I was just thinking: what was the deal with Garfield always wanting to eat lasagna? I've seen some cats in my time, and cats don't really care about lasagna unless there is cod or liver in it or something catty like that. And who makes liver lasagna, anyway? No one, that's who. No one makes liver lasagna. Or cod lasagna.
Garfield was funny to me when I was in 5th grade. I know this, because I used to buy those Garfield books at the book fairs all the time. (I think one of the books was "Garfield at Large" or "Garfield, Large and In Charge"... they were all about Garfield being this fat crap of a cat, which really not a riveting storyline if you stop and think about it.)
The major points to know about Garfield:
* His owner, Jon, was a loser who couldn't score with the ladies.
* Odie was some strange bug-eyed dog with an abnormal tongue. He was not smart.
* Garfield slept neatly in a little box with a blanket over his back-- just like a real cat.
* Garfield's girlfriend was a pink slutty cat named Arlene.
* Garfield would regularly taunt Jon and make fun of his tiny penis.
* Odie spit a lot. Which was, apparently, hilarious.
* Arlene had big red hooker lips. Cats should NEVER have big red hooker lips.
* Garfield's nemesis was the cute little kitten named Nermal. Nermal is a FANTASTIC name, by the way. It reminds me of thermals, which are my favorite underwear.
* Heathcliff and Garfield should have done a crossover. I'm thinking something like when the Harlem Globetrotters ended up on the island, or when Josie and the Pussycats stepped over into Scooby Doo territory. I can't even get my head around the possibilities of what two fat, orange cats with the same sardonic wit would do if they were brought together! Those sly fat cats...! The awesomeness would be off the charts.
[Actually, NO. I don't know anyone who liked Heathcliff. Heathcliff was the most retarded rip-off ever and I hated his guts when I was a kid. I also hated Marmaduke. Stupid big sloppy Marmaduke, always ruining everyone's life by throwing his huge fucking dog-face in the mix!]
I don't think they have Garfield anymore. I wouldn't know because it's been about 10 years since I bought an actual newspaper. Do they still have "For Better or For Worse"? I stopped reading a few years back when some grandparent had cancer or something, and then they brought their old dog in to be put to sleep. The dog's name was Farley, I think. I just don't think it can be called a "comic strip" anymore when the stories revolve around dogs dying and sick grandpas. That's when it becomes a "depression strip."
One more thing: I had a GIANT Garfield back in the day. I asked Santa for it, too. And I got it! Lucky me! The girl with the gargantuan stuffed Garfield that you can't do anything with! It was about 3 feet tall and about as wide, and it sat in the corner of my bedroom with its big plastic eyes, gathering dust and doing nothing to make me smarter.
I am so dumb now. I wish I had Stephen Hawking in the corner of my room instead, softly chattering away the secrets of the universe through his voicebox as I slept. Smartness would seep in to my subconscious brain and I could have been the goddamned valedictorian. And it would be all thanks to my genius paralyzed friend in the corner of my bedroom! Thanks, Stephen Hawking!
Oh my God, I would freak the hell OUT if I woke up and saw the still form of Stephen Hawking in my bedroom... his chair pointed in our direction and his listless eyes gleaming behind those glasses. "I LIKE TO. WATCH.YOU SLEEP."
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
“You wouldn’t know a good time if it fell out of the sky, landed on your face and started to wiggle.” --The Great Outdoors
Hello again, my little blog. I haven’t given you anything for a couple of days and I know you’re probably a little peeved about it.
I bet you are wondering why I used the word “peeved”, too. Oh, my dear little blog. I think that, perhaps, I am trying to cut down on the swearing.
Yesterday I was driving and I realized I have a pretty foul mouth. I swear a lot, and I swear a lot at work. There’s a guy I work with who is a Mormon and I know he never swears, and I think I curse a little too much around him. He’s nice and never says anything or acts offended, which is to his benefit (he’s giving Mormons an OK name!)—but I’ve become aware of my own swearing more once I began to notice his lack of swearing. I don’t want to be an assh—JERK, so today I slowed down my talking and made an effort to replace the curses with less offensive words.
It’s hard to do! I never realized how easy swearing is. I do it naturally, and I do it casually and I do it any time of the day, seven days a week. What can I say, I like the cursing.
I wonder if my foul mouth and lack of fashion has kept me from getting a better job or moving up the all-important corporate ladder. I’ve been thinking about the way I dress in recent days. I know I don’t, and probably never will, dress like a Manager or a CEO of anything. I just can’t do it. Something about suits, expensive shoes, conservative colors and overly-styled hair just makes me sick. I am a blue-collar girl, working in the white collar world. It isn’t a comfortable fit. I wonder sometimes if I made no change to my work output, quality or skills, yet wore a suit everyday I am in the office, if it would get me a promotion. I’ve concluded that yes, at this particular company, “dressing for the job you want” would get me noticed and moved along the path towards whitewashed corporate greatness. Maybe at other, more balanced places where superficiality with money isn’t as valued, this wouldn’t be true; but I am watching it happen in front of me on a regular basis.
I guess it just comes down to the simple fact that I don’t make an ideal employee for anyone who is overly conservative, easily offended, shallow, or opportunistic. I think I need to figure out what other types of jobs I might excel at more than this one. Here’s a quick list of some possibilities:
• Professional writer of fiction and blogs.
That’s all I can come up with right now. I need to think a little more about this list; just in case the publishers never get around to sending those acceptance letters or calling me to tell me they want to see more of my writing. Maybe I can work as a keeper of pygmy goats. Because, awwwww! Pygmy goats are adorable little guys!
Well, that’s it. In closing, let me leave you, my dear blog, with one more quote from the Great Outdoors, for no reason other than these quotes make me laugh:
“I don’t want to hear anymore about anyone blowing anything out of their ass.”
Hello again, my little blog. I haven’t given you anything for a couple of days and I know you’re probably a little peeved about it.
I bet you are wondering why I used the word “peeved”, too. Oh, my dear little blog. I think that, perhaps, I am trying to cut down on the swearing.
Yesterday I was driving and I realized I have a pretty foul mouth. I swear a lot, and I swear a lot at work. There’s a guy I work with who is a Mormon and I know he never swears, and I think I curse a little too much around him. He’s nice and never says anything or acts offended, which is to his benefit (he’s giving Mormons an OK name!)—but I’ve become aware of my own swearing more once I began to notice his lack of swearing. I don’t want to be an assh—JERK, so today I slowed down my talking and made an effort to replace the curses with less offensive words.
It’s hard to do! I never realized how easy swearing is. I do it naturally, and I do it casually and I do it any time of the day, seven days a week. What can I say, I like the cursing.
I wonder if my foul mouth and lack of fashion has kept me from getting a better job or moving up the all-important corporate ladder. I’ve been thinking about the way I dress in recent days. I know I don’t, and probably never will, dress like a Manager or a CEO of anything. I just can’t do it. Something about suits, expensive shoes, conservative colors and overly-styled hair just makes me sick. I am a blue-collar girl, working in the white collar world. It isn’t a comfortable fit. I wonder sometimes if I made no change to my work output, quality or skills, yet wore a suit everyday I am in the office, if it would get me a promotion. I’ve concluded that yes, at this particular company, “dressing for the job you want” would get me noticed and moved along the path towards whitewashed corporate greatness. Maybe at other, more balanced places where superficiality with money isn’t as valued, this wouldn’t be true; but I am watching it happen in front of me on a regular basis.
I guess it just comes down to the simple fact that I don’t make an ideal employee for anyone who is overly conservative, easily offended, shallow, or opportunistic. I think I need to figure out what other types of jobs I might excel at more than this one. Here’s a quick list of some possibilities:
• Professional writer of fiction and blogs.
That’s all I can come up with right now. I need to think a little more about this list; just in case the publishers never get around to sending those acceptance letters or calling me to tell me they want to see more of my writing. Maybe I can work as a keeper of pygmy goats. Because, awwwww! Pygmy goats are adorable little guys!
Well, that’s it. In closing, let me leave you, my dear blog, with one more quote from the Great Outdoors, for no reason other than these quotes make me laugh:
“I don’t want to hear anymore about anyone blowing anything out of their ass.”
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Today, the new lady referred to me as “Laura.” Guess what, bitch… that ain’t my name. Get it right and come back to me tomorrow and maybe we’ll talk.
I know that happens sometimes; that people will call you by the wrong name. I don’t usually get bugged out about it, but I am feeling a little testy these days. I don’t feel like taking crap anymore, from anyone. I better straighten up and get this toxic attitude FIXED, otherwise I risk becoming corporate poison! And that leads to being laid off, methinks.
Oh, well, I don’t care. Shit on it!
The other name I have been called in the past on more than one occasion is Amy. I don’t know why. But it’s happened a few times since elementary school. After I would be called Amy, and proceeded to correct the namesayer, the person would say something like, “Oh, well, you look like an Amy.” Really? What does an Amy look like? How come I don’t look like a Lisa? That’s the part I always wondered about. What about me made me look like Not-Me? Was it my hair? It was probably my hair. It’s ALWAYS the hair. Or, perhaps it was my big-boned frame. Maybe to some people, Lisas are a lithe, sprightly people. Maybe to these same fools Amys are chubbier. Those people are such bigots. There’s no reason to make that assumption about Amys. They don’t ask to be thought of as chubby.
You know what’s stupid? Sometimes, when I am telling someone my name over the phone or at a desk somewhere, and I have to spell out my last name, I sometimes spell out my first name, too. Just kind of automatically. And come on… who doesn’t know how to spell Lisa? I treat people like they are dirt. Stupid, ignorant, can’t-spellin’ dirt.
Even worse is when I hear myself say: “Lisa… as in Mona.”
Or, even more horrible: “Lisa, as in Mona Lisa. The painting.”
Yeah, I have said that. Wow. It’s amazing I still have all my teeth, for I truly deserve a beating sometimes.
I know that happens sometimes; that people will call you by the wrong name. I don’t usually get bugged out about it, but I am feeling a little testy these days. I don’t feel like taking crap anymore, from anyone. I better straighten up and get this toxic attitude FIXED, otherwise I risk becoming corporate poison! And that leads to being laid off, methinks.
Oh, well, I don’t care. Shit on it!
The other name I have been called in the past on more than one occasion is Amy. I don’t know why. But it’s happened a few times since elementary school. After I would be called Amy, and proceeded to correct the namesayer, the person would say something like, “Oh, well, you look like an Amy.” Really? What does an Amy look like? How come I don’t look like a Lisa? That’s the part I always wondered about. What about me made me look like Not-Me? Was it my hair? It was probably my hair. It’s ALWAYS the hair. Or, perhaps it was my big-boned frame. Maybe to some people, Lisas are a lithe, sprightly people. Maybe to these same fools Amys are chubbier. Those people are such bigots. There’s no reason to make that assumption about Amys. They don’t ask to be thought of as chubby.
You know what’s stupid? Sometimes, when I am telling someone my name over the phone or at a desk somewhere, and I have to spell out my last name, I sometimes spell out my first name, too. Just kind of automatically. And come on… who doesn’t know how to spell Lisa? I treat people like they are dirt. Stupid, ignorant, can’t-spellin’ dirt.
Even worse is when I hear myself say: “Lisa… as in Mona.”
Or, even more horrible: “Lisa, as in Mona Lisa. The painting.”
Yeah, I have said that. Wow. It’s amazing I still have all my teeth, for I truly deserve a beating sometimes.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Last night we watched this show on A&E called "Intervention." It was oddly entertaining and we had a good time rooting for the bulimic girl to give up her puking habits, although we weren't as sympathetic to the crystal meth addict because he came off as such a selfish jerk.
I've seen this show before, and I think the last time I saw it they documented an anorexic and some girl who did drugs. That last episode was not as memorable as last night's episode. The bulimic girl did some really sick stuff. Just the footage of her binge eating at buffet restaurants was enough to make us cringe. Later on when she would go home and throw up in ziploc bags and then hide the bags in her closet so her husband wouldn't know she was throwing up, we were on the edge of our seats, literally. It is hard to watch this stuff. She was really ill, this girl... throwing up 2-3 times a day like that, and then going to that trouble to hide and store her vomit. It was strangely funny, though, when she gathered up a week's worth of vomit bags from her closet and put them all in a big box and dumped it in a dumpster. We imagined the owners of that dumpster going, "Oh, no, that girl with the box full of vomit is back again!"
By the end of the episode, the girl's family confronted her in intervention and she handled it very well and accepted the help. It was a good ending and we were kind of cheering her on to get better. So that was nice.
However...
Crystal Meth guy: not so much. They showed this guy smoking up and said he did it pretty much every hour of his day. He was homeless, and spent his time crashing at friend's apartments and surfing the internet for gay porn, and arranging hookups with as many as 20 men a night. He also had syphilis and didn't want to use condoms.
At one point in the show, this guy couldn't pay the rent on his storage unit so he decided to load up a friend's pickup truck and drive all his stuff out to his Mom's house in Tucson. The mother knew he was coming, but had no idea he was bringing so much crap. When he got to her house, he was kind of mean to her and started right off with the drama queen comments about her "not accepting me" and "sorry I am not the perfect son," even though his Mom was being very even-keeled, calm as possible and never said anything like that. He just got all upset when she said it looked like he had a lot of stuff (he really did, too) and they didn't have that much room in their garage to store it. Meth-guy starts complaining and saying he's leaving, his mother obviously doesn't love him, etc... and MAN, it made you want to reach into the TV and smack the shit out of him. All she said was she didn't have a lot of room. He was acting like an asshole drug addict. I don't have sympathy for that.
The funiest part was when his Mom offered up, "We can put your stuff on the deck," and his answer was, "I would rather have bamboo shoots shoved under my toenails, and hang upside and have water dripped into my nose." Jeez, buddy, she is just saying you can put your crap on her deck. Your answer seemed a little extreme.
By the end of the episode, he too was faced with an intervention with his family and friends. The difference was he acting like a little bitch about getting help and only finally agreed to help once he called his friend Frank to make sure the rehab place he would be sent to would be OK. Oh, yay for us, because Frank said it was legit. Meth-guy was sent off to rehab, and the credits at the end of the show said he has been sober since January, 2006. I think they filmed the show in 2004. So it's obviously taking this guy awhile.
I don't know why I am so callous about drug addiction, but I am. Even given the story of Jason Mewes that I mentioned a few days ago... I still believe everyone has a choice and you can choose to do this crap to yourself, or not. It's always wonderful when someone can clean themselves up, get sober, or otherwise change their lives around, but when people just spin out and expect other people to just take care of them or pay the price for their habits, I just feel like turning my back and letting natural selection take place. And besides, since when does addiction give anyone free reign to just be an asshole to their families? I know there can be two sides to any story and all that, but it really gets me pissed when I see or hear things like the way meth-guy treated his mom, who in my opinion really was trying to help yet help without enabling him. (She wouldn't let him stay at her house, and she did do the intervention thing shortly after) I believe Moms deserve a little more respect than that, end of story, and I hate watching when there is a lack of it.
Whew, soap box much? Well anyway, my point is that Intervention was that entertaining train-wreck kind of TV, but if you have a black sense of humor it is also kind of funny, too. I can't wait to use that bamboo shoots/dripping water up my nose line the next time Greg asks me to do something.
"Do you want to get pizza for dinner?"
"Bitch, PLEASE, I'd rather shove bamboo shoots under my toenails and have water dripped up my nose!"
"...OK, then. No pizza."
I've seen this show before, and I think the last time I saw it they documented an anorexic and some girl who did drugs. That last episode was not as memorable as last night's episode. The bulimic girl did some really sick stuff. Just the footage of her binge eating at buffet restaurants was enough to make us cringe. Later on when she would go home and throw up in ziploc bags and then hide the bags in her closet so her husband wouldn't know she was throwing up, we were on the edge of our seats, literally. It is hard to watch this stuff. She was really ill, this girl... throwing up 2-3 times a day like that, and then going to that trouble to hide and store her vomit. It was strangely funny, though, when she gathered up a week's worth of vomit bags from her closet and put them all in a big box and dumped it in a dumpster. We imagined the owners of that dumpster going, "Oh, no, that girl with the box full of vomit is back again!"
By the end of the episode, the girl's family confronted her in intervention and she handled it very well and accepted the help. It was a good ending and we were kind of cheering her on to get better. So that was nice.
However...
Crystal Meth guy: not so much. They showed this guy smoking up and said he did it pretty much every hour of his day. He was homeless, and spent his time crashing at friend's apartments and surfing the internet for gay porn, and arranging hookups with as many as 20 men a night. He also had syphilis and didn't want to use condoms.
At one point in the show, this guy couldn't pay the rent on his storage unit so he decided to load up a friend's pickup truck and drive all his stuff out to his Mom's house in Tucson. The mother knew he was coming, but had no idea he was bringing so much crap. When he got to her house, he was kind of mean to her and started right off with the drama queen comments about her "not accepting me" and "sorry I am not the perfect son," even though his Mom was being very even-keeled, calm as possible and never said anything like that. He just got all upset when she said it looked like he had a lot of stuff (he really did, too) and they didn't have that much room in their garage to store it. Meth-guy starts complaining and saying he's leaving, his mother obviously doesn't love him, etc... and MAN, it made you want to reach into the TV and smack the shit out of him. All she said was she didn't have a lot of room. He was acting like an asshole drug addict. I don't have sympathy for that.
The funiest part was when his Mom offered up, "We can put your stuff on the deck," and his answer was, "I would rather have bamboo shoots shoved under my toenails, and hang upside and have water dripped into my nose." Jeez, buddy, she is just saying you can put your crap on her deck. Your answer seemed a little extreme.
By the end of the episode, he too was faced with an intervention with his family and friends. The difference was he acting like a little bitch about getting help and only finally agreed to help once he called his friend Frank to make sure the rehab place he would be sent to would be OK. Oh, yay for us, because Frank said it was legit. Meth-guy was sent off to rehab, and the credits at the end of the show said he has been sober since January, 2006. I think they filmed the show in 2004. So it's obviously taking this guy awhile.
I don't know why I am so callous about drug addiction, but I am. Even given the story of Jason Mewes that I mentioned a few days ago... I still believe everyone has a choice and you can choose to do this crap to yourself, or not. It's always wonderful when someone can clean themselves up, get sober, or otherwise change their lives around, but when people just spin out and expect other people to just take care of them or pay the price for their habits, I just feel like turning my back and letting natural selection take place. And besides, since when does addiction give anyone free reign to just be an asshole to their families? I know there can be two sides to any story and all that, but it really gets me pissed when I see or hear things like the way meth-guy treated his mom, who in my opinion really was trying to help yet help without enabling him. (She wouldn't let him stay at her house, and she did do the intervention thing shortly after) I believe Moms deserve a little more respect than that, end of story, and I hate watching when there is a lack of it.
Whew, soap box much? Well anyway, my point is that Intervention was that entertaining train-wreck kind of TV, but if you have a black sense of humor it is also kind of funny, too. I can't wait to use that bamboo shoots/dripping water up my nose line the next time Greg asks me to do something.
"Do you want to get pizza for dinner?"
"Bitch, PLEASE, I'd rather shove bamboo shoots under my toenails and have water dripped up my nose!"
"...OK, then. No pizza."
Sunday, April 23, 2006
I didn't mention it before, but I saw "Slither" a couple weeks ago. It was kind of funny for being that kind of movie. A little gross, too, but still just a nice B movie.
I don't know why I led my blog off with that; that's kind of random. Well, I think I might be a little off these days. I had some crappy stuff happen with my job on Friday and it completely felt like a "that's the last straw" kind of thing. Of course, I didn't quit although I was DYING to. I need the money at least until I close on my condo and get all my bills paid off with the proceeds. After that, who knows... as long as I have health insurance I could potentially accept a job that pays less but offers an improvement on the mindless shenanigans these people pull right now. It would be worth it to not be aggravated all the time.
Also, I am really messed up about Katie. See, about a month ago we realized she might not work out for our home in the long run. She can be a little unpredictable with her aggression. She and Hailie have been in some terrible fights, and when they last fought and Greg was yelling at them to stop, she showed her teeth and growled threateningly at him. We realized she might be dangerous to have around. She did already bite the cable guy on the ass when we lived in the condo (although I know that was because she was 'protecting' me; the guy was following me through the living room and Katie didn't like some man walking close behind me, I think)... she didn't break skin or anything, but it was kind of bad. Later on, Greg was bitten on the hand and there was a lot of blood spilled when he stepped between the two dogs during a particularly out of control fight. She has lunged at people passing on the sidewalk during jogs and walks, and we know she is kind of nervous and afraid around kids and we are worried that one day when we have a kid, she will not respond well. We don't plan to live in Arizona forever, especially when we are ready to have kids in our lives. That means we would move away, and if she got bad with the kid or her behaviors got worse, we wouldn't really be able to get her back to the rescue group--not to mention that by that time, we would be THAT MUCH MORE bonded to her and she to us... no, after talking it over for hours and hours and speaking at length with the rescue group, it was decided that we should return her.
The group I adopted her from will take her back and find her a new home. So that's the only silver lining in this dark and depressing cloud; that she is going to be OK and they will work to find her the perfect home. She might need to be an only dog or something. She would make a great dog for a single person who wants a loyal, protective dog. God knows I love her so much-- she has been an awesome dog, to me. Even with her bad traits, I still love her. I know we need to be practical and realistic and that's why she needs to find a new home, but emotionally I am pretty torn up. I wish it could be different, I really do. But we have exhausted our available options (her behaviors are more personality-based and she doesn't respond to positive reinforcement when we praise her when she is good as we would like, so unless we got very in-depth training I don't know that we can work her bad traits out of her), and we can't afford to have the "pet behavior specialist" that contracts with the rescue group to even come out to the house to do an evaluation. At $125 an hour for a 2-3 hour evaluation, that's more than I can handle right now since I am regularly overdrawing my bank account until the condo-situation is settled. Can't believe someone would get paid about $400 to sit in our house and watch the dogs for a couple of hours and then tell us what she thinks they are doing. I am really in the wrong career.
This whole situation is enough to make me want to make a big statement like: "That's it, no more dogs for me. I get too attached and when it doesn't work out or I need to say goodbye I become an emotional wreck. It's not worth it, so I hereby swear off dogs." I really take this stuff much harder than most people, I'm guessing. I have been having nightmares and crying jags at random for the past few weeks over this. I really do NOT want to get rid of her. I would do pretty much anything to keep her; if only I could "fix" her somehow. Yet of course, you can't "fix" a personality trait in anyone or anything. The thing is, the majority of the time she is a wonderful, affectionate, goofy, playful and funny dog. I want THAT dog more, because then she could stay. This truly sucks in a big way.
Tomorrow is when she will go back to RESCUE and they will put her back up for adoption. If you live here and you can give her a good home, let me know. I know what a long shot that is-- especially since I "sell her" so well when I talk about her unpredictable aggression streak-- but you never know.
I think, if I hadn't met Greg and we hadn't come together and blended our dog-families and I had kept my life the way it was the day I adopted her, I would not be facing this at all right now. When she was with me, and even right this second, she is a totally babydoll. I can lay my head on her and hold her paws and rub her face and she will close her eyes and sigh happily. I'm not saying it was bad that my life changed and I found a future-husband and began to realize that YES, I do actually want to be a mother someday, because NO WAY! This has been a complete blessing and I wouldn't change any of it in anyway. It's simply that situations change, and I guess sometimes a pet just can't completely handle the changes.
Here's my big emotional roadblock right now: I would never give up a kid who had problems with changes... and I feel like a total asshole giving up a dog because she has some problems. I always thought people who did this sort of thing were just lazy, or selfish, or complete dickheads for treating a dog as a disposable commodity. I feel like I am being one of "those" people and I don't like the feeling at all. I took her in with the thought in mind that she would, from that day on, always be with me and always be my dog. I never would have imagined that I would give her up.
Well, it's been decided, I've cried and journaled it out and discussed the pros and cons of the decision with everyone close to me, and it's finally come down to the final night she is here: I need to do this tomorrow. I don't know how I will say goodbye to her. It's going to be strange to see her back up on the RESCUE website, to say the least. I pray her next home will be her permanent home and the people will treat her like a princess. She deserves it. I mean, this is a dog who was found wandering the streets and no one claimed her, so she was put on the euthanasia list through no fault of her own. She has a scar under her chin and a crooked jaw because, as my vet theorized, someone had broken her jaw at one point. She has a devoted and happy heart, though, and she likes to be carried around like a baby with her paws draped over my shoulders. See? She may be "only a dog" to some people, but she never, ever was and never will be with me. She's Katie, and she had better find a fucking awesome home. I'm going to do everything I can to help RESCUE find it for her.
I don't know why I led my blog off with that; that's kind of random. Well, I think I might be a little off these days. I had some crappy stuff happen with my job on Friday and it completely felt like a "that's the last straw" kind of thing. Of course, I didn't quit although I was DYING to. I need the money at least until I close on my condo and get all my bills paid off with the proceeds. After that, who knows... as long as I have health insurance I could potentially accept a job that pays less but offers an improvement on the mindless shenanigans these people pull right now. It would be worth it to not be aggravated all the time.
Also, I am really messed up about Katie. See, about a month ago we realized she might not work out for our home in the long run. She can be a little unpredictable with her aggression. She and Hailie have been in some terrible fights, and when they last fought and Greg was yelling at them to stop, she showed her teeth and growled threateningly at him. We realized she might be dangerous to have around. She did already bite the cable guy on the ass when we lived in the condo (although I know that was because she was 'protecting' me; the guy was following me through the living room and Katie didn't like some man walking close behind me, I think)... she didn't break skin or anything, but it was kind of bad. Later on, Greg was bitten on the hand and there was a lot of blood spilled when he stepped between the two dogs during a particularly out of control fight. She has lunged at people passing on the sidewalk during jogs and walks, and we know she is kind of nervous and afraid around kids and we are worried that one day when we have a kid, she will not respond well. We don't plan to live in Arizona forever, especially when we are ready to have kids in our lives. That means we would move away, and if she got bad with the kid or her behaviors got worse, we wouldn't really be able to get her back to the rescue group--not to mention that by that time, we would be THAT MUCH MORE bonded to her and she to us... no, after talking it over for hours and hours and speaking at length with the rescue group, it was decided that we should return her.
The group I adopted her from will take her back and find her a new home. So that's the only silver lining in this dark and depressing cloud; that she is going to be OK and they will work to find her the perfect home. She might need to be an only dog or something. She would make a great dog for a single person who wants a loyal, protective dog. God knows I love her so much-- she has been an awesome dog, to me. Even with her bad traits, I still love her. I know we need to be practical and realistic and that's why she needs to find a new home, but emotionally I am pretty torn up. I wish it could be different, I really do. But we have exhausted our available options (her behaviors are more personality-based and she doesn't respond to positive reinforcement when we praise her when she is good as we would like, so unless we got very in-depth training I don't know that we can work her bad traits out of her), and we can't afford to have the "pet behavior specialist" that contracts with the rescue group to even come out to the house to do an evaluation. At $125 an hour for a 2-3 hour evaluation, that's more than I can handle right now since I am regularly overdrawing my bank account until the condo-situation is settled. Can't believe someone would get paid about $400 to sit in our house and watch the dogs for a couple of hours and then tell us what she thinks they are doing. I am really in the wrong career.
This whole situation is enough to make me want to make a big statement like: "That's it, no more dogs for me. I get too attached and when it doesn't work out or I need to say goodbye I become an emotional wreck. It's not worth it, so I hereby swear off dogs." I really take this stuff much harder than most people, I'm guessing. I have been having nightmares and crying jags at random for the past few weeks over this. I really do NOT want to get rid of her. I would do pretty much anything to keep her; if only I could "fix" her somehow. Yet of course, you can't "fix" a personality trait in anyone or anything. The thing is, the majority of the time she is a wonderful, affectionate, goofy, playful and funny dog. I want THAT dog more, because then she could stay. This truly sucks in a big way.
Tomorrow is when she will go back to RESCUE and they will put her back up for adoption. If you live here and you can give her a good home, let me know. I know what a long shot that is-- especially since I "sell her" so well when I talk about her unpredictable aggression streak-- but you never know.
I think, if I hadn't met Greg and we hadn't come together and blended our dog-families and I had kept my life the way it was the day I adopted her, I would not be facing this at all right now. When she was with me, and even right this second, she is a totally babydoll. I can lay my head on her and hold her paws and rub her face and she will close her eyes and sigh happily. I'm not saying it was bad that my life changed and I found a future-husband and began to realize that YES, I do actually want to be a mother someday, because NO WAY! This has been a complete blessing and I wouldn't change any of it in anyway. It's simply that situations change, and I guess sometimes a pet just can't completely handle the changes.
Here's my big emotional roadblock right now: I would never give up a kid who had problems with changes... and I feel like a total asshole giving up a dog because she has some problems. I always thought people who did this sort of thing were just lazy, or selfish, or complete dickheads for treating a dog as a disposable commodity. I feel like I am being one of "those" people and I don't like the feeling at all. I took her in with the thought in mind that she would, from that day on, always be with me and always be my dog. I never would have imagined that I would give her up.
Well, it's been decided, I've cried and journaled it out and discussed the pros and cons of the decision with everyone close to me, and it's finally come down to the final night she is here: I need to do this tomorrow. I don't know how I will say goodbye to her. It's going to be strange to see her back up on the RESCUE website, to say the least. I pray her next home will be her permanent home and the people will treat her like a princess. She deserves it. I mean, this is a dog who was found wandering the streets and no one claimed her, so she was put on the euthanasia list through no fault of her own. She has a scar under her chin and a crooked jaw because, as my vet theorized, someone had broken her jaw at one point. She has a devoted and happy heart, though, and she likes to be carried around like a baby with her paws draped over my shoulders. See? She may be "only a dog" to some people, but she never, ever was and never will be with me. She's Katie, and she had better find a fucking awesome home. I'm going to do everything I can to help RESCUE find it for her.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
"THROW IT TO LUCAS!"
And then remember? They threw it to him, and he caught it in slow motion while Kerri Green cheered and the coach looked agonized that he might drop the ball? And then, he fumbled it anyway, and the other team got control of the ball? (By this time, butch little band dork Winona Ryder was rising out of her seat in the stands in concern...) And still in slow motion, little plucky Lucas dives after the guy with the ball and hangs onto him, his huge glasses coming off and everything?
Oh-uh.
Tragedy.
Lucas gets PUMMELED by huge football guys. In slow motion, too, which just adds insult to injury. Everyone is like, "Oh my God...! Is Lucas OK? Oh no."
He's not OK. He is in some sort of scratched-up face, broken-glasses coma.
OH, Lucas! Why'd ya have to do it?
Why did you have to impress Kerri Green's character? Couldn't you just accept your role in the social structure of high school? Why did you have to be so SPUNKY? Couldn't you just go back to collecting your bugs and newts and give Winona Ryder's character a go? Sheesh. There was never a chance you could compete with Charlie Sheen's "Cappy" character, and you knew it.
LUCKILY, as the photo above shows, Lucas pulled through with nothing more than a big bandaid on his forehead. He returns to school, feeling a little sheepish after the big accident. People are staring at him.
But Lucas opens his locker. Wait! Is this even HIS locker? Because inside there is...
A PARK HIGH PIRATES football jacket! Holy smokes!
And that's when the SLOW CLAP begins. The one blond football player starts the clap, and then others join in. "Way to go Lucas!"
"Your plucky can-do attitude was an inspiration!"
"Glad you didn't die, Lucas!"
"We are so sorry we tormented you by rubbing Icy Hot on your genitals and locked you outside the locker room in the towel that time!"
"Woo hoo, you little asshole, WOO the fuck HOO!"
And in true 80s movie fashion, the movie closes on a freeze frame of a triumphant Lucas in his too-big jacket.
Lucas. What can I say. You touched me. You truly made this hard heart of mine melt.
And then remember? They threw it to him, and he caught it in slow motion while Kerri Green cheered and the coach looked agonized that he might drop the ball? And then, he fumbled it anyway, and the other team got control of the ball? (By this time, butch little band dork Winona Ryder was rising out of her seat in the stands in concern...) And still in slow motion, little plucky Lucas dives after the guy with the ball and hangs onto him, his huge glasses coming off and everything?
Oh-uh.
Tragedy.
Lucas gets PUMMELED by huge football guys. In slow motion, too, which just adds insult to injury. Everyone is like, "Oh my God...! Is Lucas OK? Oh no."
He's not OK. He is in some sort of scratched-up face, broken-glasses coma.
OH, Lucas! Why'd ya have to do it?
Why did you have to impress Kerri Green's character? Couldn't you just accept your role in the social structure of high school? Why did you have to be so SPUNKY? Couldn't you just go back to collecting your bugs and newts and give Winona Ryder's character a go? Sheesh. There was never a chance you could compete with Charlie Sheen's "Cappy" character, and you knew it.
LUCKILY, as the photo above shows, Lucas pulled through with nothing more than a big bandaid on his forehead. He returns to school, feeling a little sheepish after the big accident. People are staring at him.
But Lucas opens his locker. Wait! Is this even HIS locker? Because inside there is...
A PARK HIGH PIRATES football jacket! Holy smokes!
And that's when the SLOW CLAP begins. The one blond football player starts the clap, and then others join in. "Way to go Lucas!"
"Your plucky can-do attitude was an inspiration!"
"Glad you didn't die, Lucas!"
"We are so sorry we tormented you by rubbing Icy Hot on your genitals and locked you outside the locker room in the towel that time!"
"Woo hoo, you little asshole, WOO the fuck HOO!"
And in true 80s movie fashion, the movie closes on a freeze frame of a triumphant Lucas in his too-big jacket.
Lucas. What can I say. You touched me. You truly made this hard heart of mine melt.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
I've been reading "Me and My Shadow" on Kevin Smith's blog, and today he posted the final installment of the story of Jason Mewes and his path to sobriety. If you haven't been reading it, Kevin Smith talks in extreme detail about Jason Mewes and his recovery from heroin addiction. The story follows all the way from when he was just a kid who had never used any substances at all, to the days when he was a full-out, hopeless heroin addict, and finally how he managed to get through rehab and become sober. It’s a fantastic read, and I highly recommend it.
I am linking to Part Two of the story (there are 9 parts total, with the final Part 9 being today’s post on Smith’s blog) because it talks about the time in Jason’s life where he was just starting to fool around with shooting up. I remember that time, because I saw it first-hand.
I used to be a regular patron in the comic book store on Monmouth Street that later became the first Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash (it used to be next to Faith’s Aura, that hippie store). Everyone in Red Bank was completely jazzed about the success of local guy Kevin Smith, and it was always fun to go there and look up to the View Askew offices on Front Street and wonder if Kevin Smith was in there RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT, writing the next cool movie. When he took over that comic book store, I kept going there although I didn’t like it as much as the previous shop—too little in the way of DC comics (specifically, Vertigo titles) to keep me going there exclusively. I had to supplement with Comics Plus in Middletown, where creepy geek-guys would give me a hard time when I ordered a comic by “quizzing” me when I paid. Eek. It sucked to be a comic book-reading chick in a geeky guy’s world. So even though the selection was a little slimmer, I still found myself buying comics at J&SBSS, and it was mostly because no matter who owned it or who worked there -- at least the guys were cooler and never hassled me or stared me down as I shopped.
However, I totally recall a day I went in there and Jason Mewes was working the cash register. I was a little bit starstruck, honestly. I mean, there he was, Jay! Just standing behind the counter in a white T-shirt, smoking a cigarette. I wondered if the other patrons in the store thought it was cool or not, and I realized everyone was sort of ignoring him and so that’s what I did too. He was just a guy, and in real life he didn’t seem like anyone famous or special. He looked a little dirty and tired.
Anyway, here’s what I always tell people about: when I went up to the counter to pay for my comic book, he rang me up, and I handed him a $20 bill. The register’s little green digital display clearly showed the change I was due back. He had the cigarette in his mouth and he mumbled, “So how much change do you get?” I blinked, and kind of motioned towards the cash register with the big numbers that indicated my change. He shrugged, opened the register and put my 20 in, and then stood there over the cash tray looking completely confused. “Shit, how many fives do I give you again?” He couldn’t make the change, for whatever reason, and I had to tell him which bills and coins to give me. I felt weird doing it, and kind of shy. I also felt like I was patronizing him in some way, and I didn’t like it. I could tell he was on something… and I didn’t want to seem like I thought I was “better” than him in any way. So, I never went back to that store.
I think it’s kind of strange to read Smith’s online story about that time and realize what was going on with him. And it really touches me. This whole story has made me stop my day and think about how happy I was to read this story and its positive conclusion. We need more real-life tales like this, told from the perspective of the people it hurts the most; detailing the brutal realities of addiction and recovery. Kevin Smith is a very good writer and tells a very compelling biography. I’ve been bringing this story up with friends and family, since it’s stuck in my mind.
In light of the recent spirit of “change is good” that I’ve been writing about and that other bloggers have noticed (thanks, Smackadocious), I figured this is one of the more powerful stories that’s out there -- it might interest or even help someone if I spread it in my own little way. I want Jason Mewes and Kevin’s Smith’s hetero-life partner story to be read, damn it. So go and read it! Thanks.
I am linking to Part Two of the story (there are 9 parts total, with the final Part 9 being today’s post on Smith’s blog) because it talks about the time in Jason’s life where he was just starting to fool around with shooting up. I remember that time, because I saw it first-hand.
I used to be a regular patron in the comic book store on Monmouth Street that later became the first Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash (it used to be next to Faith’s Aura, that hippie store). Everyone in Red Bank was completely jazzed about the success of local guy Kevin Smith, and it was always fun to go there and look up to the View Askew offices on Front Street and wonder if Kevin Smith was in there RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT, writing the next cool movie. When he took over that comic book store, I kept going there although I didn’t like it as much as the previous shop—too little in the way of DC comics (specifically, Vertigo titles) to keep me going there exclusively. I had to supplement with Comics Plus in Middletown, where creepy geek-guys would give me a hard time when I ordered a comic by “quizzing” me when I paid. Eek. It sucked to be a comic book-reading chick in a geeky guy’s world. So even though the selection was a little slimmer, I still found myself buying comics at J&SBSS, and it was mostly because no matter who owned it or who worked there -- at least the guys were cooler and never hassled me or stared me down as I shopped.
However, I totally recall a day I went in there and Jason Mewes was working the cash register. I was a little bit starstruck, honestly. I mean, there he was, Jay! Just standing behind the counter in a white T-shirt, smoking a cigarette. I wondered if the other patrons in the store thought it was cool or not, and I realized everyone was sort of ignoring him and so that’s what I did too. He was just a guy, and in real life he didn’t seem like anyone famous or special. He looked a little dirty and tired.
Anyway, here’s what I always tell people about: when I went up to the counter to pay for my comic book, he rang me up, and I handed him a $20 bill. The register’s little green digital display clearly showed the change I was due back. He had the cigarette in his mouth and he mumbled, “So how much change do you get?” I blinked, and kind of motioned towards the cash register with the big numbers that indicated my change. He shrugged, opened the register and put my 20 in, and then stood there over the cash tray looking completely confused. “Shit, how many fives do I give you again?” He couldn’t make the change, for whatever reason, and I had to tell him which bills and coins to give me. I felt weird doing it, and kind of shy. I also felt like I was patronizing him in some way, and I didn’t like it. I could tell he was on something… and I didn’t want to seem like I thought I was “better” than him in any way. So, I never went back to that store.
I think it’s kind of strange to read Smith’s online story about that time and realize what was going on with him. And it really touches me. This whole story has made me stop my day and think about how happy I was to read this story and its positive conclusion. We need more real-life tales like this, told from the perspective of the people it hurts the most; detailing the brutal realities of addiction and recovery. Kevin Smith is a very good writer and tells a very compelling biography. I’ve been bringing this story up with friends and family, since it’s stuck in my mind.
In light of the recent spirit of “change is good” that I’ve been writing about and that other bloggers have noticed (thanks, Smackadocious), I figured this is one of the more powerful stories that’s out there -- it might interest or even help someone if I spread it in my own little way. I want Jason Mewes and Kevin’s Smith’s hetero-life partner story to be read, damn it. So go and read it! Thanks.
Gosh, what's with me not blogging and stuff? I guess I must be busy, preoccupied, or drunk or something. Now that tequila has passed over these wayward-virgin lips, there's really no going back now, is there? So let's just admit that yeah, since Sunday I have been knockin' back the 'la.
Either way, I have so much I need to do. One of the things I still need to do is respond to a tag I got from Jen, one of the latest bloggers added to my links. I'll get to that soon, probably. I just need to concentrate so I list the 6 weird facts about me correctly. (This could take some time.)
In the meantime, I'll just write some random crap.
Quickly, now!:
* Our pool is coming along. The excavation crew showed up unexpectedly at 6:30 in the morning one week ago. They dug out the big hole, and left us some of the dirt. Here's an interesting fact: if you get a pool dug, count on some of your neighbors to peek over the fence to watch or come over to ask the diggin' guys if they can have some of that dirt. Two different neighbors requested our dirt! (One later passed on our dirt, though. Guess he couldn't handle all that dirt.) I found it amusing as hell that people we live in close proximity to saw an opportunity for free dirt and they damned well were gonna take it. Note: if you want some of our dirt, speak up now or forever hold your dirt-needing peace, because Greg is working hard to shovel and spread the dirt we kept, and it will soon be assimilated into our yard. Just mail me a small jar, bottle, or box with a SASE and I can send you some of our beautiful, brown, clumpy, dry dirt within the next 4-6 weeks.
* As of today, the pool already has plumbing, electric and a steel frame. None of it is actually done, really... the contractors sort of suck ass. Oh, well. At least we'll be the proud owners of our own swimmin' hole this summer!
* I heard it might hit 100 degrees by this weekend. It's still April. This is just not fair. I want a spring!
* I recommend watching "Bowfinger" again. We did it this weekend and it just gets funnier and funnier every time. Here is one of my favorite quotes:
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 1: There are no aliens."
Mindhead Leader: "What is Happy Premise Number 2?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 2! There is no big foot trying to squash me."
Mindhead Leader: "And what is Happy Premise Number 3?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 3... even though I think I might ignite, I probably won't."
I will blog at a later time, but I leave you with today's magic word: GONADS!
Either way, I have so much I need to do. One of the things I still need to do is respond to a tag I got from Jen, one of the latest bloggers added to my links. I'll get to that soon, probably. I just need to concentrate so I list the 6 weird facts about me correctly. (This could take some time.)
In the meantime, I'll just write some random crap.
Quickly, now!:
* Our pool is coming along. The excavation crew showed up unexpectedly at 6:30 in the morning one week ago. They dug out the big hole, and left us some of the dirt. Here's an interesting fact: if you get a pool dug, count on some of your neighbors to peek over the fence to watch or come over to ask the diggin' guys if they can have some of that dirt. Two different neighbors requested our dirt! (One later passed on our dirt, though. Guess he couldn't handle all that dirt.) I found it amusing as hell that people we live in close proximity to saw an opportunity for free dirt and they damned well were gonna take it. Note: if you want some of our dirt, speak up now or forever hold your dirt-needing peace, because Greg is working hard to shovel and spread the dirt we kept, and it will soon be assimilated into our yard. Just mail me a small jar, bottle, or box with a SASE and I can send you some of our beautiful, brown, clumpy, dry dirt within the next 4-6 weeks.
* As of today, the pool already has plumbing, electric and a steel frame. None of it is actually done, really... the contractors sort of suck ass. Oh, well. At least we'll be the proud owners of our own swimmin' hole this summer!
* I heard it might hit 100 degrees by this weekend. It's still April. This is just not fair. I want a spring!
* I recommend watching "Bowfinger" again. We did it this weekend and it just gets funnier and funnier every time. Here is one of my favorite quotes:
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 1: There are no aliens."
Mindhead Leader: "What is Happy Premise Number 2?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 2! There is no big foot trying to squash me."
Mindhead Leader: "And what is Happy Premise Number 3?"
Kit: "Happy Premise Number 3... even though I think I might ignite, I probably won't."
I will blog at a later time, but I leave you with today's magic word: GONADS!
Monday, April 17, 2006
It was an eventful, happy weekend. It began on Good Friday, which was extra Good because I didn't have to work. I had one of those awesome workouts where I felt terrific afterwards (lots of upper body weights-stuff) and sufficiently exhausted. Later on that day, I helped Greg put some edging bricks into the ground in our backyard. It was an achievement for me for a couple of reasons:
1) I normally can't do much of anything where excessive bending, lifting, raking, etc. are involved because of my stupid lower back problems, but on Friday I was really good at paying attention to my back and getting up and stretching and taking breaks before I got hurt. Usually I work through the pain because of my silly desire to 'prove to myself that I can do it' and wind up flat on my back for four or five days. Maybe...just maybe... I am getting smarter!
2) I have never laid bricks in the ground before, and it was harder than I thought it would be. But the row I did came out mostly-level and straight. And I did this while a very strong wind was blowing dirt all over the place, making vision difficult. Greg was working on another part of the yard, and I kept looking over at him and seeing a fury of dirt and dust surrounding him and his trusty shovel. We persevered though, and after showers we both looked human again.
Later on that night, I got the phone call I have been waiting for: my realtor, telling me an offer was coming in that night. The catch was, the buyer was making simultaneous offers on two other condos in my complex. So basically, the first seller to respond would be the one they bought. So began a night of happy anxiety, waiting for the phone call that the offer had been faxed to my neighborhood Kinko's, and I could respond. We had to get some dinner, though, so we went to a pizza place and were forced to leave right as our pizza was served so we could rush over to Kinko's to get the offer-thing going. With our styrofoam boxes in our grubby little hands, we made it over to the Kinko's, got the formal offer, talked to my realtor on the phone and faxed back my acceptance all within an hour. (Luckily, it was a good offer and I will get a fast close of escrow, so I had no problem accepting it.)
And then we went to a party, and then home, and the next morning after breakfast I got the call from the realtor that I was the "winner"-- my acceptance came in first, so I was the lucky seller. Damn, I was elated beyond normal levels of elation. You shoulda seen me.
Saturday was also the one year mark-- Greg and I have been together a year! To celebrate, he took me to the site of our first meeting and we sat at the exact same table and ordered, I think, the exact same drinks. (I know we both had beers a year ago, and that's what we had the other night.) It's been a really amazing year, and it's weird to think we have only known each other that long-- he feels like someone I have known for years and years. I couldn't be happier!
And finally, on Easter Sunday I tried two things I have never tried before. Both of these things are MONUMENTAL because they are both what I'd term "big deals." Anyone who really knows me will understand why the following substances merit cause for recognition:
1) I ate tilapia. Which is fish, in case you're like me and never heard of it before...and even more surprising, I enjoyed it.
2) I drank tequila shots. Yeah, I got to almost-31 and without ever having straight tequila. It's only made its way down my gullet by way of fruity margaritas until Sunday. The tequila we drank was apparently a very expensive, very exquisite, type of tequila. I had two shots of it; found I didn't like the salt-step (I just can't get used to the taste of straight salt in any form) and I really was shocked by the taste and the burn. I felt like such a "beginner". But hell, at least I drank me some expensive tequila, and can now add "tequila" to the list of alcoholic substances I have had.
Overall, it really was a great weekend. We capped it off with a dinner at Trish's new place (a Thanksgiving Part Two dinner, for which I brought the trusty Green Bean Casserole) and sleeping off a lot of food and alcoholic beverages. I have to say, I wouldn't mind more weekends like this one. It was great to get good news and to realize I could actually overcome some of my own fears and insecurities and do what most people can easily do (but is hard for me)-- TRY NEW THINGS. Yay for me! I just might become a real, socially-functioning and confident person yet.
1) I normally can't do much of anything where excessive bending, lifting, raking, etc. are involved because of my stupid lower back problems, but on Friday I was really good at paying attention to my back and getting up and stretching and taking breaks before I got hurt. Usually I work through the pain because of my silly desire to 'prove to myself that I can do it' and wind up flat on my back for four or five days. Maybe...just maybe... I am getting smarter!
2) I have never laid bricks in the ground before, and it was harder than I thought it would be. But the row I did came out mostly-level and straight. And I did this while a very strong wind was blowing dirt all over the place, making vision difficult. Greg was working on another part of the yard, and I kept looking over at him and seeing a fury of dirt and dust surrounding him and his trusty shovel. We persevered though, and after showers we both looked human again.
Later on that night, I got the phone call I have been waiting for: my realtor, telling me an offer was coming in that night. The catch was, the buyer was making simultaneous offers on two other condos in my complex. So basically, the first seller to respond would be the one they bought. So began a night of happy anxiety, waiting for the phone call that the offer had been faxed to my neighborhood Kinko's, and I could respond. We had to get some dinner, though, so we went to a pizza place and were forced to leave right as our pizza was served so we could rush over to Kinko's to get the offer-thing going. With our styrofoam boxes in our grubby little hands, we made it over to the Kinko's, got the formal offer, talked to my realtor on the phone and faxed back my acceptance all within an hour. (Luckily, it was a good offer and I will get a fast close of escrow, so I had no problem accepting it.)
And then we went to a party, and then home, and the next morning after breakfast I got the call from the realtor that I was the "winner"-- my acceptance came in first, so I was the lucky seller. Damn, I was elated beyond normal levels of elation. You shoulda seen me.
Saturday was also the one year mark-- Greg and I have been together a year! To celebrate, he took me to the site of our first meeting and we sat at the exact same table and ordered, I think, the exact same drinks. (I know we both had beers a year ago, and that's what we had the other night.) It's been a really amazing year, and it's weird to think we have only known each other that long-- he feels like someone I have known for years and years. I couldn't be happier!
And finally, on Easter Sunday I tried two things I have never tried before. Both of these things are MONUMENTAL because they are both what I'd term "big deals." Anyone who really knows me will understand why the following substances merit cause for recognition:
1) I ate tilapia. Which is fish, in case you're like me and never heard of it before...and even more surprising, I enjoyed it.
2) I drank tequila shots. Yeah, I got to almost-31 and without ever having straight tequila. It's only made its way down my gullet by way of fruity margaritas until Sunday. The tequila we drank was apparently a very expensive, very exquisite, type of tequila. I had two shots of it; found I didn't like the salt-step (I just can't get used to the taste of straight salt in any form) and I really was shocked by the taste and the burn. I felt like such a "beginner". But hell, at least I drank me some expensive tequila, and can now add "tequila" to the list of alcoholic substances I have had.
Overall, it really was a great weekend. We capped it off with a dinner at Trish's new place (a Thanksgiving Part Two dinner, for which I brought the trusty Green Bean Casserole) and sleeping off a lot of food and alcoholic beverages. I have to say, I wouldn't mind more weekends like this one. It was great to get good news and to realize I could actually overcome some of my own fears and insecurities and do what most people can easily do (but is hard for me)-- TRY NEW THINGS. Yay for me! I just might become a real, socially-functioning and confident person yet.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Thursday, April 13, 2006
I just re-read my last post, and I realized something: on Easter, we don't celebrate the BABY Jesus; we celebrate the UNDEAD Jesus. There's a big difference.
Here's one to make my old Sunday School teachers cringe: imagine how terrible Good Friday would be for everyone if the whole crucifixion scene involved a baby? Like the Jews got together and decided to nail the Baby Jesus to the cross? Oh man, it would be about 20,000 times worse if that's what they did!
There was a time when I was a kid where I think I thought they did that. I thought Jesus was only about 4 months old when they crucified him-- because of the time lapsed between his birth and death on the calendar. I also think I thought he was supernatural though, and probably at about a week into his young life, he was laying in his manger and crying one minute, and Mary walked outside to pee or something, and when she came back in he had magically transformed into a full grown, bearded man. My kid-logic was like, "Why the hell not? He's Jesus!"
I don't even want to share how scared I was of whatever I thought "The Holy Ghost" was. I always pictured the Ghost of Christmas Past with chains and stuff. "Oooh, Ebenezer Scrooooooge, this is the Holy Ghost...wwooooooo... do not take my brother's name in vain....woooooo!"
Because, you know... Jesus, God and the Holy Ghost are all brothers. Only God is still alive, technically speaking.
Here's one to make my old Sunday School teachers cringe: imagine how terrible Good Friday would be for everyone if the whole crucifixion scene involved a baby? Like the Jews got together and decided to nail the Baby Jesus to the cross? Oh man, it would be about 20,000 times worse if that's what they did!
There was a time when I was a kid where I think I thought they did that. I thought Jesus was only about 4 months old when they crucified him-- because of the time lapsed between his birth and death on the calendar. I also think I thought he was supernatural though, and probably at about a week into his young life, he was laying in his manger and crying one minute, and Mary walked outside to pee or something, and when she came back in he had magically transformed into a full grown, bearded man. My kid-logic was like, "Why the hell not? He's Jesus!"
I don't even want to share how scared I was of whatever I thought "The Holy Ghost" was. I always pictured the Ghost of Christmas Past with chains and stuff. "Oooh, Ebenezer Scrooooooge, this is the Holy Ghost...wwooooooo... do not take my brother's name in vain....woooooo!"
Because, you know... Jesus, God and the Holy Ghost are all brothers. Only God is still alive, technically speaking.
Many a day has passed, and I have been unable to post anything I've wanted to here. There have been technical issues to iron out and work projects and other distractions to keep me away. Today I share with you the following TRULY AMAZING CRAIGSLIST ITEM FOR SALE:
Here's the text that went with this listing-- verbatim, but changed so the seller doesn't get hammered with (admittedly) much-needed teasing:
<><><> Cute Bird House <><><>
This is truly the greatest gift or a shelf show off there is. It stands about 8 inches tall, has a hook on its head to hang somewhere and is in un-used shape. A true must have for your favorite tweedy bird. You must pick-up. I’m 2 minutes from Meridian and University. This is $15,00 CASH ONLY. If your interested please e-mail me at >> XXXX@yahoo.com Thanks folks at Craigslist.
Well, here's the thing: Save yourself the trouble and don't even bother contacting this person, because I already threw down my $15,00 in cash so I could own this shelf show off myself. I always say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and a bird in the hole in a ceramic pig's chest is worth two dead on my back porch.
That might not be exactly what I always say. I can't quite remember details today. I am dazed and dazzled by this remarkable pastel pig with a clean chest wound. I want to stare at it, polish it up with a nice cheesecloth, take it outside for a walk around the block with a string tied to its neck, and share it with my loved ones over a tasty mint julep. It's always great when an object can inspire so much passion, isn't it? Happy Easter, Baby Jesus! I bring you the Pig With Hole in His Happy, Pride-Filled Chest In Which Birds May Care to Live.
Here's the text that went with this listing-- verbatim, but changed so the seller doesn't get hammered with (admittedly) much-needed teasing:
<><><> Cute Bird House <><><>
This is truly the greatest gift or a shelf show off there is. It stands about 8 inches tall, has a hook on its head to hang somewhere and is in un-used shape. A true must have for your favorite tweedy bird. You must pick-up. I’m 2 minutes from Meridian and University. This is $15,00 CASH ONLY. If your interested please e-mail me at >> XXXX@yahoo.com Thanks folks at Craigslist.
Well, here's the thing: Save yourself the trouble and don't even bother contacting this person, because I already threw down my $15,00 in cash so I could own this shelf show off myself. I always say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and a bird in the hole in a ceramic pig's chest is worth two dead on my back porch.
That might not be exactly what I always say. I can't quite remember details today. I am dazed and dazzled by this remarkable pastel pig with a clean chest wound. I want to stare at it, polish it up with a nice cheesecloth, take it outside for a walk around the block with a string tied to its neck, and share it with my loved ones over a tasty mint julep. It's always great when an object can inspire so much passion, isn't it? Happy Easter, Baby Jesus! I bring you the Pig With Hole in His Happy, Pride-Filled Chest In Which Birds May Care to Live.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
So, here's the back of some guy we just saw in Denny's tonight. He had the bushiest head of white hair I have ever seen on a man, and he was sitting at the counter just bothering the wait staff and being overly creepy. I had to take the picture with the "candlelight" setting so the flash wouldn't go off and alert him to our presence; that's why it's so dark. I just wonder: what battle was he on the payroll for? Or... is he advocating battling with a staff (bo staff, perchance?)? Gosh darn it anyway, we may never know. Also, he was the Third Albino of the Night. Greg and I went to a music festival tonight and we kept seeing old dudes with gray or white long hair everywhere we went. In fact, this one very andorgynous dude-- the First Albino-- was at every single venue we were at. I'd look up and see him there, not far from us. He was taking pictures of all the bands and standing around being creepy in his shorts and I-swear-they-were-shaved legs. Second Albino was just another guy, also in shorts, with long blondish-gray hair, hanging out in a bar and looking like he only wants to be a Lord of the Rings elf or something. I know he goes home and wishes for the money to finally get the plastic surgery to get the Legolas ears. When these Albinos take their pants off, there are no genitals-- just a shimmery, sparkly area of stars and pixie-ness. (I can't take credit for this imagery, that's all my lovely fiance's idea)
By the way, none of them were real albinos. We just called them that. It made it easy to go, "Oh! Behind you! First Albino is here!" and we both would know who-or-what we meant.
As for the Third Albino of the night, ol' Battle Staff... he was just unsettling. He said to the waitress behind the counter at one point: "I don't want you to take this personally or nothin', but you are very attractive." Let the record show that the waitress was NOT at all attractive. She was a squirrely little 50-odd year old woman with stringy colorless hair pulled back with a scrunchie, who totally looked like she was working hard to put her meth days behind her and straighten up by working the Sunday night shift at the Denny's. God, the whole scenario was just so sad, now that I reflect on it. Christ. Good thing we ate and got out of there before he said anything else totally depressing. You just got the feeling that Battle Staff is in that Denny's nearly every night of the week... just hoping for some Denny waitress tail (that he is never going to get).
I gotta go and watch TV now. The best of the Soup is on E! and I can hear Greg laughing it up like a happy-man out there. At least I did get to see the "Riding the Bus with My Sister" parody commercial they did this past summer. There's few things that are better, comedically-speaking, than Rosie O'Donnell playing a retarded woman who rides a bus, with a laugh track over it.
Watch out for albinos! And have a wonderful day, all y'all.
Friday, April 07, 2006
I am so thankful for Melanie and her new blog post about lying. You have to click that link to read it-- it's hilarious.
Not only am I appreciative of her stories, but I am happy because it made me remember something I wish I could forget. I was doing good for awhile there, and kind of let this particular embarrassing memory fade away, but today it came back. I'm not upset. Instead, I am completely ready to share my stupid lie with the internets.
Melanie, I am posting the comment I made on your blog here because I am too lazy to re-tell this story. And who knows... if I did try to re-tell it, I might not get all the facts straight a second time and have to add lies in to cover it up. So here is what I commented on Melanie's "stupid lie" post:
I did want to say that I, too, say stupid lies, and never know why I said it. I still feel dumb about one that occurred senior year of high school: My history teacher was talking about native americans and how shitty they were treated and all this, and I had a question about something he said. He answered me and then made a face (I guess the thing I asked was a little strange or something--I totally wish I could remember what I had asked!), and asked me why I cared so much about it. And I blurted out, "Because I am part Leni Lenape Indian."
This lie was terrible because he continued to "quiz" me about my heritage, asking me where they lived and how far back the Lenapes were in my family. I know he knew I was lying and I couldn't admit to it. So I actually had to go home and read a book about the Lenapes to back my lie up in case he asked again.
Shit. I really, really don't know why I ever said that particular lie. If I could go back in time I would have just lied and said an 'easier' tribe-- like the Sioux or Cherokee, for god's sake.
Not only am I appreciative of her stories, but I am happy because it made me remember something I wish I could forget. I was doing good for awhile there, and kind of let this particular embarrassing memory fade away, but today it came back. I'm not upset. Instead, I am completely ready to share my stupid lie with the internets.
Melanie, I am posting the comment I made on your blog here because I am too lazy to re-tell this story. And who knows... if I did try to re-tell it, I might not get all the facts straight a second time and have to add lies in to cover it up. So here is what I commented on Melanie's "stupid lie" post:
I did want to say that I, too, say stupid lies, and never know why I said it. I still feel dumb about one that occurred senior year of high school: My history teacher was talking about native americans and how shitty they were treated and all this, and I had a question about something he said. He answered me and then made a face (I guess the thing I asked was a little strange or something--I totally wish I could remember what I had asked!), and asked me why I cared so much about it. And I blurted out, "Because I am part Leni Lenape Indian."
This lie was terrible because he continued to "quiz" me about my heritage, asking me where they lived and how far back the Lenapes were in my family. I know he knew I was lying and I couldn't admit to it. So I actually had to go home and read a book about the Lenapes to back my lie up in case he asked again.
Shit. I really, really don't know why I ever said that particular lie. If I could go back in time I would have just lied and said an 'easier' tribe-- like the Sioux or Cherokee, for god's sake.
Wow, this is a pretty cool story. I love anything to do with genetics! DOUBLE-HELIX ROCKS!!! RECESSIVE GENES RULE! Whooooot!
What the flaming lips is this??
It was on my computer, so I know I should know what it is. I think it came from the Onion...? I really don't know. I think it's funny, though, and figured perhaps someone else might know the origin of this photo:
Here's more random stuff from my My Pictures folder:
I can't remember why I saved this image. I think I vaguely recall a little inside joke about bleached teeth with a co-worker from long ago, but even that's hazy. On a frequent basis, I also wonder about the relative yellowness of my own teeth, so it could be that I saved this as a reminder to myself to consider the possibility of teeth bleaching. I mean, hell! Look at her, she looks a lot different on that side of her mouth, right? If it worked for her, it has to work for me. That's the way it works.
Wow, it's Mabel and Frederick from the "Pirate Movie." What more can I say?
Here are two that have something in common:
This is a picture of my Dad when he leaned back too far in a chair and it toppled over. (I think it's a rerun, in that either myself or my sister already posted this picture, so I apologize if you feel cheated in any way.)
Now, this is another file I had on my computer. This was something I had as my wallpaper last year at some point. It just cracked me up:
It was on my computer, so I know I should know what it is. I think it came from the Onion...? I really don't know. I think it's funny, though, and figured perhaps someone else might know the origin of this photo:
Here's more random stuff from my My Pictures folder:
I can't remember why I saved this image. I think I vaguely recall a little inside joke about bleached teeth with a co-worker from long ago, but even that's hazy. On a frequent basis, I also wonder about the relative yellowness of my own teeth, so it could be that I saved this as a reminder to myself to consider the possibility of teeth bleaching. I mean, hell! Look at her, she looks a lot different on that side of her mouth, right? If it worked for her, it has to work for me. That's the way it works. 
Wow, it's Mabel and Frederick from the "Pirate Movie." What more can I say?
Here are two that have something in common:
This is a picture of my Dad when he leaned back too far in a chair and it toppled over. (I think it's a rerun, in that either myself or my sister already posted this picture, so I apologize if you feel cheated in any way.)
Now, this is another file I had on my computer. This was something I had as my wallpaper last year at some point. It just cracked me up:
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I have this calendar of whales and dolphins at my desk; it was a gift from my Dad and his wife. I think they bought it in a little touristy shop when they were visiting us back in October. Anyway, this calendar utterly annoys the piss out of me!
Why?
For one thing, it’s huge. I am in a cubicle, and this cubicle has only so much wall-room on which to hang personal effects. Like calendars. This calendar is easily two feet long when it’s unfurled and open. And my available cube-walls only allow for about 20 inches of space from desk to prefab shelf. So, I need to hang the calendar up-and-behind the shelf, and the bottom part still hangs down below my desk, so I can never see the last week of the month.
For a second thing, I just don’t know about looking at whales all day. There’s something weird about it. I do really love whales, and dolphins and I like to look at pictures of them or watch videos about them just as much as the next soft-hearted pissant. But seeing this same picture for a month straight, while at work, when I am sitting and growing fatter by the second, is getting to be too much.
Last month I had to look at a beluga all month. And belugas are definitely my LEAST favorite whale, right behind the freaky-long-skinny-head jerk that is the sperm whale. I think belugas look like ghosts. I saw them for the first time in the Baltimore Aquarium when I was in Brownies and it totally messed me up. They looked so eerie when you were standing against the cold glass wall of their tank and seeing their white forms gliding along through the water. Then, when they came close to the glass, I was wigged out by their FACES. Shit, a whale with a face, and a neck that can TURN? No, even as a kid I could tell that was not right. Whales should be cuter than that; they should look like the sweet little narwhal, or even the majestic humpback. Just look like a WHALE, that’s all I ask. Don’t look like a big, smiling ghost. Ew. Fuck you, Casper.
Right now, the picture on my calendar is better than last month because yeah, I have a humpback on the calendar for this month. It’s breeching so it’s way better than the horrendous close-up of that March beluga. This is just Nature, At Its Best.
What I did yesterday for no particular reason was this: I stuck my Chiquita banana sticker on the humpback’s huge fluke. So there it is, jumping out of the water and doing a backflip or something, and it’s wearing a nice, blue, Chiquita sticker.
I forget where I was going with this post.
Well, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter?
Nope!
Why?
For one thing, it’s huge. I am in a cubicle, and this cubicle has only so much wall-room on which to hang personal effects. Like calendars. This calendar is easily two feet long when it’s unfurled and open. And my available cube-walls only allow for about 20 inches of space from desk to prefab shelf. So, I need to hang the calendar up-and-behind the shelf, and the bottom part still hangs down below my desk, so I can never see the last week of the month.
For a second thing, I just don’t know about looking at whales all day. There’s something weird about it. I do really love whales, and dolphins and I like to look at pictures of them or watch videos about them just as much as the next soft-hearted pissant. But seeing this same picture for a month straight, while at work, when I am sitting and growing fatter by the second, is getting to be too much.
Last month I had to look at a beluga all month. And belugas are definitely my LEAST favorite whale, right behind the freaky-long-skinny-head jerk that is the sperm whale. I think belugas look like ghosts. I saw them for the first time in the Baltimore Aquarium when I was in Brownies and it totally messed me up. They looked so eerie when you were standing against the cold glass wall of their tank and seeing their white forms gliding along through the water. Then, when they came close to the glass, I was wigged out by their FACES. Shit, a whale with a face, and a neck that can TURN? No, even as a kid I could tell that was not right. Whales should be cuter than that; they should look like the sweet little narwhal, or even the majestic humpback. Just look like a WHALE, that’s all I ask. Don’t look like a big, smiling ghost. Ew. Fuck you, Casper.
Right now, the picture on my calendar is better than last month because yeah, I have a humpback on the calendar for this month. It’s breeching so it’s way better than the horrendous close-up of that March beluga. This is just Nature, At Its Best.
What I did yesterday for no particular reason was this: I stuck my Chiquita banana sticker on the humpback’s huge fluke. So there it is, jumping out of the water and doing a backflip or something, and it’s wearing a nice, blue, Chiquita sticker.
I forget where I was going with this post.
Well, in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter?
Nope!
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
I have lost the will to finish a work project. So, in place of work, I throw out these quick items of potential interest:
* Today I left not one, but TWO churches! See, I belonged to one when I first moved to AZ, and never bothered to tell them when I later decided to go to this other church. When my stupid ex began dating the pastor's daughter, I obviously couldn't go there anymore. I haven't been going to church for about two years, but I have been getting mailings from both churches--did you know churches can totally find you after you move? Somehow, they do!-- and kept forgetting to write and tell them enough is enough. Today I did it. At last. I am officially churchless and officially happy to be free of the ties that bind one to a congregation. Freedom from "newsletters" and "fundraising campaign mailings" should be glorious!
* Cadbury Mini Eggs are evil. I can feel myself gaining three pounds just from sitting here, alternating between working and poppin' these little sugary delectables into my gaping maw.
* Go see THANK YOU FOR SMOKING! Greg and I saw it last week and it was wonderfully funny and smart. You'll like it. Don't worry about Katie Holmes being in it-- she is not that prevalent, and you don't have to like her character-- in fact, the audience is kind of asked to dislike her. So you will be OK watching it. No one will call you a Katie Holmes fan for going to see it!
* Ocotillos are probably my favorite desert plant, if I had to pick one.
* It's weird that in the years I have been living here, I have not seen one raccoon. Used to see them a lot in NJ. I also used to see oppossums (or is it just possums?) back there, too... none here! Which is probably a good thing, because op/possums scare me. One time I was out on my swingset, just sitting there and swinging like a normal 8 year old kid, and I looked up in the branch of the tree that hung over the play area of the yard, and saw a beige op/possum sitting there, STARING at me. Its little black button-eyes were unblinking and its tail moved slowly in the breeze. I was terrified to move, having learned early on about rabid animals and the fact that if you see a nocturnal animal out during the day, chances are it could have rabies. So I sat still and waited for it to look away or something so I could run into the house. I really thought it was going to jump down and land on me and suck my soul out in tiny, mean little rabid bites. (I got away safely, you'll be glad to know!)
* I am scared of getting rabies. I have even had nightmares about it. With my mouth foaming and everything.
* Yet, I think bats are kind of cute. They remind me of Malcolm, who I sometimes call a fruit bat.
* I am craving some corn on the cob. Which is odd. I don't normally crave that. But right now I would really like me some hot, buttery corn! YUM.
* Today I left not one, but TWO churches! See, I belonged to one when I first moved to AZ, and never bothered to tell them when I later decided to go to this other church. When my stupid ex began dating the pastor's daughter, I obviously couldn't go there anymore. I haven't been going to church for about two years, but I have been getting mailings from both churches--did you know churches can totally find you after you move? Somehow, they do!-- and kept forgetting to write and tell them enough is enough. Today I did it. At last. I am officially churchless and officially happy to be free of the ties that bind one to a congregation. Freedom from "newsletters" and "fundraising campaign mailings" should be glorious!
* Cadbury Mini Eggs are evil. I can feel myself gaining three pounds just from sitting here, alternating between working and poppin' these little sugary delectables into my gaping maw.
* Go see THANK YOU FOR SMOKING! Greg and I saw it last week and it was wonderfully funny and smart. You'll like it. Don't worry about Katie Holmes being in it-- she is not that prevalent, and you don't have to like her character-- in fact, the audience is kind of asked to dislike her. So you will be OK watching it. No one will call you a Katie Holmes fan for going to see it!
* Ocotillos are probably my favorite desert plant, if I had to pick one.
* It's weird that in the years I have been living here, I have not seen one raccoon. Used to see them a lot in NJ. I also used to see oppossums (or is it just possums?) back there, too... none here! Which is probably a good thing, because op/possums scare me. One time I was out on my swingset, just sitting there and swinging like a normal 8 year old kid, and I looked up in the branch of the tree that hung over the play area of the yard, and saw a beige op/possum sitting there, STARING at me. Its little black button-eyes were unblinking and its tail moved slowly in the breeze. I was terrified to move, having learned early on about rabid animals and the fact that if you see a nocturnal animal out during the day, chances are it could have rabies. So I sat still and waited for it to look away or something so I could run into the house. I really thought it was going to jump down and land on me and suck my soul out in tiny, mean little rabid bites. (I got away safely, you'll be glad to know!)
* I am scared of getting rabies. I have even had nightmares about it. With my mouth foaming and everything.
* Yet, I think bats are kind of cute. They remind me of Malcolm, who I sometimes call a fruit bat.
* I am craving some corn on the cob. Which is odd. I don't normally crave that. But right now I would really like me some hot, buttery corn! YUM.
He will live on!
If there's one thing I have learned from all these blogs, it's only take penicillin for infections you don't think you can recover from on your own-- if you take it for every little rash and ooze, all willy-nilly, you can wind up with a powerful resistance to antibiotics. So when the BIG VD hits, you are screwed.
Well, I learned that in health class, to be honest. What I HAVE learned from the blogs is that people truly CARE. Sometimes a blogger can go out of their way to do a nice thing for you, or your elderly, freaky dog with frizzy hair and the beginnings of what I will call the dreaded "near-death stink."
And today, that blogger is Tinapopo.
THE FACE OF COMPASSION FOR ANIMALS... AND ONE FUNNY-ASS BITCH
For proof of her dedication to the cause of saving Malcolm from drowning in our pool, click HERE.
Honestly, I am overcome with gratitude and emotion, and a case of the dizzies. I almost wish I could go back in time and NOT kick Malcolm relentlessly last night. Oh yeah, and maybe not wash him in the dishwasher. Maybe this is a turning point for me! Maybe with the help of Tinapopo, I can actually learn to care, and...dare I say... love?
If there's one thing I have learned from all these blogs, it's only take penicillin for infections you don't think you can recover from on your own-- if you take it for every little rash and ooze, all willy-nilly, you can wind up with a powerful resistance to antibiotics. So when the BIG VD hits, you are screwed.
Well, I learned that in health class, to be honest. What I HAVE learned from the blogs is that people truly CARE. Sometimes a blogger can go out of their way to do a nice thing for you, or your elderly, freaky dog with frizzy hair and the beginnings of what I will call the dreaded "near-death stink."
And today, that blogger is Tinapopo.
THE FACE OF COMPASSION FOR ANIMALS... AND ONE FUNNY-ASS BITCHFor proof of her dedication to the cause of saving Malcolm from drowning in our pool, click HERE.
Honestly, I am overcome with gratitude and emotion, and a case of the dizzies. I almost wish I could go back in time and NOT kick Malcolm relentlessly last night. Oh yeah, and maybe not wash him in the dishwasher. Maybe this is a turning point for me! Maybe with the help of Tinapopo, I can actually learn to care, and...dare I say... love?
Monday, April 03, 2006
I want to take a moment to reflect on THINGS THAT ARE OVERRATED. Particularly, ice cream.
I like ice cream a lot. I like Carvel's soft serve. I like Marble Slab's creamy ice cream with fresh strawberries mixed into a waffle bowl. I like ice cream in pints, tubs and boxes. Whatever; ice cream is tasty and it's a good time, right?
Yeah, right. Every now and then I run across someone who swears that a certain brand/ type of ice cream is superior. "Oh you HAVE to try BlahBlah's Ice Kreemy ShitPalace, they have the BEST home-made vanilla with real bean-chunks in it..." Or when people will only buy Breyer's, or Bluebell, or some other brand, because they say they can taste the difference if they eat otherwise.
Maybe I am alone in this, but I cannot really tell the difference between ice creams. Sure, I can tell if a particular box of ice cream in my freezer is old because I can taste the watered-down crunchiness of the ice crystals forming an Albert Brooks-ish "protective layer". I can tell when ice cream is melted. And those are the two distinctions I can honestly make.
A sidenote about me: If I ever tell you I like one type of ice cream more than another, I am totally lying. I'm not saying I have never lied before. I suck at lying, and always admit it at some point because I can't keep up the vicious charade for long.
Well, I can't tell anything different when some ice cream place claims to have "fresh" or "hand-churned" or "homemade" or "olde-fashioned" ice cream on their menu. You can spoon any old pile of chocolate ice cream in my dish and I'll eat it, but I will tell you right now I won't be saying how much better it tastes than the shit I bought in Safeway because it had that all-important "Safeway Club Price" paper in front of its display. I just can't tell. I don't know HOW you tell. I mean, is it something to do with the "mouthfeel" of the ice cream? Is it "consistency" or "even flavoring" or "resistance to melting"? Seriously, how does one become an ice cream expert? Can I take a class if I wanted to figure it all out? Can I practice and train my tastebuds to taste the difference? What could I theoretically do (within reason)? Should I kill a guy to see how it feels to pour ice cream over a dead body?
Wait. Why did I say/type that last part? I meant to keep that part quiet. Well, no sense editing myself now. I will not censor myself. Nope.
The reason I'm thinking about this today was because on Friday night, Greg and I had some very ordinary and not-at-all exceptional ice cream at a supposedly great ice cream parlor in Scottsdale. I'd been there once--ONCE-- when I first moved to this state, and I went strictly because the place is pink and it looked "cute." But I never found an urge to return. I wondered why, over the years, whenever I would drive or walk past the place. Surely it was good ice cream, right? That's why the tourists flocked there? That's why Family Circus creator and genius about the dynamics of a family with retarded fat-head children, Bil Keane, would endorse the place like crazy? Right? Because the place is GREAT! That's why! ...right?
Nah.
It's NOT great. Sure, the ice cream was tasty but it was nothing to write home about. Although writing home about ice cream would be a funny thing to do. I guess I just wanted to have some ice cream there since we were in the area, and it was a place Greg and I had yet to go together. Why not.
Check out how garishly "CUTE" and PINK this overrated shithole is:
Everything in the place is pink, white and old-timey. It's supposed to be adorable as hell, what with all the whimsical drawings of shitty 1950s soda jerks and girls in skirts with ponytails everywhere. We ate at the ice cream counter, which I thought might have been pretty old since the wood was all chipped on the counter's edge. It was probably old, but that was about the only thing about the decor and the place I could appreciate. (You have to understand that NOTHING in the Phoenix/ Scottsdale area is allowed to age; everything gets ripped out and replaced with new, bland buildings designed to bring BEAUTY and GRACE to the Sonoran Desert's growing and thriving metropolitan areas.) If you like getting your ass whipped by a shitstorm of pink vinyl and framed pictures of kitties on the wall, this is the place for you! Are you corny as hell, perhaps a good safe little churchkid? You'll LOVE it! Best ice cream ever, gosh darn it anyway!
My point is: don't bother. It's visually assaulting and the ice cream will make you go "Ehhh."
I like ice cream a lot. I like Carvel's soft serve. I like Marble Slab's creamy ice cream with fresh strawberries mixed into a waffle bowl. I like ice cream in pints, tubs and boxes. Whatever; ice cream is tasty and it's a good time, right?
Yeah, right. Every now and then I run across someone who swears that a certain brand/ type of ice cream is superior. "Oh you HAVE to try BlahBlah's Ice Kreemy ShitPalace, they have the BEST home-made vanilla with real bean-chunks in it..." Or when people will only buy Breyer's, or Bluebell, or some other brand, because they say they can taste the difference if they eat otherwise.
Maybe I am alone in this, but I cannot really tell the difference between ice creams. Sure, I can tell if a particular box of ice cream in my freezer is old because I can taste the watered-down crunchiness of the ice crystals forming an Albert Brooks-ish "protective layer". I can tell when ice cream is melted. And those are the two distinctions I can honestly make.
A sidenote about me: If I ever tell you I like one type of ice cream more than another, I am totally lying. I'm not saying I have never lied before. I suck at lying, and always admit it at some point because I can't keep up the vicious charade for long.
Well, I can't tell anything different when some ice cream place claims to have "fresh" or "hand-churned" or "homemade" or "olde-fashioned" ice cream on their menu. You can spoon any old pile of chocolate ice cream in my dish and I'll eat it, but I will tell you right now I won't be saying how much better it tastes than the shit I bought in Safeway because it had that all-important "Safeway Club Price" paper in front of its display. I just can't tell. I don't know HOW you tell. I mean, is it something to do with the "mouthfeel" of the ice cream? Is it "consistency" or "even flavoring" or "resistance to melting"? Seriously, how does one become an ice cream expert? Can I take a class if I wanted to figure it all out? Can I practice and train my tastebuds to taste the difference? What could I theoretically do (within reason)? Should I kill a guy to see how it feels to pour ice cream over a dead body?
Wait. Why did I say/type that last part? I meant to keep that part quiet. Well, no sense editing myself now. I will not censor myself. Nope.
The reason I'm thinking about this today was because on Friday night, Greg and I had some very ordinary and not-at-all exceptional ice cream at a supposedly great ice cream parlor in Scottsdale. I'd been there once--ONCE-- when I first moved to this state, and I went strictly because the place is pink and it looked "cute." But I never found an urge to return. I wondered why, over the years, whenever I would drive or walk past the place. Surely it was good ice cream, right? That's why the tourists flocked there? That's why Family Circus creator and genius about the dynamics of a family with retarded fat-head children, Bil Keane, would endorse the place like crazy? Right? Because the place is GREAT! That's why! ...right?
Nah.
It's NOT great. Sure, the ice cream was tasty but it was nothing to write home about. Although writing home about ice cream would be a funny thing to do. I guess I just wanted to have some ice cream there since we were in the area, and it was a place Greg and I had yet to go together. Why not.
Check out how garishly "CUTE" and PINK this overrated shithole is:
Everything in the place is pink, white and old-timey. It's supposed to be adorable as hell, what with all the whimsical drawings of shitty 1950s soda jerks and girls in skirts with ponytails everywhere. We ate at the ice cream counter, which I thought might have been pretty old since the wood was all chipped on the counter's edge. It was probably old, but that was about the only thing about the decor and the place I could appreciate. (You have to understand that NOTHING in the Phoenix/ Scottsdale area is allowed to age; everything gets ripped out and replaced with new, bland buildings designed to bring BEAUTY and GRACE to the Sonoran Desert's growing and thriving metropolitan areas.) If you like getting your ass whipped by a shitstorm of pink vinyl and framed pictures of kitties on the wall, this is the place for you! Are you corny as hell, perhaps a good safe little churchkid? You'll LOVE it! Best ice cream ever, gosh darn it anyway!
My point is: don't bother. It's visually assaulting and the ice cream will make you go "Ehhh."
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