina Jolie's cute little baby) and of course, Jack and Lily Rose Depp. That'd be something schweet.
* Chuck Barry, Guy From My High School Homeroom, ended up visiting my father's house the other day and ended up writing me an e-mail today. It's a small world, after all. Hi Chuck. :)
* I have now spent about 12 minutes of time writing this entry, when I should have been completing my latest article. I so, like, totally, have to go. Ohmigod.
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
Wow! It looks like I was kidnapped, or something catastrophic happened in the middle of my last post. It cut off my entry mid-sentence yesterday. I had no idea until today. I also had no idea until today that Michael Jackson was into the young boy action, but go figure. I didn't test very highly on my SATs. For a genius, I sure am a dummy.
Anyway, whew, I think I could have "The flu". The dreaded "the flu." Maybe not though, as my fevers come and go like a drunk uncle through your bedroom window. But I feel like utter hell. I had to stay home today because coughing fits have left me sore and tired out and yucky feeling. I worked from home though; transcribing about 3 hours' worth of interviews for an article that, as of 10:30 pm, I haven't been able to finish yet despite my best efforts. Transcribing sucks so, so much. Half the time people are all mumble-mouth and I am spending precious minutes rewinding and trying to figure out what the fuck Gerald at the bus garage just said. Most of the time if I try to transcribe with a fever, every other word sounds to me like "whore" and/or "skank." Again, I can probably uncover something in my upbringing that makes me think like this (maybe I should look into that drunk uncle thing).
I finally caved in and after I had some dinner tonight, I went over to the drug store to purchase a humidifier. Nonchalantly I stroll through the handy automatic doors and head into the store. But! Before I can get through the vestibule, I am stunned when a LIFESIZE fake Santa starts gyrating and waving its hands around, a tinny voice screaming, "Have a holly jolly Christmas, blah blah blah blah nightmares for years...!" directly to my left. Yikes! Seriously folks, this thing was straight from the Devil. Yeah, the Big Guy with the Capital D. Scary as your aunt, whom your uncle has left passed out on roofies in the back of the volvo.
This huge moving Santa actually made me stop in my tracks and stare at it. I mean, give it a good once over, and by once over I don't mean hand-job, although some of you are thinking that-- I mean, I took the time to look at this thing rather than run away. Its hips were literally swaying from side the side, and I could hear the plastic and metal creaking through the cheap fabric suit it wore; the eyes blinked slowly opened and closed, and the arms, bent up at the elbows, looked ready to drop down onto my shoulders and pull me close for a soul-draining. The voice sang over some really crappy music, which is weird in and of itself: imagine if, when you opened your mouth to sing a happy tune, actual background music came out along with your voice? You'd probably give up the ghost because you were so disgusted with your mutated self.
Anyway, ewwww.
I knew I was looking a little funny, my face screwed up and my mouth slack as I stared at the horror. It cost almost $200, too. Some jackoff is going to actually BUY that thing. I know it. There are probably dozens sold around the country as I type this. Thousands of people are getting ready to lose their souls, unbeknownst to them, because a careless relative has chosen to let satan into the house for the holidays.
Randomly, the image of the pig's head on the stick from "Lord of the Flies" just popped into my head. I am not exaggerating now, I could handle that pig's head on the stick, with the flies and everything, swaying back and forth and singing "Dominic the Donkey" in an off-pitch Courtney Love voice easier than I can handle going back to Osco and having to walk past that evil Santa again. Does that make me weird, or I am just a well-adjusted person? I don't know anymore.
Anyway, whew, I think I could have "The flu". The dreaded "the flu." Maybe not though, as my fevers come and go like a drunk uncle through your bedroom window. But I feel like utter hell. I had to stay home today because coughing fits have left me sore and tired out and yucky feeling. I worked from home though; transcribing about 3 hours' worth of interviews for an article that, as of 10:30 pm, I haven't been able to finish yet despite my best efforts. Transcribing sucks so, so much. Half the time people are all mumble-mouth and I am spending precious minutes rewinding and trying to figure out what the fuck Gerald at the bus garage just said. Most of the time if I try to transcribe with a fever, every other word sounds to me like "whore" and/or "skank." Again, I can probably uncover something in my upbringing that makes me think like this (maybe I should look into that drunk uncle thing).
I finally caved in and after I had some dinner tonight, I went over to the drug store to purchase a humidifier. Nonchalantly I stroll through the handy automatic doors and head into the store. But! Before I can get through the vestibule, I am stunned when a LIFESIZE fake Santa starts gyrating and waving its hands around, a tinny voice screaming, "Have a holly jolly Christmas, blah blah blah blah nightmares for years...!" directly to my left. Yikes! Seriously folks, this thing was straight from the Devil. Yeah, the Big Guy with the Capital D. Scary as your aunt, whom your uncle has left passed out on roofies in the back of the volvo.
This huge moving Santa actually made me stop in my tracks and stare at it. I mean, give it a good once over, and by once over I don't mean hand-job, although some of you are thinking that-- I mean, I took the time to look at this thing rather than run away. Its hips were literally swaying from side the side, and I could hear the plastic and metal creaking through the cheap fabric suit it wore; the eyes blinked slowly opened and closed, and the arms, bent up at the elbows, looked ready to drop down onto my shoulders and pull me close for a soul-draining. The voice sang over some really crappy music, which is weird in and of itself: imagine if, when you opened your mouth to sing a happy tune, actual background music came out along with your voice? You'd probably give up the ghost because you were so disgusted with your mutated self.
Anyway, ewwww.
I knew I was looking a little funny, my face screwed up and my mouth slack as I stared at the horror. It cost almost $200, too. Some jackoff is going to actually BUY that thing. I know it. There are probably dozens sold around the country as I type this. Thousands of people are getting ready to lose their souls, unbeknownst to them, because a careless relative has chosen to let satan into the house for the holidays.
Randomly, the image of the pig's head on the stick from "Lord of the Flies" just popped into my head. I am not exaggerating now, I could handle that pig's head on the stick, with the flies and everything, swaying back and forth and singing "Dominic the Donkey" in an off-pitch Courtney Love voice easier than I can handle going back to Osco and having to walk past that evil Santa again. Does that make me weird, or I am just a well-adjusted person? I don't know anymore.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
I can't stand it when parents just don't discipline their kids, or even just teach them basic social skills. I'll be in a store and some kid will just be screaming at random, and the parent just sort of holds a finger to his or her timid lips and goes, "Shhhhh..." and that's it. If they even acknowledge it at all. Sometimes they ignore it and keep shopping or chatting with their friends, using the ole' ignore-it-and-the-problem-goes-away philosophy (which never works, except in the case of pimples). Even more hilarious is when parents try to REASON with their kids. Oh my God! Why the hell do some mothers say, "No, you need to be quiet now, Dakota, because if you do we can go to the candy store after this." And the kid keeps screaming. Mom will repeat her little ridiculous statement again in a softer voice, perhaps attempting a little eye contact. Nothing will happen. Except shoppers in the vicinity will all hate her and wish her and her spawn lots of pain.
You know what works? Actually disciplining a kid. I'm not saying you should beat your kid, but seriously, putting a little fear into them is not going to be a bad thing. My mother, for example, wouldn't even have to say ANYTHING if I started raising some hell while we were out somewhere. All she needed to do was give me the dreaded LOOK. This look was pointed, direct, and it said clearly, "You stop it NOW or you will regret it." I would always quit screwing around if I got this look.
My parents hit me a couple times in the beginning to lay the groundwork. But after that, I didn't need to get hit at all, because, like I said, the LOOK was all they needed to do to reinforce that respect and fear. Wow, when I read that back it sounds absolutely awful and non-PC. But I do think you have to train kids like you train your dog. The primary step to training an animal always involves, first thing: ESTABLISHING WHO IS THE BOSS. Don't show your kid a photo of Tony Danza, either, you wiseass. But just don't let your kid (animal) step all over you! You need to set the barriers and the hierarchy. Otherwise the animal (kid) will run wild and step all over you, taking advantages wherever it can.
Anyway, that said, today I went to this crappy little "Japanese grill" fast food place called Shogun Express. I ordered my steamed veggies and headed towards the soda fountain to fill my cup. This mousy woman in a pink sweater was there with these two horrible little blonde boys. One boy was probably about 4, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and he had blue marker on his face. He was loudly yelling something and running all over the area, in and around the legs of other customers. His brother was just as obnoxious, opening up the cabinet under the area where they have straws and napkins and fucking CLIMBING INSIDE and pulling out clean drink-cup lids and spilling them on the floor.
And the mother/guardian? Oh, she is just sort of zoning out and saying in a soft, 'nurturing' voice, "No, Joey, don't do that, honey," and then trying to get napkins and avoid being run down by little blue-sweatshirt bastard, who is practically tripping everyone in the place. I am filling my cup with soda when blue-sweatshirt reaches up and tries to grab my cup! I look at him and turn away so he can't reach it. I glance at the mother, but she is oblivious.
I see that the demon children and their guardian have taken one of the prime tables near the window. I target a table about two away from them, in the corner, so I can eat and read my book in peace. As I am walking to this table, I pass little Blue SweatShirt Kid, who is sitting alone at the table. He looks up at me, points, and yells, "DOOFUS!"
I was really pissed off. I snap at him, "That is NOT NICE to say. You don't talk that way to people! You hear me, that is NOT NICE at all." I glare at him and sit down, feeling a lot like a stern teacher. I also worried that the dumb mother-person would have heard me and yelled at me. I have been yelled at by angry parents before. (In Pizza Hut once, I yelled at a kid who was fucking around and climbed into our booth while we were eating dinner and his Dad stood up and screamed, "I'll discipline my OWN kids, thank you very much!" all snotty.) But, today, the mother was overwhelmed by snotty little Climb-Inside-Cabinet brat and didn't hear me.
I ended up moving to the other side of the restaurant because the Blue Sweatshirt brat kept staring at me and I could hear him �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������
You know what works? Actually disciplining a kid. I'm not saying you should beat your kid, but seriously, putting a little fear into them is not going to be a bad thing. My mother, for example, wouldn't even have to say ANYTHING if I started raising some hell while we were out somewhere. All she needed to do was give me the dreaded LOOK. This look was pointed, direct, and it said clearly, "You stop it NOW or you will regret it." I would always quit screwing around if I got this look.
My parents hit me a couple times in the beginning to lay the groundwork. But after that, I didn't need to get hit at all, because, like I said, the LOOK was all they needed to do to reinforce that respect and fear. Wow, when I read that back it sounds absolutely awful and non-PC. But I do think you have to train kids like you train your dog. The primary step to training an animal always involves, first thing: ESTABLISHING WHO IS THE BOSS. Don't show your kid a photo of Tony Danza, either, you wiseass. But just don't let your kid (animal) step all over you! You need to set the barriers and the hierarchy. Otherwise the animal (kid) will run wild and step all over you, taking advantages wherever it can.
Anyway, that said, today I went to this crappy little "Japanese grill" fast food place called Shogun Express. I ordered my steamed veggies and headed towards the soda fountain to fill my cup. This mousy woman in a pink sweater was there with these two horrible little blonde boys. One boy was probably about 4, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and he had blue marker on his face. He was loudly yelling something and running all over the area, in and around the legs of other customers. His brother was just as obnoxious, opening up the cabinet under the area where they have straws and napkins and fucking CLIMBING INSIDE and pulling out clean drink-cup lids and spilling them on the floor.
And the mother/guardian? Oh, she is just sort of zoning out and saying in a soft, 'nurturing' voice, "No, Joey, don't do that, honey," and then trying to get napkins and avoid being run down by little blue-sweatshirt bastard, who is practically tripping everyone in the place. I am filling my cup with soda when blue-sweatshirt reaches up and tries to grab my cup! I look at him and turn away so he can't reach it. I glance at the mother, but she is oblivious.
I see that the demon children and their guardian have taken one of the prime tables near the window. I target a table about two away from them, in the corner, so I can eat and read my book in peace. As I am walking to this table, I pass little Blue SweatShirt Kid, who is sitting alone at the table. He looks up at me, points, and yells, "DOOFUS!"
I was really pissed off. I snap at him, "That is NOT NICE to say. You don't talk that way to people! You hear me, that is NOT NICE at all." I glare at him and sit down, feeling a lot like a stern teacher. I also worried that the dumb mother-person would have heard me and yelled at me. I have been yelled at by angry parents before. (In Pizza Hut once, I yelled at a kid who was fucking around and climbed into our booth while we were eating dinner and his Dad stood up and screamed, "I'll discipline my OWN kids, thank you very much!" all snotty.) But, today, the mother was overwhelmed by snotty little Climb-Inside-Cabinet brat and didn't hear me.
I ended up moving to the other side of the restaurant because the Blue Sweatshirt brat kept staring at me and I could hear him �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������
Monday, December 08, 2003
People always say the weekend goes too fast but mine really did. On Friday night, Tom took me to the Phoenix Zoo for "Zoolights"... which, if you are not hip to the PHX scene, is a Christmas-lighted display all over the zoo grounds, with music and small pettin' zoo areas set up here and there. It's very pretty. They hang lights everywhere, except from the animals themselves. Since it's dark, it's not possible to actually see the animals, which is the only drawback. I love dem animals, I do.
Tom once worked at Zoolights; he was a "sprite"-- meaning, a guy in a sorta-queer looking costume with a shiny vest and hat. His job was to stand guard over some young girls who were dancing at the entrance. Just stand there, smile, and welcome people to Zoolights. He did this nightly in often-freezing weather (yeah, it gets cold in Phoenix). I think this is cool. It's not as impressive as Tricia's stint as Chuck E., but it will suffice.
At Zoolights, we walked through and got our $7 worth of lights and music, and crowds. There sure were a lot of all those things. They played "Carol of the Bells" an awful lot. That's that Christmas song that sounds a little bit psycho. It gets louder and LOUDER and the bells get closer and closer until AHHH! You're dead! We also noticed a lot of snack bars. They were all selling hot pretzels and hot chocolate for $2.75. Yowzas! Families were swarming the place; young, old, stupid, insane, high, coked up, drunk, dead, you name it. In fact, we had a nice time simply resting on a bench and watching people walk by. We particularly enjoyed a stately old black gentleman walking into the Arizona Trail alone, the biker-looking guys who were screaming, "Monkey!" as they walked past the light-up monkey shapes in the trees; and the various Babies Who All Look The Same.
I also did a lot of Christmas shopping this weekend. I really don't enjoy that so much. I am overspending, despite my best efforts. This is mostly because I find myself buying presents for myself. It's the old story... girl goes shopping for presents for someone else, winds up several thousand dollars in debt due to sales on clothes in her size.
And, I painted some stuff. Craft stuff. Stuff I can't disclose here, as they are gifts for some people who read this blog. Tom knows that one thing isn't for him, because he watched my ill-fated attempts to "add color" to a portion of the item last night. He laughed at me. I deserved it, too. Holy crap, I am not the greatest when it comes to crafts. Not even in the top tier of crafting. I am somewhere in craft purgatory, methinks.
Gee, aren't you excited to see your Handmade Gifts from the Inferno??
Tom once worked at Zoolights; he was a "sprite"-- meaning, a guy in a sorta-queer looking costume with a shiny vest and hat. His job was to stand guard over some young girls who were dancing at the entrance. Just stand there, smile, and welcome people to Zoolights. He did this nightly in often-freezing weather (yeah, it gets cold in Phoenix). I think this is cool. It's not as impressive as Tricia's stint as Chuck E., but it will suffice.
At Zoolights, we walked through and got our $7 worth of lights and music, and crowds. There sure were a lot of all those things. They played "Carol of the Bells" an awful lot. That's that Christmas song that sounds a little bit psycho. It gets louder and LOUDER and the bells get closer and closer until AHHH! You're dead! We also noticed a lot of snack bars. They were all selling hot pretzels and hot chocolate for $2.75. Yowzas! Families were swarming the place; young, old, stupid, insane, high, coked up, drunk, dead, you name it. In fact, we had a nice time simply resting on a bench and watching people walk by. We particularly enjoyed a stately old black gentleman walking into the Arizona Trail alone, the biker-looking guys who were screaming, "Monkey!" as they walked past the light-up monkey shapes in the trees; and the various Babies Who All Look The Same.
I also did a lot of Christmas shopping this weekend. I really don't enjoy that so much. I am overspending, despite my best efforts. This is mostly because I find myself buying presents for myself. It's the old story... girl goes shopping for presents for someone else, winds up several thousand dollars in debt due to sales on clothes in her size.
And, I painted some stuff. Craft stuff. Stuff I can't disclose here, as they are gifts for some people who read this blog. Tom knows that one thing isn't for him, because he watched my ill-fated attempts to "add color" to a portion of the item last night. He laughed at me. I deserved it, too. Holy crap, I am not the greatest when it comes to crafts. Not even in the top tier of crafting. I am somewhere in craft purgatory, methinks.
Gee, aren't you excited to see your Handmade Gifts from the Inferno??
Friday, December 05, 2003
Malcolm has updated his blog. Check that out, while I try to get all this blood and gore washed out of my keyboard. Rest assured, I will have the swords cleaned and returned to you by this afternoon, as promised. The kill went well.
Thursday, December 04, 2003
I am home sick today, and it would be the perfect time to get some writing done. But instead, I am checking e-mail and thinking about watching some TV. This is horrendous. But I really do think that the more I think about writing and how I SHOULD BE DOING IT, the harder it becomes to actually do it. It used to be, writing was an automatic thing for me when I was growing up. I could write every single day, for hours on end. I finished two books by the time I was 15. Today, I am hasslin' myself because I have yet to finish a novel I started in 1996! 1996. And the whole thing is mapped out in my head and I think about it every single day, and yet I am not actively writing much of it. Why is that?
Well, whatever it is, it is maddening. I think I need to chill out a little.
Well, whatever it is, it is maddening. I think I need to chill out a little.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Oh, Jennifer Love Hewitt, you are quite the character!
This is kind of old news, but I just noticed a headline from a few days ago that reads: "Love Hewitt Pukes, Yelps at White House" and I had to read it. In fact, it is safe to assume that if you put the words "puke" and "yelp" in any headline, I will definitely read it. And if you add "White House," I am so there I am practically early. Dare I wish for the mention of J-L-Hew on top of all that? Sweet Lord! I will have an orgasm right away; one that is so intense I will go into seizures.
The story reads like a sketch on SNL. There is petite lil' Jennifer Love Hewitt, attending a solemn ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and whammo, she starts vomiting. Then a bee stings her and she is yelping--not once, not twice, but repeatedly. I am not really surprised. Because come on, whose idea was it to invite a luminary like Jennifer Love Hewitt to this sort of ceremony? What, were actual lawmakers and societal movers-and-shakers unavailable or something? You've got to expect some sort of shenanigans with a dame like "Love Hewitt" in the house. They're just lucky she wasn't parading around in a knock-off Audrey Hepburn dress and mouthing off about Carson Daly to anyone who would listen. I bet she does coke, too. Yeah, coke and bacon. Why bacon? Because of this image: visualize a coked-up Jennifer Love Hewitt, sitting at a West Hollywood bus terminal at 3am on a Tuesday night, eating practically a whole pound of bacon out of her grease-stained purse. No one would expect this from the dainty ingenue. But these things happen all the time. I know it.
Some other things that Jennifer Love Hewitt could end up doing, based on the place and occasion:
* Suffer a bloody nose at the Oscars and then get bitten by a mongoose under the seats and disrupt Cuba Gooding Jr.'s "Radio" Best Actor acceptance speech
* Have explosive diarrhea while hot air ballooning with Make-a-Wish Foundation children and then get bitten by a moray eel she mistakenly thought was dead when she brought it on board for the ride
* Spontaneously abort "something vaguely Carson-ish" while attending the Pope's funeral, and then having a feral dog run into the church and knock her down and chew on her clavicles for awhile
Whew, I am done for the time being. I really hope we hear more about this Love Hewitt chick. She sounds like she's a lot of fun.
This is kind of old news, but I just noticed a headline from a few days ago that reads: "Love Hewitt Pukes, Yelps at White House" and I had to read it. In fact, it is safe to assume that if you put the words "puke" and "yelp" in any headline, I will definitely read it. And if you add "White House," I am so there I am practically early. Dare I wish for the mention of J-L-Hew on top of all that? Sweet Lord! I will have an orgasm right away; one that is so intense I will go into seizures.
The story reads like a sketch on SNL. There is petite lil' Jennifer Love Hewitt, attending a solemn ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and whammo, she starts vomiting. Then a bee stings her and she is yelping--not once, not twice, but repeatedly. I am not really surprised. Because come on, whose idea was it to invite a luminary like Jennifer Love Hewitt to this sort of ceremony? What, were actual lawmakers and societal movers-and-shakers unavailable or something? You've got to expect some sort of shenanigans with a dame like "Love Hewitt" in the house. They're just lucky she wasn't parading around in a knock-off Audrey Hepburn dress and mouthing off about Carson Daly to anyone who would listen. I bet she does coke, too. Yeah, coke and bacon. Why bacon? Because of this image: visualize a coked-up Jennifer Love Hewitt, sitting at a West Hollywood bus terminal at 3am on a Tuesday night, eating practically a whole pound of bacon out of her grease-stained purse. No one would expect this from the dainty ingenue. But these things happen all the time. I know it.
Some other things that Jennifer Love Hewitt could end up doing, based on the place and occasion:
* Suffer a bloody nose at the Oscars and then get bitten by a mongoose under the seats and disrupt Cuba Gooding Jr.'s "Radio" Best Actor acceptance speech
* Have explosive diarrhea while hot air ballooning with Make-a-Wish Foundation children and then get bitten by a moray eel she mistakenly thought was dead when she brought it on board for the ride
* Spontaneously abort "something vaguely Carson-ish" while attending the Pope's funeral, and then having a feral dog run into the church and knock her down and chew on her clavicles for awhile
Whew, I am done for the time being. I really hope we hear more about this Love Hewitt chick. She sounds like she's a lot of fun.
A few nights ago Trish and Kane went to see a sneak preview of "Big Fish." They said it was really, really, really good. Tim Burton is back to making movies that aren't huge wastes of time, like say, Planet of the Apes. I am so enthused about this that I could do a little dance in my red shoes.
When Trish was telling me about the movie over the phone, I asked her: "Was it touching?"
She laughed, and called to Kane. "Hey Kane, what's one word you would use to describe this movie?"
And he said, "touching."
And "enchanting."
OK, that's two words, but they're two good words.
I am reading the book right now. It's pretty good and it's a nice, fast read. I recommend it: it's by Daniel Wallace and the cover looks like the movie poster. Which, incidentally, I am only about an hour away from winning on eBay!
When Trish was telling me about the movie over the phone, I asked her: "Was it touching?"
She laughed, and called to Kane. "Hey Kane, what's one word you would use to describe this movie?"
And he said, "touching."
And "enchanting."
OK, that's two words, but they're two good words.
I am reading the book right now. It's pretty good and it's a nice, fast read. I recommend it: it's by Daniel Wallace and the cover looks like the movie poster. Which, incidentally, I am only about an hour away from winning on eBay!
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
One thing I totally hate is picking up dog crap.
I consider my dogs my friends. You know, in that I-hide-in-my-relationship-with-the-dogs-to-avoid-real-intimacy-with-real-people way. But you know, I enjoy a nice leisurely stroll around the neighborhood from time to time with the two of them. Tonight, we took a fun little jaunt around the block... the air was crisp, a lot of houses were twinkling with Christmas lights, I think I saw a Christmas elf humping a giant, inflatable Christmas tree-- it was your standard evening, really.
And then, the dogs crap.
Forget about being discreet about it. And they never do it when there are no cars coming up the street, or when people are safely inside their houses and not opening up the front door to go out to the car. The dogs have this radar that I will dub, "People Must See Me Defecate Radar" and this radar always knows the perfect time and place to pop out a stank nugget or two.
So there I am, trying to wrangle two dogs as the big one pinches one off on some guy's lawn. The neighbor across the street comes outside to get in his car. Headlights immediately come washing down the dark street and highlighting the whole scene in all its poopy glory. I reach into my pocket for a little blue bag. I want to make sure the neighbor and the driver behind those headlights know I am NOT one of those people that doesn't take responsibility for my dog's messes. I make a show of whipping out the bag and looking "focused" on the dog and its crapping.
Meanwhile, the little dog is completely oblivious and pulling off in another direction altogether. This is a hazard of walking two dogs at once. Little dog starts walking into the street. Yeah, Malcolm, now is a GREAT time to play Evel Knievel. I can't yank him back either, because he is so tiny that in doing so, I would most certainly un-voice him because his neck is so fragile. He is basically a tissue paper dog. The big one is still dropping, during all this. Finally, as I am pulling Malcolm back to the sidewalk, I reach down to scoop up the crap while the headlights are now right on top of me.
I pick the stuff up, quickly and efficiently, and try to look graceful as the wind blows a piece of hair in my eye as I stand up. I can't wipe the hair out because in one hand I have two dogs on leashes going in different directions, the other is a small plastic bag containing dog droppings. So I shake my head wildly as the car goes past and the neighbor across the street finally seems to get in his car. I feel like a spazz and I am sickened by the fact that there I am, trying to maintain dignity with dog crap in my right hand. Not easy. Not easy at'tall.
The whole thing reminds me that there could come a time in my friendships with any one of my current friends where I will find myself picking up their/your crap. Or, likewise, the situation could occur where it's my crap on the line. Granted, I am about 98% sure this won't be until we are in the Olde Folkes Home or something, so we will be too old to really care and all that-- but still! I am really NOT all that jazzed about this. Maybe we should stop being friends soon, just to safeguard against this sort of uncomfortable situation. I can give you back your Nine Inch Nails T-shirt the next time I see you. Remember to bring my "Waiting for Guffman" DVD; I have really been meaning to tell you, I need that back. I'm sorry, I know you are just as upset about this as I am, but we all know the old mantra:
Shit Happens.
... and, with that, I do believe it's time to shut my ole' mouth and go to sleep. Enough.
I consider my dogs my friends. You know, in that I-hide-in-my-relationship-with-the-dogs-to-avoid-real-intimacy-with-real-people way. But you know, I enjoy a nice leisurely stroll around the neighborhood from time to time with the two of them. Tonight, we took a fun little jaunt around the block... the air was crisp, a lot of houses were twinkling with Christmas lights, I think I saw a Christmas elf humping a giant, inflatable Christmas tree-- it was your standard evening, really.
And then, the dogs crap.
Forget about being discreet about it. And they never do it when there are no cars coming up the street, or when people are safely inside their houses and not opening up the front door to go out to the car. The dogs have this radar that I will dub, "People Must See Me Defecate Radar" and this radar always knows the perfect time and place to pop out a stank nugget or two.
So there I am, trying to wrangle two dogs as the big one pinches one off on some guy's lawn. The neighbor across the street comes outside to get in his car. Headlights immediately come washing down the dark street and highlighting the whole scene in all its poopy glory. I reach into my pocket for a little blue bag. I want to make sure the neighbor and the driver behind those headlights know I am NOT one of those people that doesn't take responsibility for my dog's messes. I make a show of whipping out the bag and looking "focused" on the dog and its crapping.
Meanwhile, the little dog is completely oblivious and pulling off in another direction altogether. This is a hazard of walking two dogs at once. Little dog starts walking into the street. Yeah, Malcolm, now is a GREAT time to play Evel Knievel. I can't yank him back either, because he is so tiny that in doing so, I would most certainly un-voice him because his neck is so fragile. He is basically a tissue paper dog. The big one is still dropping, during all this. Finally, as I am pulling Malcolm back to the sidewalk, I reach down to scoop up the crap while the headlights are now right on top of me.
I pick the stuff up, quickly and efficiently, and try to look graceful as the wind blows a piece of hair in my eye as I stand up. I can't wipe the hair out because in one hand I have two dogs on leashes going in different directions, the other is a small plastic bag containing dog droppings. So I shake my head wildly as the car goes past and the neighbor across the street finally seems to get in his car. I feel like a spazz and I am sickened by the fact that there I am, trying to maintain dignity with dog crap in my right hand. Not easy. Not easy at'tall.
The whole thing reminds me that there could come a time in my friendships with any one of my current friends where I will find myself picking up their/your crap. Or, likewise, the situation could occur where it's my crap on the line. Granted, I am about 98% sure this won't be until we are in the Olde Folkes Home or something, so we will be too old to really care and all that-- but still! I am really NOT all that jazzed about this. Maybe we should stop being friends soon, just to safeguard against this sort of uncomfortable situation. I can give you back your Nine Inch Nails T-shirt the next time I see you. Remember to bring my "Waiting for Guffman" DVD; I have really been meaning to tell you, I need that back. I'm sorry, I know you are just as upset about this as I am, but we all know the old mantra:
Shit Happens.
... and, with that, I do believe it's time to shut my ole' mouth and go to sleep. Enough.
Now it's my mother who is "heading Back East" tomorrow to visit New Jersey. This makes me wonder: why do people always call it "back East" anyway? Because the thing is, when I was out in NJ I never once heard anyone who was from the Western side of the country call it, "Back West," or even, "Out West." People just say, "in Arizona" or "in California."
I think I know what it is. People from NJ and NY are pompous motherfuckers. We/They think their state alone constitutes an entire geographical direction. Oh, yeah, sure, the whole eastern-seaboard world just revolves around you, NJ and/or NY!
Look, why don't you just settle the hell down. Breathe into this giant, state-mouth-sized paper bag for awhile, Mr. "Call Me Back East."
I think I know what it is. People from NJ and NY are pompous motherfuckers. We/They think their state alone constitutes an entire geographical direction. Oh, yeah, sure, the whole eastern-seaboard world just revolves around you, NJ and/or NY!
Look, why don't you just settle the hell down. Breathe into this giant, state-mouth-sized paper bag for awhile, Mr. "Call Me Back East."
Last night I wandered around a Barnes and Noble for almost two hours. What is it about those stores and the way they suck you in so you start looking at books you normally wouldn't have an interest in, such as a book on gruesome medical histories of crazed dictators, all because that book is in that "bargain" section? I don't know. But seriously, they almost got me on several titles. I wish there were more hours in the day so I could read all the things I would like to read in this life.
Instead I waste hours upon hours reading the latest "Entertainment Weekly" magazine or something girly and/or self-improvement-y like "Real Simple" or "Shape." There are so many works of literature out there--honest-to-goodness books and novels and what-not, and here I am reading about the acting techniques of Sean Penn. Again, I don't know what it is that makes me read this stuff constantly.
I was just sitting here trying to remember what books I do want to read someday, and I can only get a couple out because I am distracted by the man in a workman's jumper, rolling a giant wooden box on wheels down the hallway and past my office. I am now wondering what could be in there. Oooh, I think I just heard a crowbar! No, false alarm... it was just the guy carrying a little dolly/truck thing made of wood with 4 metal wheels on it; guess the box didn't have wheels after all. There he goes. And now I suppose someone else will open the box and discover its mysteries; not me. Oh well.
Well, anyway, I want to read "Black House" by Peter Straub and Stephen King; "Moby Dick" and the bible sometime. That's a sort of odd list. Maybe later I will think of some more. Or maybe later I will pack myself in an empty wooden crate and wait for someone in the office to let me out. Who knows what could happen?
Instead I waste hours upon hours reading the latest "Entertainment Weekly" magazine or something girly and/or self-improvement-y like "Real Simple" or "Shape." There are so many works of literature out there--honest-to-goodness books and novels and what-not, and here I am reading about the acting techniques of Sean Penn. Again, I don't know what it is that makes me read this stuff constantly.
I was just sitting here trying to remember what books I do want to read someday, and I can only get a couple out because I am distracted by the man in a workman's jumper, rolling a giant wooden box on wheels down the hallway and past my office. I am now wondering what could be in there. Oooh, I think I just heard a crowbar! No, false alarm... it was just the guy carrying a little dolly/truck thing made of wood with 4 metal wheels on it; guess the box didn't have wheels after all. There he goes. And now I suppose someone else will open the box and discover its mysteries; not me. Oh well.
Well, anyway, I want to read "Black House" by Peter Straub and Stephen King; "Moby Dick" and the bible sometime. That's a sort of odd list. Maybe later I will think of some more. Or maybe later I will pack myself in an empty wooden crate and wait for someone in the office to let me out. Who knows what could happen?
Monday, December 01, 2003
One more post and then I really must transcribe some interviews I did recently with "bus dudes."
The other night, I dreamed that I was doing the play "M*A*S*H" again, and it was the scene where I had to take my boots off and put on the big red high heels. There was a time, for real, when the director wanted me to change out of fatigues and into a dress on-stage, but I nixed that one and ended up being able to put the dress on off-stage and come on just to change my shoes. Well, anyway, in the dream, I somehow or other had to take my pants off and get the dress on while on-stage. Only there was some sort of problem-- another actor missed a whole bunch of lines and moved the scene along faster than it should have. So I am left at a point where I am supposed to get off stage really fast, only my pants are stuck down around my ankles and I can't get them off; everytime I try I lose my balance and almost fall off the stage (which really did happen one night, but luckily it was in the dark between scenes so no one saw me and I didn't have pants around my legs at the time, either).
So, finally, I am forced to grab my pants up with one hand under my dress and hobble offstage like a big idiot who can't pull up her pants, the audience pointing and mumbling the whole time. In the dream--and now--I am mortified because they weren't laughing. At least if they were laughing, they would have appreciated the foolishness of it all and the sight of a girl who can't pull her own pants up due to extreme spazziness. Instead, they are murmuring and conferring and probably saying, "that poor girl...so uncoordinated...how sad..." I would rather be laughed at any day rather than discussed in murmurs.
The other night, I dreamed that I was doing the play "M*A*S*H" again, and it was the scene where I had to take my boots off and put on the big red high heels. There was a time, for real, when the director wanted me to change out of fatigues and into a dress on-stage, but I nixed that one and ended up being able to put the dress on off-stage and come on just to change my shoes. Well, anyway, in the dream, I somehow or other had to take my pants off and get the dress on while on-stage. Only there was some sort of problem-- another actor missed a whole bunch of lines and moved the scene along faster than it should have. So I am left at a point where I am supposed to get off stage really fast, only my pants are stuck down around my ankles and I can't get them off; everytime I try I lose my balance and almost fall off the stage (which really did happen one night, but luckily it was in the dark between scenes so no one saw me and I didn't have pants around my legs at the time, either).
So, finally, I am forced to grab my pants up with one hand under my dress and hobble offstage like a big idiot who can't pull up her pants, the audience pointing and mumbling the whole time. In the dream--and now--I am mortified because they weren't laughing. At least if they were laughing, they would have appreciated the foolishness of it all and the sight of a girl who can't pull her own pants up due to extreme spazziness. Instead, they are murmuring and conferring and probably saying, "that poor girl...so uncoordinated...how sad..." I would rather be laughed at any day rather than discussed in murmurs.
Well, a fine how-do-ya-do to me. It turns out that I am OLD.
Here's how I know this:
1) Actually prepared a Thanksgiving meal
2) Hung my own Christmas lights around the house
3) Am currently making my own Christmas presents for people.
Now probably, to a lot of people, none of this stuff automatically connotates "old" like it does for me. But see, I have spent my life having older people make Thanksgiving dinner for me up until this point. Also, while I have been responsible for draping some small Christmas lights around the windows of various apartments and such (usually from the inside, so as to stay toasty warm and not venture at all into the outdoors), my entire childhood was spent watching my father hang the big lights around the outside of the house as I hung back in a sullen "untangling" mode.
In addition to that, I am making my own presents and spent over an hour in Michael's last night buying all sorts of crafty items. I was bumping my cart around older, heavyset women in cat sweatshirts; this, in turn, made me feel old by default. The only person my age or younger was a girl there with her mother, and they were in the "wedding" aisle fighting about rosettes or some crap for the homemade favors they were obviously planning.
So yes, I grew by decades over this long weekend. Granted, now I am probably my true age, finally, as opposed to this overgrown third-grader I have been up until now.
Turns out, Tom and I made a most excellent Thanksgiving feast. I never thought we could have pulled this one off. But we did. The night before, I was in Safeway jonesing for Macintosh apples, and I saw all the yummy-looking Thanksgiving foods like stuffing and gravy, and I had the biggest urge to just stay home and cook. Tom and I had already planned (albeit last minute) to go out to eat at a restaurant since we had no true invites to anyone else's house for Thanksgiving (from here on out, TG). So anyway, I rounded up all the ingredients to make homemade mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, carrots and finally, a small turkey breast (because there is NO WAY I will ever be mature enough be able to cook a whole turkey. Holy crap, there's innards in that shit, and I am not touching no giblets, or whatever they are called... shudder! I also bought a bottle of chardonnay, because it was displayed everywhere and I got the hint that you are supposed to drink this wine with turkey. But then, since I have no wine glasses, I had to purchase some of those uber-cheesy plastic wine cups (the kind where you need to attach the base after you take them out of the shrinkwrap! It was awesome.) and I also needed some pans to cook the turkey in. After I had rounded up everything, the total came to about $90. I almost puked, as I normally spend about $35 max whenever I go food shopping, but I figured I would just put extra effort into the meal to make it worth the money.
So yes, on TG, Tom peeled potatoes and chopped onions and garlic and mashed potatoes and I prepared the turkey and the green bean casserole. When we finished, we took some pictures to prove we had relaly accomplished this. And the meal was yummy. We decided that yes, the potatoes needed more salt, and that we needed to time things better so that whole dishes weren't sitting there for over an hour waiting for the turkey to finish cooking, but overall it was a gigantic success. The best part was we were alone, and there was no stress or trouble in any way. After dinner, we ate homemade brownies I'd made the night before and played Playstation (Tekken; I kick ass as Julia, for the record) and watched Mystery Science Theatre 3000 tapes. It was a lot of fun and may very well be one of my favorite TG's ever.
And the other stuff: After Tom went and bought some new long extension cords (he bought a hot pink one and wow, it is so hot) I dragged myself outside with the step ladder and hung up Christmas lights I had bought last year on clearance at Target. I ran them along the porch and over the living room window. Last night when we turned them on, the house looked really pretty; the lights are those larger, more old-fashioned lights, although they are transparent bulbs so they look jewel-toned, which goes so well with all the colors in and around our house. I even hung a big red bow on the door. Now we are ready for Christmas. Sure, we still need to get the tree up, but it's good to get the lights up early like this. Last year, we didn't hang any lights because we were moving-- all we managed last year was a flattened wreath on the wall near the front door. I am such a grown-up now.
I can't write about the various crafts I am crafting for my family and friends for the holidays, since many of you read this thing, but suffice to say I purchased such gems as a small fake butterfly and fabric paint yesterday. I will be arting and crafting every free night from now till Christmas, probably, to get all this shit made in time. I have such aspirations. I have dreams my crafts will turn out halfway OK and you won't all laugh at them or throw them away sometime in March when I am not looking. But you wouldn't believe some of the cool stuff I will be making you. I'm not talking any of that pinecone-birdfeeder shit, or a Bedazzled baseball hat, either. No, this is some seriously nice shit I am planning. You are going to puke over how nice this shit is!
Well, I should probably do some real work at some point today. I hate real work so much I could punch someone. Preferably some asshole.
Here's how I know this:
1) Actually prepared a Thanksgiving meal
2) Hung my own Christmas lights around the house
3) Am currently making my own Christmas presents for people.
Now probably, to a lot of people, none of this stuff automatically connotates "old" like it does for me. But see, I have spent my life having older people make Thanksgiving dinner for me up until this point. Also, while I have been responsible for draping some small Christmas lights around the windows of various apartments and such (usually from the inside, so as to stay toasty warm and not venture at all into the outdoors), my entire childhood was spent watching my father hang the big lights around the outside of the house as I hung back in a sullen "untangling" mode.
In addition to that, I am making my own presents and spent over an hour in Michael's last night buying all sorts of crafty items. I was bumping my cart around older, heavyset women in cat sweatshirts; this, in turn, made me feel old by default. The only person my age or younger was a girl there with her mother, and they were in the "wedding" aisle fighting about rosettes or some crap for the homemade favors they were obviously planning.
So yes, I grew by decades over this long weekend. Granted, now I am probably my true age, finally, as opposed to this overgrown third-grader I have been up until now.
Turns out, Tom and I made a most excellent Thanksgiving feast. I never thought we could have pulled this one off. But we did. The night before, I was in Safeway jonesing for Macintosh apples, and I saw all the yummy-looking Thanksgiving foods like stuffing and gravy, and I had the biggest urge to just stay home and cook. Tom and I had already planned (albeit last minute) to go out to eat at a restaurant since we had no true invites to anyone else's house for Thanksgiving (from here on out, TG). So anyway, I rounded up all the ingredients to make homemade mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, carrots and finally, a small turkey breast (because there is NO WAY I will ever be mature enough be able to cook a whole turkey. Holy crap, there's innards in that shit, and I am not touching no giblets, or whatever they are called... shudder! I also bought a bottle of chardonnay, because it was displayed everywhere and I got the hint that you are supposed to drink this wine with turkey. But then, since I have no wine glasses, I had to purchase some of those uber-cheesy plastic wine cups (the kind where you need to attach the base after you take them out of the shrinkwrap! It was awesome.) and I also needed some pans to cook the turkey in. After I had rounded up everything, the total came to about $90. I almost puked, as I normally spend about $35 max whenever I go food shopping, but I figured I would just put extra effort into the meal to make it worth the money.
So yes, on TG, Tom peeled potatoes and chopped onions and garlic and mashed potatoes and I prepared the turkey and the green bean casserole. When we finished, we took some pictures to prove we had relaly accomplished this. And the meal was yummy. We decided that yes, the potatoes needed more salt, and that we needed to time things better so that whole dishes weren't sitting there for over an hour waiting for the turkey to finish cooking, but overall it was a gigantic success. The best part was we were alone, and there was no stress or trouble in any way. After dinner, we ate homemade brownies I'd made the night before and played Playstation (Tekken; I kick ass as Julia, for the record) and watched Mystery Science Theatre 3000 tapes. It was a lot of fun and may very well be one of my favorite TG's ever.
And the other stuff: After Tom went and bought some new long extension cords (he bought a hot pink one and wow, it is so hot) I dragged myself outside with the step ladder and hung up Christmas lights I had bought last year on clearance at Target. I ran them along the porch and over the living room window. Last night when we turned them on, the house looked really pretty; the lights are those larger, more old-fashioned lights, although they are transparent bulbs so they look jewel-toned, which goes so well with all the colors in and around our house. I even hung a big red bow on the door. Now we are ready for Christmas. Sure, we still need to get the tree up, but it's good to get the lights up early like this. Last year, we didn't hang any lights because we were moving-- all we managed last year was a flattened wreath on the wall near the front door. I am such a grown-up now.
I can't write about the various crafts I am crafting for my family and friends for the holidays, since many of you read this thing, but suffice to say I purchased such gems as a small fake butterfly and fabric paint yesterday. I will be arting and crafting every free night from now till Christmas, probably, to get all this shit made in time. I have such aspirations. I have dreams my crafts will turn out halfway OK and you won't all laugh at them or throw them away sometime in March when I am not looking. But you wouldn't believe some of the cool stuff I will be making you. I'm not talking any of that pinecone-birdfeeder shit, or a Bedazzled baseball hat, either. No, this is some seriously nice shit I am planning. You are going to puke over how nice this shit is!
Well, I should probably do some real work at some point today. I hate real work so much I could punch someone. Preferably some asshole.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
Just now in the drugstore, I was standing online getting annoyed because the line was moving slow, and I look over and read the following headline on this week's Weekly World News:
SADDAM AND OSAMA ADOPT SHAVED APE BABY
I fucking lost it. I started giggling and by the time I got up to the cashier I was smirking all over the goddamn place. I was mildly worried the cashier would think I was laughing at her, but then I realized I simply didn't care that much.
Then the lady is looking at my business credit card (I was purchasing film for a little road trip to a bus company later today) and then at me, then back at the card. Finally, she asks: "Is it... Arn-seth?"
I am used to people being unable to pronounce my name. "Yes."
"What kind of name is that?"
"I think it's Norwegian or German or something."
"Hmm, that's a different name. Never heard it before." I notice she has the letters "RDM" tattooed on her hand above her thumb and I start picturing her in women's prison. Probably her job there was to shave ape babies and ship them out to insane foreign dictators. I don't know what RDM stands for.
SADDAM AND OSAMA ADOPT SHAVED APE BABY
I fucking lost it. I started giggling and by the time I got up to the cashier I was smirking all over the goddamn place. I was mildly worried the cashier would think I was laughing at her, but then I realized I simply didn't care that much.
Then the lady is looking at my business credit card (I was purchasing film for a little road trip to a bus company later today) and then at me, then back at the card. Finally, she asks: "Is it... Arn-seth?"
I am used to people being unable to pronounce my name. "Yes."
"What kind of name is that?"
"I think it's Norwegian or German or something."
"Hmm, that's a different name. Never heard it before." I notice she has the letters "RDM" tattooed on her hand above her thumb and I start picturing her in women's prison. Probably her job there was to shave ape babies and ship them out to insane foreign dictators. I don't know what RDM stands for.
A frightening aspect of my everyday reality is the very real fact that, at any given time, I could be driving down the street, minding my own business, and have Glen Campbell hit my car.
This is because the Rhinestone Cowboy lives in my town. In fact, he apparently lives a mere half a mile from my place of employment. And more disturbingly, he lives feet from the home of Pearl, the white donkey that I love to look at during my drive to and from work each day. God help Mr. Drunken-Drive-Away if he ever hurts Pearl! I would lose it.
Other people that I run the risk of colliding with include "rock temptress" Stevie Nicks, Alice Cooper, Bil Keane ("Family Circus" dude) and, apparently, David Spade's father.
Phoenix is a dangerous place to live. If these people were to ever join forces I am pretty sure they would mess the fabric of society up pretty badly.
Tricia once had the pleasure of handling Glen Campbell's rhinestone suit! This was back during the days of her employment at Biltmore Cleaners. And I believe that Mr. Glen Campbell came in himself to pick up the shiny suit. Trish is so lucky she got that sort of personal contact. Another time, she says could have sworn she saw David Spade walk past the window of the dry cleaners and get into a car with actress Kristy Swanson. That dry cleaners was a hotbed of celebrity activity. If we had known what we know now about the E! Television network, we should have arranged to set up video cameras all over the place and then we coulda made a small fortune (probably about $45.) selling our exclusive footage to them. Hindsight is 20/20, or so they say.
Here's something to pass the time until you can gorge on turkey and get annoyed at your relatives: The local paper is running this poll for everyone to vote for the scariest celebrity mug shot. Put democracy to work and place your vote today! Do it in the name of our beautiful country.
Otherwise all those sexually transmitted diseases the pilgrims caught from the dirty injuns on Thanksgiving was all in vain.
This is because the Rhinestone Cowboy lives in my town. In fact, he apparently lives a mere half a mile from my place of employment. And more disturbingly, he lives feet from the home of Pearl, the white donkey that I love to look at during my drive to and from work each day. God help Mr. Drunken-Drive-Away if he ever hurts Pearl! I would lose it.
Other people that I run the risk of colliding with include "rock temptress" Stevie Nicks, Alice Cooper, Bil Keane ("Family Circus" dude) and, apparently, David Spade's father.
Phoenix is a dangerous place to live. If these people were to ever join forces I am pretty sure they would mess the fabric of society up pretty badly.
Tricia once had the pleasure of handling Glen Campbell's rhinestone suit! This was back during the days of her employment at Biltmore Cleaners. And I believe that Mr. Glen Campbell came in himself to pick up the shiny suit. Trish is so lucky she got that sort of personal contact. Another time, she says could have sworn she saw David Spade walk past the window of the dry cleaners and get into a car with actress Kristy Swanson. That dry cleaners was a hotbed of celebrity activity. If we had known what we know now about the E! Television network, we should have arranged to set up video cameras all over the place and then we coulda made a small fortune (probably about $45.) selling our exclusive footage to them. Hindsight is 20/20, or so they say.
Here's something to pass the time until you can gorge on turkey and get annoyed at your relatives: The local paper is running this poll for everyone to vote for the scariest celebrity mug shot. Put democracy to work and place your vote today! Do it in the name of our beautiful country.
Otherwise all those sexually transmitted diseases the pilgrims caught from the dirty injuns on Thanksgiving was all in vain.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
One of my friends just informed me that Just Born, Inc. (the company that makes marshmallow Peeps) will be having a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade this year! Wooo hooo!
Apparently the Peeps People are creating new and exciting "barnyard shaped" Peeps and the float will feature said barnyard shapes. Peeps are, incidentally, celebrating their 50th birthday this year. That's some old Peeps.
I think there should be all kinds of weird floats and balloons in this parade. Granted, it has been several years since I have actually watched this parade, but still. Here are some of my best ideas-- I will call them my "top tier" ideas, if you will-- for new floats/balloons for the parade:
* A Mickey Rooney balloon, featuring Rooney at current age
* "A Celebration of Mr. Whimple, The Charmin Guy" featuring the Bay City Rollers for some reason
* Noreen McFlannigan, Dental Hygienist from Cheboygan, riding atop that Turkey-float thing and throwing floss to the crowds
* "Mr. Nanny" balloon
* Parade of Genetically Engineered Mice, You Know, The Ones With the Human Ears Growing Out of Their Backs
* Fudge-stravaganza with a Rain of Fudge Cubes
* Big Floating Bag of Trash balloon, sponsored by Hefty
* Crispin Glover, just walking down the street with a Downs Syndrome child
* Pink Sings Manilow
* Spinning Stainless Steel Spikes of Death with Loose Lug Nuts float
* Condoleeza Rice balloon
* Say Hello to Your Meat float sponsored by PETA (that'll show those turkey munching punks)
Oh joy, that was fun. I hope you had as much fun as I did. Oh, my.
Say hi to yer Momma for me, and check out Trish, she just updated her blog after a long, unintended hiatus. Let's give her a great big Peeps-laden hug! Yayyy!
Apparently the Peeps People are creating new and exciting "barnyard shaped" Peeps and the float will feature said barnyard shapes. Peeps are, incidentally, celebrating their 50th birthday this year. That's some old Peeps.
I think there should be all kinds of weird floats and balloons in this parade. Granted, it has been several years since I have actually watched this parade, but still. Here are some of my best ideas-- I will call them my "top tier" ideas, if you will-- for new floats/balloons for the parade:
* A Mickey Rooney balloon, featuring Rooney at current age
* "A Celebration of Mr. Whimple, The Charmin Guy" featuring the Bay City Rollers for some reason
* Noreen McFlannigan, Dental Hygienist from Cheboygan, riding atop that Turkey-float thing and throwing floss to the crowds
* "Mr. Nanny" balloon
* Parade of Genetically Engineered Mice, You Know, The Ones With the Human Ears Growing Out of Their Backs
* Fudge-stravaganza with a Rain of Fudge Cubes
* Big Floating Bag of Trash balloon, sponsored by Hefty
* Crispin Glover, just walking down the street with a Downs Syndrome child
* Pink Sings Manilow
* Spinning Stainless Steel Spikes of Death with Loose Lug Nuts float
* Condoleeza Rice balloon
* Say Hello to Your Meat float sponsored by PETA (that'll show those turkey munching punks)
Oh joy, that was fun. I hope you had as much fun as I did. Oh, my.
Say hi to yer Momma for me, and check out Trish, she just updated her blog after a long, unintended hiatus. Let's give her a great big Peeps-laden hug! Yayyy!
Monday, November 24, 2003
I smell oranges.
I don't mean this as a verb; as in, "I go around sniffing oranges." I mean that I am sitting here at my desk and the pungent scent of fresh oranges is drifting in and annoying me.
Probably a lot of people like the orange smell. Not me. See, I associate it with the gross smell of the school cafeteria. Mix it with that soggy meatball-sandwich smell and some spilled milk souring in the garbage can, and that's bad scensory memory times for me. Ha, "scensory." Get it?
I wish people would eat things that don't stink. Well, it's better than Microwaved Fish Day. Someone who works here sometimes heats up some random seafood dish and the whole place smells like cat food all day.
Lucky for me, I only eat air and popsicles.
I don't mean this as a verb; as in, "I go around sniffing oranges." I mean that I am sitting here at my desk and the pungent scent of fresh oranges is drifting in and annoying me.
Probably a lot of people like the orange smell. Not me. See, I associate it with the gross smell of the school cafeteria. Mix it with that soggy meatball-sandwich smell and some spilled milk souring in the garbage can, and that's bad scensory memory times for me. Ha, "scensory." Get it?
I wish people would eat things that don't stink. Well, it's better than Microwaved Fish Day. Someone who works here sometimes heats up some random seafood dish and the whole place smells like cat food all day.
Lucky for me, I only eat air and popsicles.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
And now I am back from my NJ trip. It was certainly crammed with all sorts of adventures of busy times and laughter and shopping...man, it was just crammed. I am now taking a deep breath from all the cramming. Which of course sounds dirty, which is, of course, what I was going for. Are you laughing yet? Ha.
Well, we flew out in wicked turbulence. Not around Phoenix, of course, since all is pristine and clear in the Valley of the Sun. But over in the fair city of Newark the wind was howling away and it delayed our landing. Plus, at the precise moment I chose to lean over to Trish and say, "I'm surprised that, with all this turbulence that no one is throwing up yet," a woman two rows back began to heave and vomit repeatedly for the remainder of the flight. And it was the kind of puking that sounds like she was gargling on her own refuse. Oh, man, it sounded awful. I was waiting for a chain reaction thing, like when Lard Ass started throwing up at the pie eating contest in Stand By Me-- but as luck would have it, that didn't happen. Trish and I just started giggling and laughing silently, though. Why was it so funny? I don't know, except it sounded sort of like the sound South Park uses when people die on the show. It's hard to explain here, and frankly, I should get off the subject already and on to more interesting things about the visit.
We drove all over Monmouth County. In Belford, we were saddened to see that our old house looks sort of crappy now (and for some reason, it was speckled with over 5 satellite dishes... what the hell are they doing in there, anyway?) but we were excited because the small, overgrown and forgotten cemetary on the corner of Jane Street and Church Street had been cared for! Back in The Day, this cemetary of graves from the 1700s and so on was hidden from the road by dense trees and overgrowth. Me and my friend Cory stumbled onto it one day while playing there-- we saw all these broken tombstones and were amazed that a cemetary was right there and no one seemed to even know about it. I went back numerous times and tried to read the names on the broken stones over the years, even doing grave rubbings at one point. So anyway, to go back last Friday and see the trees cleared away, the stones washed and cared for-- hell, some of the broken white stones were even cemented back together!-- and a sign proclaiming it "Belford Cemetary"; it was so cool. We took lots of pictures and couldn't stop talking about it. I love it when people care enough to preserve the past. It's just one of my "things."
I also drove down through Navesink, where we visited another awesome cemetary at the Stone Church (yeah, I happen to really love cemetaries) and walked through dense piles of fallen leaves. I hadn't realized how much I missed the smell of dried, brown leaves and the sensation of my shoes crunching them underfoot and sinking into them up to my shins. Everything is so old and picturesque in Navesink. I love the old bridge and the little mossy ponds with geese swimming in them. The houses rock. You just don't get houses with two stories out here in Arizona. And they certainly don't have character or histories. I was imagining curling up with some hot chocolate in front of a window with slightly-off windowpanes in one of these houses we passed, and reading a good book while the rain came down.
Drove past all the old schools. They've all had additions or new buildings built on campus. Monmouth has a bunch of new buildings and parking lots; Bayshore doesn't even look the same, except for the scary, evil "dolphin" cartoon character on the wall out on Leonardville Road (the dolphin is wearing a blue and gold sailor outfit and is smiling a wicked smile that shows teeth-- this always disturbed me).
We ate in a lot of the old favorite restaurants, which was a mixed bag. Romeo's Pizza sucks now. I heard they changed ownership. Friendly's (which you can't find out here) no longer has that really good French salad dressing so we couldn't get a salad. (We believe that a salad isn't worth it if the dressings suck.) Steak N' Ale, alma mater of such Blogging superstars as Mike Toole, was delicious although the menu changed a little. We had a nice family dinner in which my crazy Oma started hassling me about my idea of adopting a kid from another country (she says a kid is better off not being adopted at all because they will, according to her worldview, get made fun of in school for being adopted-- and she knows it's true because she has seen it on TV!), and my Dad got hassled for putting salt on his food. Some racist comments were made and Trish and I got all loud and beligerent at the insanity of some older family members--OK, Oma. It was a hilarious, dysfunctional time over all.
Going back to NJ is somehow or other all about eating. Seriously, I don't know why that is, but we made sure to get NJ bagels, NJ pizza, NJ chinese food, and NJ subs. All this eating has got to stop. But damn it was tasty eats.
We also went shopping at H&M. At last. And it was damn cool. I wish they had one of these stores out here.
On Monday, me, my father and Trish took the Belford Ferry into Manhattan. We walked from the pier all the way around to fifth Avenue and up to Central Park, where we went to the zoo (which we all deemed a "rip off zoo") and then back down again to Rockefeller Center, where we stopped in the NBC store and watched an old Indian guy gracefully skate around the ice in R.Center as the tree was being worked on by the Light Hanging Crew, and finally taking a cab to South Street Seaport. Is it just me, or was SSSP once a place that had more going on? I thought it was more than a mini-mall with an old schooner parked along side it. Maybe we missed something. We also ate a very overpriced dinner off of Water Street and got annoyed at the lady sitting next to us on the ferry ride back to Belford. Yes, by the end of the day we were regular New Yorkers.
Let's see-- we also visited a crapload of people. Some of my favorites included seeing the Marsh family and watching home movies from 1986 or so; seeing Mike Toole again (an' he ain't that bad-looking either, ladies! Line up now!) as well as high school guys like the Rubinsons, Paul Basquil and the incomparable Kevin French. Kevin, if you are reading this, I was highly impressed with your instant crayfish reference. I love that you haven't forgotten that inside joke. (If you are not Kevin, ignore the following. If you are Kevin, I say: "I wanna look like Diana Ross!" in a high-pitched crayfish voice. Ha! Ha!); and finally, seeing Mike Sojka at Houlihan's bar yet another time. We are turning this into a yearly event.
Yup, it was a good time all around. I was bummed about coming back to Arizona for the first time since I moved out here. I think it is because I just feel like Arizona is a little sterile compared with the messiness and character of NJ. Granted, there was a time not that long ago that I really liked that. I was completely caught unawares that I would feel this way about NJ/AZ. It sucks because I wouldn't want to leave Arizona, either, to move back. Because there are so many things about this place I would miss too much. I feel like I have two homes, and I don't really want to move to a third home, ever, because I would be way too confused. But as the plane landed in Phoenix and I was looking out at the carefully-laid out landscape, sprawling in the afternoon sun and surrounded by pretty mountains, I thought about how Phoenix is a new city built on top of very old land. The history, the fabric of the place hasn't yet sunken into the ground and created a true personality yet. Phoenix is like an inexperienced college student. Sure, it's got great potential and all the essentials it needs to "make it," but the depth and the experience isn't there yet. New Jersey, particularly the parts that are still green and lush in parts, like Middletown, is a patriarch. Sure, he's crass and whiny sometimes, but when you look in his eyes, he has been around the block and has lots of unique stories to tell. NJ has had a chance to grow into its roots. It's an older human settlement, built on equally old land. You can feel its character in every old, battered tree and broken tombstone; in the rusted metal on the cars and in the stinky fish-water in the ponds and rivers. I really respect it now that I have been away from it for five years. And I am happy about appreciating the place where I grew up and formed all my opinions and tastes. Because, of course, I spent many years cursing the place and wanting to move somewhere "pretty." In reality, I know a lot of different shades of pretty now, and I love that.
Well, we flew out in wicked turbulence. Not around Phoenix, of course, since all is pristine and clear in the Valley of the Sun. But over in the fair city of Newark the wind was howling away and it delayed our landing. Plus, at the precise moment I chose to lean over to Trish and say, "I'm surprised that, with all this turbulence that no one is throwing up yet," a woman two rows back began to heave and vomit repeatedly for the remainder of the flight. And it was the kind of puking that sounds like she was gargling on her own refuse. Oh, man, it sounded awful. I was waiting for a chain reaction thing, like when Lard Ass started throwing up at the pie eating contest in Stand By Me-- but as luck would have it, that didn't happen. Trish and I just started giggling and laughing silently, though. Why was it so funny? I don't know, except it sounded sort of like the sound South Park uses when people die on the show. It's hard to explain here, and frankly, I should get off the subject already and on to more interesting things about the visit.
We drove all over Monmouth County. In Belford, we were saddened to see that our old house looks sort of crappy now (and for some reason, it was speckled with over 5 satellite dishes... what the hell are they doing in there, anyway?) but we were excited because the small, overgrown and forgotten cemetary on the corner of Jane Street and Church Street had been cared for! Back in The Day, this cemetary of graves from the 1700s and so on was hidden from the road by dense trees and overgrowth. Me and my friend Cory stumbled onto it one day while playing there-- we saw all these broken tombstones and were amazed that a cemetary was right there and no one seemed to even know about it. I went back numerous times and tried to read the names on the broken stones over the years, even doing grave rubbings at one point. So anyway, to go back last Friday and see the trees cleared away, the stones washed and cared for-- hell, some of the broken white stones were even cemented back together!-- and a sign proclaiming it "Belford Cemetary"; it was so cool. We took lots of pictures and couldn't stop talking about it. I love it when people care enough to preserve the past. It's just one of my "things."
I also drove down through Navesink, where we visited another awesome cemetary at the Stone Church (yeah, I happen to really love cemetaries) and walked through dense piles of fallen leaves. I hadn't realized how much I missed the smell of dried, brown leaves and the sensation of my shoes crunching them underfoot and sinking into them up to my shins. Everything is so old and picturesque in Navesink. I love the old bridge and the little mossy ponds with geese swimming in them. The houses rock. You just don't get houses with two stories out here in Arizona. And they certainly don't have character or histories. I was imagining curling up with some hot chocolate in front of a window with slightly-off windowpanes in one of these houses we passed, and reading a good book while the rain came down.
Drove past all the old schools. They've all had additions or new buildings built on campus. Monmouth has a bunch of new buildings and parking lots; Bayshore doesn't even look the same, except for the scary, evil "dolphin" cartoon character on the wall out on Leonardville Road (the dolphin is wearing a blue and gold sailor outfit and is smiling a wicked smile that shows teeth-- this always disturbed me).
We ate in a lot of the old favorite restaurants, which was a mixed bag. Romeo's Pizza sucks now. I heard they changed ownership. Friendly's (which you can't find out here) no longer has that really good French salad dressing so we couldn't get a salad. (We believe that a salad isn't worth it if the dressings suck.) Steak N' Ale, alma mater of such Blogging superstars as Mike Toole, was delicious although the menu changed a little. We had a nice family dinner in which my crazy Oma started hassling me about my idea of adopting a kid from another country (she says a kid is better off not being adopted at all because they will, according to her worldview, get made fun of in school for being adopted-- and she knows it's true because she has seen it on TV!), and my Dad got hassled for putting salt on his food. Some racist comments were made and Trish and I got all loud and beligerent at the insanity of some older family members--OK, Oma. It was a hilarious, dysfunctional time over all.
Going back to NJ is somehow or other all about eating. Seriously, I don't know why that is, but we made sure to get NJ bagels, NJ pizza, NJ chinese food, and NJ subs. All this eating has got to stop. But damn it was tasty eats.
We also went shopping at H&M. At last. And it was damn cool. I wish they had one of these stores out here.
On Monday, me, my father and Trish took the Belford Ferry into Manhattan. We walked from the pier all the way around to fifth Avenue and up to Central Park, where we went to the zoo (which we all deemed a "rip off zoo") and then back down again to Rockefeller Center, where we stopped in the NBC store and watched an old Indian guy gracefully skate around the ice in R.Center as the tree was being worked on by the Light Hanging Crew, and finally taking a cab to South Street Seaport. Is it just me, or was SSSP once a place that had more going on? I thought it was more than a mini-mall with an old schooner parked along side it. Maybe we missed something. We also ate a very overpriced dinner off of Water Street and got annoyed at the lady sitting next to us on the ferry ride back to Belford. Yes, by the end of the day we were regular New Yorkers.
Let's see-- we also visited a crapload of people. Some of my favorites included seeing the Marsh family and watching home movies from 1986 or so; seeing Mike Toole again (an' he ain't that bad-looking either, ladies! Line up now!) as well as high school guys like the Rubinsons, Paul Basquil and the incomparable Kevin French. Kevin, if you are reading this, I was highly impressed with your instant crayfish reference. I love that you haven't forgotten that inside joke. (If you are not Kevin, ignore the following. If you are Kevin, I say: "I wanna look like Diana Ross!" in a high-pitched crayfish voice. Ha! Ha!); and finally, seeing Mike Sojka at Houlihan's bar yet another time. We are turning this into a yearly event.
Yup, it was a good time all around. I was bummed about coming back to Arizona for the first time since I moved out here. I think it is because I just feel like Arizona is a little sterile compared with the messiness and character of NJ. Granted, there was a time not that long ago that I really liked that. I was completely caught unawares that I would feel this way about NJ/AZ. It sucks because I wouldn't want to leave Arizona, either, to move back. Because there are so many things about this place I would miss too much. I feel like I have two homes, and I don't really want to move to a third home, ever, because I would be way too confused. But as the plane landed in Phoenix and I was looking out at the carefully-laid out landscape, sprawling in the afternoon sun and surrounded by pretty mountains, I thought about how Phoenix is a new city built on top of very old land. The history, the fabric of the place hasn't yet sunken into the ground and created a true personality yet. Phoenix is like an inexperienced college student. Sure, it's got great potential and all the essentials it needs to "make it," but the depth and the experience isn't there yet. New Jersey, particularly the parts that are still green and lush in parts, like Middletown, is a patriarch. Sure, he's crass and whiny sometimes, but when you look in his eyes, he has been around the block and has lots of unique stories to tell. NJ has had a chance to grow into its roots. It's an older human settlement, built on equally old land. You can feel its character in every old, battered tree and broken tombstone; in the rusted metal on the cars and in the stinky fish-water in the ponds and rivers. I really respect it now that I have been away from it for five years. And I am happy about appreciating the place where I grew up and formed all my opinions and tastes. Because, of course, I spent many years cursing the place and wanting to move somewhere "pretty." In reality, I know a lot of different shades of pretty now, and I love that.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Well, I am off for my NJ excursion with my sister. So if you see no blogs for awhile, that's why. But it should be a fun time out there, seeing me Pops and visiitng what the old timers call "the ole stompin' grounds." Aww yeah.
In the meantime, god bless Art Carney. I meant to say my favorite Art Carney quote ever here, so now's the time:
"Ready, Captain Video!"
Thanks.
In the meantime, god bless Art Carney. I meant to say my favorite Art Carney quote ever here, so now's the time:
"Ready, Captain Video!"
Thanks.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
So help me God, I still laugh a little whenever I am writing out my bills for the month and I think to myself, "OK, now where are my checks?" Because I always, always think of Czechs. And I think of how neat it would be to have a small squadron of Czechs that are ready and waiting to do my bidding at a moment's notice. They are always just out of my peripheral vision, never in the way, until I call them over. My Czechs are so cool. But sometimes I do have to order new Czechs when I run out of Czechs.
In a restaurant, after the waiter asks if I want anything else and I have answered, "No, just the Czech, please," I have thought of someone bringing out a Czech dishwasher guy or something. He stands at the table, coughs uncomfortably, looks around, and ends up shuffling away confused. And I giggle like an ass.
In a restaurant, after the waiter asks if I want anything else and I have answered, "No, just the Czech, please," I have thought of someone bringing out a Czech dishwasher guy or something. He stands at the table, coughs uncomfortably, looks around, and ends up shuffling away confused. And I giggle like an ass.
My dreams have been infinitely more interesting lately than life, so here's a quote from last night's dream:
"If that's cranberry sauce, please get it away because I will swim in that shit!" --spoken by me to, I think, a toddler inside my car.
(I don't have a toddler, and I am not particularly fond of cranberry sauce, and I certainly wouldn't swim in it, and I wouldn't say the word shit to a toddler. Just for record.)
I think I am just ready for it to be Thanksgiving or something. And I think I am ready to start talking to toddlers like they are sitting next to me on a barstool in some dive bar.
"If that's cranberry sauce, please get it away because I will swim in that shit!" --spoken by me to, I think, a toddler inside my car.
(I don't have a toddler, and I am not particularly fond of cranberry sauce, and I certainly wouldn't swim in it, and I wouldn't say the word shit to a toddler. Just for record.)
I think I am just ready for it to be Thanksgiving or something. And I think I am ready to start talking to toddlers like they are sitting next to me on a barstool in some dive bar.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
I have been having the strangest dreams lately. And they've been gory. If you don't want to read anything gory, stop reading now. But if you are OK with it, I am going to talk about them because frankly I want to get them off my chest and I have nothing else to write about at the moment, so here's what I dreamed in the past week that qualified as "alarming":
* A dream where nameless man and I are beating up this guy Rod with boards and kicking him very hard in the face and stomach, and he turns into another guy who happens to be playing Macbeth in a play I once saw, and he starts crying and begging us for mercy and I lose it in the dream... I can't go on beating him, but we know we have gone too far and need to "put him out of his misery" at this point. I woke up before we dealt a death blow. Whew.
* A dream in which my Granny is dead (she did die in 1995) and the policy at the hopsital where she died was to drain the body of blood and cut it up into parts and seal them in a big Rubbermaid storage tub, which looks exactly like the teal-and-purple one I have in my real-life living room right now. Anyway, my job as the granddaughter was to go and wash the body parts and prepare them for this elaborate funeral ceremony. Apparently, in the dream, this was just the way we as a society did things. There was nothing unusual about this process of washing your dead relative's body parts. When I woke up, I was grossed out though.
* Rosie O'Donnell is eating some sort of Hungarian goulosh out of a big bowl at some press conference, and she lifts her head up and the whole bottom half of her face is gone and she is sort of like a demon-vampire thing with a leering smile like the Gentlemen in the Buffy episode, "Hush." It was really scary! (I think I dreamed this because of the thing Horatio Sanz did on Weekend Update on SNL this week; where one side of him was Nice Rosie and the other half was Scary Mean Lesbian Rosie. Was I the only person creeped out by that sketch? And I was surely not the only person who thought that SNL's cast SUCKS right now and the writing is even worse. I didn't laugh once. Bring back Will Ferrell!)
Those are a sampling of my dreams. Oh, I should also note that I was lucky enough to catch a showing of "Motel Hell" on AMC on cable this weekend one night. This is the movie that scarred me for life and started me off on a weird trajectory in which I am afraid of guys running around with chainsaws while wearing a pig's head on their heads and of being buried in the ground with my larynx cut out so I can't scream. Other little girls were watching cute things like Sigmund and the SeaMonsters or Solid Gold in the early 80's. I was the weird kid sneaking downstairs and seeing Motel Hell on TV at age 7. (I saw that other shit too, but it was Motel Hell that made the true impression. I was too young to catch the humor at the time.)
OK, I'm done. Thanks for reading. Go rent Motel Hell so we can discuss it.
* A dream where nameless man and I are beating up this guy Rod with boards and kicking him very hard in the face and stomach, and he turns into another guy who happens to be playing Macbeth in a play I once saw, and he starts crying and begging us for mercy and I lose it in the dream... I can't go on beating him, but we know we have gone too far and need to "put him out of his misery" at this point. I woke up before we dealt a death blow. Whew.
* A dream in which my Granny is dead (she did die in 1995) and the policy at the hopsital where she died was to drain the body of blood and cut it up into parts and seal them in a big Rubbermaid storage tub, which looks exactly like the teal-and-purple one I have in my real-life living room right now. Anyway, my job as the granddaughter was to go and wash the body parts and prepare them for this elaborate funeral ceremony. Apparently, in the dream, this was just the way we as a society did things. There was nothing unusual about this process of washing your dead relative's body parts. When I woke up, I was grossed out though.
* Rosie O'Donnell is eating some sort of Hungarian goulosh out of a big bowl at some press conference, and she lifts her head up and the whole bottom half of her face is gone and she is sort of like a demon-vampire thing with a leering smile like the Gentlemen in the Buffy episode, "Hush." It was really scary! (I think I dreamed this because of the thing Horatio Sanz did on Weekend Update on SNL this week; where one side of him was Nice Rosie and the other half was Scary Mean Lesbian Rosie. Was I the only person creeped out by that sketch? And I was surely not the only person who thought that SNL's cast SUCKS right now and the writing is even worse. I didn't laugh once. Bring back Will Ferrell!)
Those are a sampling of my dreams. Oh, I should also note that I was lucky enough to catch a showing of "Motel Hell" on AMC on cable this weekend one night. This is the movie that scarred me for life and started me off on a weird trajectory in which I am afraid of guys running around with chainsaws while wearing a pig's head on their heads and of being buried in the ground with my larynx cut out so I can't scream. Other little girls were watching cute things like Sigmund and the SeaMonsters or Solid Gold in the early 80's. I was the weird kid sneaking downstairs and seeing Motel Hell on TV at age 7. (I saw that other shit too, but it was Motel Hell that made the true impression. I was too young to catch the humor at the time.)
OK, I'm done. Thanks for reading. Go rent Motel Hell so we can discuss it.
Monday, November 10, 2003
In a show of hands, who knows what World War One was fought about? Not me!
This morning I was reading the editorial section of yesterday's paper and this occurred to me. Now I can tell you a lot about World War II, that's for sure... tons of movies, plays, books, TV specials, and let's face it, that's about all they ever talk about on the History channel. But no one ever talks about the first World War. Why?
So anyway, today I got to work and started researching the war. I am pretty bothered that I didn't know a thing about it. The editorial in the paper was reminding people that there was a first World War, and it was the reason we have what we call Veteran's Day today. It was actually Armistice Day, and later on it was changed to Veteran's Day to remember vets of all wars. I started to try to recall what I had learned in school about WWI, and all I could come up with was this: 1) first war to use gas in attacks on troops 2) involved Germany somehow 3) had something to do with borders of countries in Europe changing.
As it turns out, I was right on some things but it was obviously about more than that. Here's the funny thing: I have read for about an hour, and I STILL don't know a lot of the key things to this war. I know it was from 1914-1918, and it began when Serbian rebels, a group called the Dark Hand, assassinated Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungary. This lead to Germany saying it would back up Austro-Hungary if the Serbs refused to give up the members of the Dark Hand, and Russia backing up Serbia in the event that Germany attacked them. Turns out, Germany did attack, and Russia went after the Germans through Belgium. War on!
There's more to it than that, but in all actuality, I can't start reiterating the WWI facts because I am too "new" to it and I am bound to get something wrong. Next thing you know, some WWI history buff is sending me angry e-mails. And then next thing after that, they are finding me black and blue behind the bowling alley. Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty.
OK< so here's the challenge I am putting out there to all history teachers across this country: TEACH MORE ABOUT WWI. See, we lazy Americans can get our history on the more juicy, scandalous tidbits of history through entertainment channels easy enough. But hell, make our time worthwhile when we're in school and teach us shit you just can't find out anywhere these days.
And here's another thing. There was some cool things to find out about WWI. Today, in my brief research efforts, I found out that chlorine gas was used at the Battle of Yvres (misspelled, possibly) and that the gas smelled like "pepper and pineapples" and caused respiratory failure that sometimes took days to kill someone. Days. One way the Allied troops defended themselves was by wearing cloth soaked in urine over their mouths--the ammonia in urine helped block the gas. Seriously; they didn't have adequate gas masks yet at this point. So given the choice of slow death and urine on your face, which would you choose? Imagine having to make this choice?
The best story I read had to do with the very first Christmas day that passed during the war. Here's something I found:
Second Lieutenant Dougan Chater, letter to his mother (25th December, 1914)
I think I have seen one of the most extraordinary sights today that anyone has ever seen. About 10 o'clock this morning I was peeping over the parapet when I saw a German, waving his arms, and presently two of them got out of their trenches and some came towards ours. We were just going to fire on them when we saw they had no rifles so one of our men went out to meet them and in about two minutes the ground between the two lines of trenches was swarming with men and officers of both sides, shaking hands and wishing each other a happy Christmas.
I am going to do a lot of reading about this war so I feel a little better about being an American and knowing my own history. You always hear--or run into-- people from other countries who know way more about our history than Americans, on average, do. That's so embarrassing.
Anyway, because today is Veteran's Day observed, I am going to remember all this stuff. Especially since we are in the midst of losing American troops everyday and it hardly gets any news coverage anymore. Gotta love that conservative media! I can hardly fathom what going to war must actually be like. I really appreciate those who have, and who do. Damn.
Oh, last thought: I did think about "Farewell to Arms" when I was thinking of what reminded me of WWI. But I wasn't sure if it was about WWI or if it was WWII. Turns out I was right; it is about WWI. It's also the only Hemingway book I really liked. (I don't mind the ideas and themes behind "The Old Man and the Sea," but really, there is only so much I can read about an old man fishing for a marlin before I start sighing loudly and looking around for some M&Ms to pass the time, maybe the remote to see what's on TV.) In 11th grade, I wrote an essay about the book for english class and it's one of the only papers I remember writing. I made some very heady parallel to the hopelessness of the war to an image near the back of the book of a stray dog nosing through a garbage can in some alley. My teacher thought I was a goddamn genius. Probably because everyone else in the class was looking for the scene where someone gets their arms amputated in a very graphic way. "Well, it was called Farewell to Arms, right? So where's the part where them arms come off?"
Last test: Remember the book "Johnny Tremain"? What do you remember about that one? If you answered "The fact that Johnny Tremain has a brutal accident with getting his hand encased in silver," you are typical of about 45% of our generation. The other 55% have not read the book nor do they care to; even if some irrleveant punk band were to come out and call themselves Johnny Tremain, they still wouldn't read that shit.
The moral of this blog is, history is some weird shit.
This morning I was reading the editorial section of yesterday's paper and this occurred to me. Now I can tell you a lot about World War II, that's for sure... tons of movies, plays, books, TV specials, and let's face it, that's about all they ever talk about on the History channel. But no one ever talks about the first World War. Why?
So anyway, today I got to work and started researching the war. I am pretty bothered that I didn't know a thing about it. The editorial in the paper was reminding people that there was a first World War, and it was the reason we have what we call Veteran's Day today. It was actually Armistice Day, and later on it was changed to Veteran's Day to remember vets of all wars. I started to try to recall what I had learned in school about WWI, and all I could come up with was this: 1) first war to use gas in attacks on troops 2) involved Germany somehow 3) had something to do with borders of countries in Europe changing.
As it turns out, I was right on some things but it was obviously about more than that. Here's the funny thing: I have read for about an hour, and I STILL don't know a lot of the key things to this war. I know it was from 1914-1918, and it began when Serbian rebels, a group called the Dark Hand, assassinated Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungary. This lead to Germany saying it would back up Austro-Hungary if the Serbs refused to give up the members of the Dark Hand, and Russia backing up Serbia in the event that Germany attacked them. Turns out, Germany did attack, and Russia went after the Germans through Belgium. War on!
There's more to it than that, but in all actuality, I can't start reiterating the WWI facts because I am too "new" to it and I am bound to get something wrong. Next thing you know, some WWI history buff is sending me angry e-mails. And then next thing after that, they are finding me black and blue behind the bowling alley. Trust me, it wouldn't be pretty.
OK< so here's the challenge I am putting out there to all history teachers across this country: TEACH MORE ABOUT WWI. See, we lazy Americans can get our history on the more juicy, scandalous tidbits of history through entertainment channels easy enough. But hell, make our time worthwhile when we're in school and teach us shit you just can't find out anywhere these days.
And here's another thing. There was some cool things to find out about WWI. Today, in my brief research efforts, I found out that chlorine gas was used at the Battle of Yvres (misspelled, possibly) and that the gas smelled like "pepper and pineapples" and caused respiratory failure that sometimes took days to kill someone. Days. One way the Allied troops defended themselves was by wearing cloth soaked in urine over their mouths--the ammonia in urine helped block the gas. Seriously; they didn't have adequate gas masks yet at this point. So given the choice of slow death and urine on your face, which would you choose? Imagine having to make this choice?
The best story I read had to do with the very first Christmas day that passed during the war. Here's something I found:
Second Lieutenant Dougan Chater, letter to his mother (25th December, 1914)
I think I have seen one of the most extraordinary sights today that anyone has ever seen. About 10 o'clock this morning I was peeping over the parapet when I saw a German, waving his arms, and presently two of them got out of their trenches and some came towards ours. We were just going to fire on them when we saw they had no rifles so one of our men went out to meet them and in about two minutes the ground between the two lines of trenches was swarming with men and officers of both sides, shaking hands and wishing each other a happy Christmas.
I am going to do a lot of reading about this war so I feel a little better about being an American and knowing my own history. You always hear--or run into-- people from other countries who know way more about our history than Americans, on average, do. That's so embarrassing.
Anyway, because today is Veteran's Day observed, I am going to remember all this stuff. Especially since we are in the midst of losing American troops everyday and it hardly gets any news coverage anymore. Gotta love that conservative media! I can hardly fathom what going to war must actually be like. I really appreciate those who have, and who do. Damn.
Oh, last thought: I did think about "Farewell to Arms" when I was thinking of what reminded me of WWI. But I wasn't sure if it was about WWI or if it was WWII. Turns out I was right; it is about WWI. It's also the only Hemingway book I really liked. (I don't mind the ideas and themes behind "The Old Man and the Sea," but really, there is only so much I can read about an old man fishing for a marlin before I start sighing loudly and looking around for some M&Ms to pass the time, maybe the remote to see what's on TV.) In 11th grade, I wrote an essay about the book for english class and it's one of the only papers I remember writing. I made some very heady parallel to the hopelessness of the war to an image near the back of the book of a stray dog nosing through a garbage can in some alley. My teacher thought I was a goddamn genius. Probably because everyone else in the class was looking for the scene where someone gets their arms amputated in a very graphic way. "Well, it was called Farewell to Arms, right? So where's the part where them arms come off?"
Last test: Remember the book "Johnny Tremain"? What do you remember about that one? If you answered "The fact that Johnny Tremain has a brutal accident with getting his hand encased in silver," you are typical of about 45% of our generation. The other 55% have not read the book nor do they care to; even if some irrleveant punk band were to come out and call themselves Johnny Tremain, they still wouldn't read that shit.
The moral of this blog is, history is some weird shit.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
One of the greatest things Kristen and I ever made up was the Ray Brower Deer. You know the dead kid in the movie "Stand By Me"? His name was Ray Brower, right, and at the end of the movie Vern and his boys all find his body down near the river. The voiceover says, "The kid wasn't sick, the kid wasn't breathing. The kid was dead." Then there's a shot of this kid with blood trickling out of his nose and his eyes open and glazed.
It was really creepy, especially when you are 11 and highly impressionable when it comes to gross images.
And the creepiness didn't abate as we got older. Nope, instead we built on it when we were in college. We were driving through 'rural' Manalapan on a moonlit night listening to Dead Can Dance, and Kristen says, "Picture if a ghostly deer came running over that hill over there by the woods, all floaty and coming down in the moonlight towards the road. And when it gets down here, it has the face of Ray Brower."
College kids should not listen to Dead Can Dance.
And watch out, the Ray Brower Deer is probably still out there, not sick, not breathing, but DEAD. And the sudden appearance of Keifer Sutherland and Eyeball Chambers ain't gonna change that.
That is all. Just wanted to share that.
It was really creepy, especially when you are 11 and highly impressionable when it comes to gross images.
And the creepiness didn't abate as we got older. Nope, instead we built on it when we were in college. We were driving through 'rural' Manalapan on a moonlit night listening to Dead Can Dance, and Kristen says, "Picture if a ghostly deer came running over that hill over there by the woods, all floaty and coming down in the moonlight towards the road. And when it gets down here, it has the face of Ray Brower."
College kids should not listen to Dead Can Dance.
And watch out, the Ray Brower Deer is probably still out there, not sick, not breathing, but DEAD. And the sudden appearance of Keifer Sutherland and Eyeball Chambers ain't gonna change that.
That is all. Just wanted to share that.
At work yesterday we were talking about the magical number of 69. I remembered something I had forgotten: In high school, I was ranked number 69 in my class.
There were lots of wise guys (I like to call them 'wise guys' even though they were actually not that bright; rather, they were a little caveman-ish) who went around the hallways saying to their buddies, "Yeah, man, I'm number 69! Yeah!" and slapping each other's hands. I was quiet and reserved back then and grumbled over the fact that other people were trying to claim my number just because of its crude sexual implications. I had worked hard to be book-smarter than most of my graduating class. Granted, 68 people were more book-smarter (!) than I was, but still...
Well, there was some injustice there somewhere. I just don't think it matters much.
And, hey, DUDE! I am NUMBER 69!! Wooooooooo! (smashes beer can into forehead)
There were lots of wise guys (I like to call them 'wise guys' even though they were actually not that bright; rather, they were a little caveman-ish) who went around the hallways saying to their buddies, "Yeah, man, I'm number 69! Yeah!" and slapping each other's hands. I was quiet and reserved back then and grumbled over the fact that other people were trying to claim my number just because of its crude sexual implications. I had worked hard to be book-smarter than most of my graduating class. Granted, 68 people were more book-smarter (!) than I was, but still...
Well, there was some injustice there somewhere. I just don't think it matters much.
And, hey, DUDE! I am NUMBER 69!! Wooooooooo! (smashes beer can into forehead)
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Last night I was half-heartedly flipping through the channels before I went to bed and I saw that the local news station is doing an expose into nursing homes to see how well they really care for the old folks. The voiceover was saying things in an ominous voice like, "We went undercover and found shocking evidence of employees sleeping on the job and doors left unlocked, leaving residents open to potential dangers." Then they show an image of an old man rolling his wheelchair through an open door, only they put a green filter-effect over the image so it looked more "sensational." They closed the commerical with "Tomorrow night at 8, watch 'Neglecting Grandpa' on Fox Five."
Neglecting Grandpa would make a great band name. I should submit this one to Dave Barry.
In other news, I suspect someone has been stealing office supplies out of my desk when I am not in the office. I am now missing my calculator and my china markers. In the past I have lost scissors and a prized stapler (not a swingline, but still nice). This has gone on long enough, people. Quit burglaring my stuff or else. I know people. That's all I'm sayin, a'ight? I have connections. Watch your ass.
Last night while out at dinner, me and the sister made up a very dirty version of Billy Joel's "Keeping the Faith" that is actually about sex through the 'rear entrance' with someone's mother. I swear, I don't know why we can't just have a normal conversation at dinner like everyone else. We also ate a delicious ball of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles on it. Food is awesome sometimes. I love food.
And on Monday, I was behind the wheel of a 35-foot, ABC M1000 mid-size coach, taking it through an obstacle course out in Palm Springs. I have never driven a bus before, but on my first try I parallel parked that bitch and everything. It was fun. It's the closest thing to a perk I can get while traveling for work. All these bus driver guys were teasing me and giving me shit. I got to tell one guy he was "real smooth." I could explain the context, but trust me, it would take too long and you'd definitely lose interest after a couple sentences. Point is, it was fun in an oddball kind of way to be talking shit with a bunch of bus drivers out in a windy parking lot for three hours.
Neglecting Grandpa would make a great band name. I should submit this one to Dave Barry.
In other news, I suspect someone has been stealing office supplies out of my desk when I am not in the office. I am now missing my calculator and my china markers. In the past I have lost scissors and a prized stapler (not a swingline, but still nice). This has gone on long enough, people. Quit burglaring my stuff or else. I know people. That's all I'm sayin, a'ight? I have connections. Watch your ass.
Last night while out at dinner, me and the sister made up a very dirty version of Billy Joel's "Keeping the Faith" that is actually about sex through the 'rear entrance' with someone's mother. I swear, I don't know why we can't just have a normal conversation at dinner like everyone else. We also ate a delicious ball of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles on it. Food is awesome sometimes. I love food.
And on Monday, I was behind the wheel of a 35-foot, ABC M1000 mid-size coach, taking it through an obstacle course out in Palm Springs. I have never driven a bus before, but on my first try I parallel parked that bitch and everything. It was fun. It's the closest thing to a perk I can get while traveling for work. All these bus driver guys were teasing me and giving me shit. I got to tell one guy he was "real smooth." I could explain the context, but trust me, it would take too long and you'd definitely lose interest after a couple sentences. Point is, it was fun in an oddball kind of way to be talking shit with a bunch of bus drivers out in a windy parking lot for three hours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)