Well, it being February 29th and all, I'd bet that today is going to be pretty magical. I try to approach most days like that, even though I am an eternal pessimist, but today will be magical, for sure.
How do I know? Well, you see, I think one of my parents told me something about magic happening on Leap Day when I was a kid. I'd call them and ask what it was, exactly, but they never remember the crap they told me when I was little. I say "crap," because that's what most of it was. I tried to kiss my elbow to see if I'd really turn into a boy until I was 10. I thought I'd grow up to be a fairy princess until, well, I'm still working on that one. Also, Sleeping Beauty? That happened. For real. Don't believe me? I've got the book and it has pictures, my friend.
So today will be magical. I'm pretty sure I remember that it's a ladies' choice day, so if you want to ask someone out on a date, do it today. The person pretty much has to say yes. It's the rule, and if they don't believe you when you tell them that, just show them this page. It's on the internet, so you know it's official. I think I remember something about Leap Year not being good for sheep, as well, so keep that in mind.
Back to the magic, though. I don't know if the magic is specific, like that everyone will get a wish today, but that's what I'm aiming for. I'm going to wish all day for the same thing and see if it happens. I won't say what I'm wishing for, because then for sure it won't happen, but my neighbors better watch out, because there's going to be a lot more noise and flying going on in my backyard.
I notice that Disney is doing a special 24-hour opening for Leap Day, as well. That does not sound very magical to me. It sounds like, round about 3 a.m., there will be a lot of very grumpy pirates manning the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, and a lot of screaming babies, and a lot of drunk 21-year-olds. Yay. I want to go to THAT. I think Disney is losing sight of what's really magical, like sending me free tickets to go there, or maybe giving me free cotton candy and McDonald's fries when I'm there, or even buying me a hot tub. Don't those things say, "Magic!" to you? I know, I'm way better at this kind of stuff than they are. I think it's probably because, as a child, I was convinced that I was really a fairy princess that was brought to live with my family as a baby so that I could claim my magical powers and Pegasus when I figured out the secret.
I haven't figured out the secret yet, but when I do, it's going to be fantastic. I can go for rides on Pegasus and we'll go to the rainbow and see the leprechauns and then maybe stop for ice cream. You know, whatever we feel like. We won't be on a schedule.
No, I am not on drugs. It's the magicness of the day.
Don't forget to make a wish.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
My husband got me up at the usual time this morning, and I've never been so glad to see him. I was in the middle of a nightmare about arriving for an audition, only to find that not only did I not have any music with me, but the people hearing the auditions were old friends of mine who had decided they didn't like me anymore because I'd moved away. While I was standing in line, after noticing on the signup sheet that I was the last of the 53 people they'd be listening to that day, little kids kept coming up and asking me if my sister was Adam. The line of people who were waiting to sing was on a conveyor belt that was moving right in-between the people who were singing and the judging panel, and the person right before me was this lady who was in a wheelchair and singing like Ethel Merman. Her legs were uncovered and her feet were rotting off, and no one seemed to notice but me.
Ew. One of those dreams where you're so stressed out in the dream that you feel tired right away when you wake up. I think I'd prefer a dream that was scarier, but with less detail. That way, I wouldn't be carrying the picture of that lady's feet around in my brain.
Ick.
Ew. One of those dreams where you're so stressed out in the dream that you feel tired right away when you wake up. I think I'd prefer a dream that was scarier, but with less detail. That way, I wouldn't be carrying the picture of that lady's feet around in my brain.
Ick.
Monday, February 27, 2012
This year, I'm trying to do some new things. I'm not a spontaneous person, and I've decided that it would be good for me to get out there and take part in some new activities. Not only does it broaden my horizons, but it has entertainment value for people who get to watch, so it's like I'm also performing a public service. Go me.
This weekend, my husband and I were working on some house repairs and I got to learn how to use a battery-operated circular saw and a reciprocating saw. What I found amusing is that the guy asked me if I'd used power tools before, and I said, "Oh, yeah. Lots of times." (I have. I've used screwdrivers and drills and even a nail gun once, a long time ago, and never again, but I've never used a small finger-removal machine. That's what I call power saws.) So the guy just hands me this circular saw and leaves me to it. Is that a good idea? Really? Do I look like the sort of person who should be handling dangerous machinery? In case you don't know what I look like, the answer to that is definitely "no."
I sat there for a while, trying to get it to turn on, and trying to figure out how it was supposed to cut through anything with that shield over the blade part. After about 20 minutes, I figured that part out. So I get it to start working, and the battery promptly dies. Had to go find another battery. Got that done, then I'm cutting, and....just, holy cow. You really have to hold on to those things or they'll get away from you.
I then go outside to see if I can find a piece of board that's around the right size for my project. Alas, there is none. This is when I learn to use the reciprocating saw. Again, whoa. Those things are even stronger than the battery-powered one I was using, and this one has a tricky button that keeps the saw on. I don't know how I managed to escape that day injury-free, but I did. I was so proud, I almost felt like dancing, but that has a 90% likelihood of causing great bodily harm to myself and others around me, so I didn't.
I decided that maybe that kind of heavy home improvement is not for me. Too many opportunities to lose a limb or an eye.
Last night, I went to yoga with my Dad. I started a Facebook harassment campaign about a month ago to get him to go with me. I wanted to try it with someone who'd laugh almost as much as I do about the possibility of someone farting. I took a Pilates class in college, and there was definitely some audible flatulence going on, pretty much every day, so I figured yoga would be similar. It didn't disappoint.
Actually, it went really well. My Dad and I were representing in the way back, which is how we roll, and we couldn't hear the instructor too clearly at all times, but there was a very intense yoga lady in front of us, so we just watched her and tried to copy. My Dad only got his legs backwards once, and had to kind of sit that out, because his legs wouldn't go the right way, and I had to modify everything a little because, well, I'm fat, and my body doesn't go that way.
The farting? Yeah, it was going on, except most of the time it was silent, so I thought it was my Dad and he thought it was me, and there were only a few little pops that I heard and he didn't, which I knew wasn't him, because they were totally girl farts. Men embrace their gassiness and just let it happen. Ladies try to do it as quickly and quietly as possible (I realize I am making a sweeping generalization, and that many women embrace their gas, too, but you could tell these yoga ladies weren't that kind of woman).
So I'm giggling, and then the man says, "I'm so thankful for this nice facility: The nice carpet, the fans, the bathrooms..." I almost lost it, and THEN something with a more techno-ish beat comes on, and he says, "Move your body to the beat, if you want to." I turn to my Dad to say, "No, I do not," and then I realize I've been holding in the giggles for so long that if I say anything, it's going to come out way too loudly and everyone will hear. So I tried to say it, but pretty much failed and had to lay my head on the mat for a minute and just laugh.
It was ridiculous. It was also the most fun activity I've tried this year, and I've tried some really fun things, like the bagel-baking (lots of good new recipes, in general) and having a game night at my parents' house (Yes, I hang out with my parents all the time. They're fun.) and making some new crafts, like a hand-crocheted bowl and a baby blanket. So I guess that, so far, yoga with my Dad wins the fun award.
Until I'm the one who farts out loud in class, and I die of embarrassment. There will not be a blog post about that one.
This weekend, my husband and I were working on some house repairs and I got to learn how to use a battery-operated circular saw and a reciprocating saw. What I found amusing is that the guy asked me if I'd used power tools before, and I said, "Oh, yeah. Lots of times." (I have. I've used screwdrivers and drills and even a nail gun once, a long time ago, and never again, but I've never used a small finger-removal machine. That's what I call power saws.) So the guy just hands me this circular saw and leaves me to it. Is that a good idea? Really? Do I look like the sort of person who should be handling dangerous machinery? In case you don't know what I look like, the answer to that is definitely "no."
I sat there for a while, trying to get it to turn on, and trying to figure out how it was supposed to cut through anything with that shield over the blade part. After about 20 minutes, I figured that part out. So I get it to start working, and the battery promptly dies. Had to go find another battery. Got that done, then I'm cutting, and....just, holy cow. You really have to hold on to those things or they'll get away from you.
I then go outside to see if I can find a piece of board that's around the right size for my project. Alas, there is none. This is when I learn to use the reciprocating saw. Again, whoa. Those things are even stronger than the battery-powered one I was using, and this one has a tricky button that keeps the saw on. I don't know how I managed to escape that day injury-free, but I did. I was so proud, I almost felt like dancing, but that has a 90% likelihood of causing great bodily harm to myself and others around me, so I didn't.
I decided that maybe that kind of heavy home improvement is not for me. Too many opportunities to lose a limb or an eye.
Last night, I went to yoga with my Dad. I started a Facebook harassment campaign about a month ago to get him to go with me. I wanted to try it with someone who'd laugh almost as much as I do about the possibility of someone farting. I took a Pilates class in college, and there was definitely some audible flatulence going on, pretty much every day, so I figured yoga would be similar. It didn't disappoint.
Actually, it went really well. My Dad and I were representing in the way back, which is how we roll, and we couldn't hear the instructor too clearly at all times, but there was a very intense yoga lady in front of us, so we just watched her and tried to copy. My Dad only got his legs backwards once, and had to kind of sit that out, because his legs wouldn't go the right way, and I had to modify everything a little because, well, I'm fat, and my body doesn't go that way.
The farting? Yeah, it was going on, except most of the time it was silent, so I thought it was my Dad and he thought it was me, and there were only a few little pops that I heard and he didn't, which I knew wasn't him, because they were totally girl farts. Men embrace their gassiness and just let it happen. Ladies try to do it as quickly and quietly as possible (I realize I am making a sweeping generalization, and that many women embrace their gas, too, but you could tell these yoga ladies weren't that kind of woman).
So I'm giggling, and then the man says, "I'm so thankful for this nice facility: The nice carpet, the fans, the bathrooms..." I almost lost it, and THEN something with a more techno-ish beat comes on, and he says, "Move your body to the beat, if you want to." I turn to my Dad to say, "No, I do not," and then I realize I've been holding in the giggles for so long that if I say anything, it's going to come out way too loudly and everyone will hear. So I tried to say it, but pretty much failed and had to lay my head on the mat for a minute and just laugh.
It was ridiculous. It was also the most fun activity I've tried this year, and I've tried some really fun things, like the bagel-baking (lots of good new recipes, in general) and having a game night at my parents' house (Yes, I hang out with my parents all the time. They're fun.) and making some new crafts, like a hand-crocheted bowl and a baby blanket. So I guess that, so far, yoga with my Dad wins the fun award.
Until I'm the one who farts out loud in class, and I die of embarrassment. There will not be a blog post about that one.
Friday, February 24, 2012
I have a special gift.
There, I said it. I know that I'm ridiculously gifted, sort of in the way that Derek Zoolander is ridiculously good-looking, but this is a special gift to which I am referring, not just an ordinary one.
I make HamsterCats pee. On any surface.
My Mother has a dog. The dog has another name, but the moment I met her, her little doggie spirit whispered to me, "My name isn't Ellie.....my name is HamsterCat." Well, that and the fact that she looks like what would happen if a hamster and a cat had a baby.
Whenever I go to my parents' house, I say, "Haaaaammmmstteeeeeeerrrrrrrr!!!!!!!" really loudly. This lets her know that I'm there. It also serves as a reminder to me to look and see if anyone is sitting in my parents' living room, because when I do this and someone I don't know is there, they look at me funny and think that I'm crazy.
Then, HamsterCat comes running out and immediately pees, no matter where she is. I tried last night to just have her pee on the tile floor, but to no avail. She doesn't do it with anyone else. Just with me. Maybe she got confused with potty training and thinks I'm a newspaper. I don't know.
It's a pretty magical gift. Last night, she peed on my mom's chair and the tile floor in the hallway and in the living room. I didn't even pet her or talk crazy like I usually do; I was just in the house. That's how I know it's magic.
I think my dad appreciates my gift, too. He seemed pretty excited about mopping up all that pee. Dad, you're welcome.
Happy Friday.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Some days, you look out the window and you see something that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. Yesterday was that day at my house.
So I'm watching some Murder, She Wrote (in my opinion, one of the eightiesest shows to come out of the eighties, not to mention that J.B. Fletcher is the coolest person in history) when this huge furniture truck drives into the cul-de-sac. I, of course, take a look, because, first of all, I'm one of those people who spies on my neighbors from my window, but also because I know his truck has driven two hours to get here and the two houses next to us are vacant. The owners have moved and no one has bought them, so there's no way any legitimate traffic other than realtors and lookers should be at those houses. So I watch to see what the guy will do.
He backs his huge truck into our next-door neighbor's driveway and unloads a bedroom set that looks like it weighs about a thousand pounds. Really big, massive stuff, and he does it all by himself, as he has no helper, which is kind of weird, but hey, whatever works. He then walks up to the front door and rings the bell. He stands there for about five minutes in the freezing cold, then looks through his little stack of papers, hits himself in the forehead, and starts loading the truck.
Wait. It gets better.
He then proceeds to pull out of the driveway and performs some very complex maneuvering to pull into the driveway of the other vacant house on the street. Huge truck, small space. It takes him like ten minutes. After he gets into the driveway, he gets out of his car and does the same exact thing he did before. He unloads all the furniture onto the driveway, then goes up and rings the doorbell. Stands there for ten minutes.
Meanwhile, I'm dying. I don't know where the address he was supposed to deliver to is, but I'm guessing he's on the wrong street because after about ten minutes he grabs his papers, looks at them, shakes his head, and walks out towards the end of the street (where the street sign is). A couple of minutes later he comes walking back, looking super irritated, loads his truck up slowly, and drives away.
You thought you had a bad day yesterday? I'm pretty sure this guy wins. Mr. Furniture Delivery Guy, I hope your day got better, and that you learned the lesson that you should never unload your furniture in the driveway before ringing the doorbell and making sure it's the right house. You should really never do it twice in a row.
I feel so much less stupid now, you wouldn't believe it.
So I'm watching some Murder, She Wrote (in my opinion, one of the eightiesest shows to come out of the eighties, not to mention that J.B. Fletcher is the coolest person in history) when this huge furniture truck drives into the cul-de-sac. I, of course, take a look, because, first of all, I'm one of those people who spies on my neighbors from my window, but also because I know his truck has driven two hours to get here and the two houses next to us are vacant. The owners have moved and no one has bought them, so there's no way any legitimate traffic other than realtors and lookers should be at those houses. So I watch to see what the guy will do.
He backs his huge truck into our next-door neighbor's driveway and unloads a bedroom set that looks like it weighs about a thousand pounds. Really big, massive stuff, and he does it all by himself, as he has no helper, which is kind of weird, but hey, whatever works. He then walks up to the front door and rings the bell. He stands there for about five minutes in the freezing cold, then looks through his little stack of papers, hits himself in the forehead, and starts loading the truck.
Wait. It gets better.
He then proceeds to pull out of the driveway and performs some very complex maneuvering to pull into the driveway of the other vacant house on the street. Huge truck, small space. It takes him like ten minutes. After he gets into the driveway, he gets out of his car and does the same exact thing he did before. He unloads all the furniture onto the driveway, then goes up and rings the doorbell. Stands there for ten minutes.
Meanwhile, I'm dying. I don't know where the address he was supposed to deliver to is, but I'm guessing he's on the wrong street because after about ten minutes he grabs his papers, looks at them, shakes his head, and walks out towards the end of the street (where the street sign is). A couple of minutes later he comes walking back, looking super irritated, loads his truck up slowly, and drives away.
You thought you had a bad day yesterday? I'm pretty sure this guy wins. Mr. Furniture Delivery Guy, I hope your day got better, and that you learned the lesson that you should never unload your furniture in the driveway before ringing the doorbell and making sure it's the right house. You should really never do it twice in a row.
I feel so much less stupid now, you wouldn't believe it.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
In my never-ending quest to not weigh a metric ton, I have started trying exercise videos. I'm sure it's quite amusing to watch, as I am probably the least coordinated person ever to attempt these moves, but since I do the exercising when I'm alone at home and I draw the curtains, no one will ever get to see it.
I do think they could pick people who aren't so perky. If the ladies who are running the show could hear what I say to them, they'd probably either start crying or come after me with their well-toned arms and buns of steel and kick my butt.
Sometimes I worry that the people that live in my neighborhood or the mailman or another person that happens to be on the street will hear me berating the fitness instructor and will think I'm talking that way to a real, live person. Just to clear up any misunderstandings: I am alone with my TV, and I get very angry when a 90-lb. lady starts telling me how easy the exercise she's doing really is. It's called gravity. She should look into that, as it basically means that the Earth is pulling me down way harder than it's pulling her down. For crying out loud, I think my arm weighs more than her whole body. She does have a ginormous head, but I think that only gives her a pound or two. Therefore, I am entitled to call her bad names and make fun of her as much as I want.
I want an exercise DVD that has funny stories about the instructor scrolling across the bottom of the screen. That way, you feel like the makers of the DVD are making fun of her, too, and that makes it way better. If they had snack breaks, that would also be nice. Why is nobody making this video? I think it sounds amazing.
Also, if you get sore from doing the exercises, you should get two full days off from exercising, and be able to eat whatever you want without gaining weight. This will be super helpful, because when you go back, you'll be all rested and you'll have eaten, so you won't feel like you're going to pass out halfway through.
Wow, these are great ideas. I should've been an exercise video producer. At least when I workout today I'll have some new things to try. Especially the snack breaks. I think I can incorporate those really easily, plus since I'm exercising I'll be able to justify whatever I ate. Goodness gracious, this is outstanding. I think I just changed the world of exercise forever.
Okay, I know it's crap, but I really hate those ladies. I'll probably just yell new bad things at the TV, and that will have to be enough. For now.
I do think they could pick people who aren't so perky. If the ladies who are running the show could hear what I say to them, they'd probably either start crying or come after me with their well-toned arms and buns of steel and kick my butt.
Sometimes I worry that the people that live in my neighborhood or the mailman or another person that happens to be on the street will hear me berating the fitness instructor and will think I'm talking that way to a real, live person. Just to clear up any misunderstandings: I am alone with my TV, and I get very angry when a 90-lb. lady starts telling me how easy the exercise she's doing really is. It's called gravity. She should look into that, as it basically means that the Earth is pulling me down way harder than it's pulling her down. For crying out loud, I think my arm weighs more than her whole body. She does have a ginormous head, but I think that only gives her a pound or two. Therefore, I am entitled to call her bad names and make fun of her as much as I want.
I want an exercise DVD that has funny stories about the instructor scrolling across the bottom of the screen. That way, you feel like the makers of the DVD are making fun of her, too, and that makes it way better. If they had snack breaks, that would also be nice. Why is nobody making this video? I think it sounds amazing.
Also, if you get sore from doing the exercises, you should get two full days off from exercising, and be able to eat whatever you want without gaining weight. This will be super helpful, because when you go back, you'll be all rested and you'll have eaten, so you won't feel like you're going to pass out halfway through.
Wow, these are great ideas. I should've been an exercise video producer. At least when I workout today I'll have some new things to try. Especially the snack breaks. I think I can incorporate those really easily, plus since I'm exercising I'll be able to justify whatever I ate. Goodness gracious, this is outstanding. I think I just changed the world of exercise forever.
Okay, I know it's crap, but I really hate those ladies. I'll probably just yell new bad things at the TV, and that will have to be enough. For now.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
I'm trying to be as positive as possible about this. I refuse to let myself be a pessimist anymore. However, it does kind of make me want to gouge my eyeballs out when, after not sleeping the night before, I have trouble sleeping again.
This has been my dilemma for the last month and a half, or to be more precise, exactly 50 days as of today. 50 flipping days. Yes, there have been days in between these bouts where I've slept okay, but now it's back. Again. And all I can do is take a pill that I know will eventually not work for me anymore, or stay awake, panicking about how crappy I'll feel the next day, the whole night.
I don't know about you, but since I've read that somewhere along the lines of 40 percent of us are suffering from this poo, I'm guessing some of you are in this here boat with me. Therefore, I've decided to make a list of fun things you can do while you're not sleeping. Yes, I do love lists.
1. Shadow puppets. The light in my bedroom is not sufficient for this activity, but if I can get my alarm clock light right tonight, I'm going to practice making some bunnies. They're cute and you can also make up a little story for them as you go along.
2. List every book you've ever read/movie you've ever seen/restaurant you've ever gone to, etc. You'll be amazed how long some of these lists can get. I realize this option is far less appealing than the one above to some of you, but I like it.
3. Try to go through an entire movie in your head, with your eyes shut. The whole thing, credits and everything. It's a lot more difficult than it sounds, but more entertaining than just staring at the wall.
4. Mentally go through your closet and make outfits. This one will come in handy in the morning when you're so tired you can't construct a decent sentence, let alone an outfit that doesn't look like it was put together by Hilary Clinton in the 90s.
5. Finally, as a last resort, read a book of the Bible. Not one of the pleasant, poetic books or one that tells a story. Nope, it has to be one of the books where they're just naming people or counting things. If that doesn't put you to sleep, you know it's not happening, and you might as well get up and watch some TV.
I do realize that people aren't likely to take suggestions about getting to sleep from someone else who isn't getting any sleep, either, but you do have to admit that shadow puppet-making sounds pretty cool right about now...
This has been my dilemma for the last month and a half, or to be more precise, exactly 50 days as of today. 50 flipping days. Yes, there have been days in between these bouts where I've slept okay, but now it's back. Again. And all I can do is take a pill that I know will eventually not work for me anymore, or stay awake, panicking about how crappy I'll feel the next day, the whole night.
I don't know about you, but since I've read that somewhere along the lines of 40 percent of us are suffering from this poo, I'm guessing some of you are in this here boat with me. Therefore, I've decided to make a list of fun things you can do while you're not sleeping. Yes, I do love lists.
1. Shadow puppets. The light in my bedroom is not sufficient for this activity, but if I can get my alarm clock light right tonight, I'm going to practice making some bunnies. They're cute and you can also make up a little story for them as you go along.
2. List every book you've ever read/movie you've ever seen/restaurant you've ever gone to, etc. You'll be amazed how long some of these lists can get. I realize this option is far less appealing than the one above to some of you, but I like it.
3. Try to go through an entire movie in your head, with your eyes shut. The whole thing, credits and everything. It's a lot more difficult than it sounds, but more entertaining than just staring at the wall.
4. Mentally go through your closet and make outfits. This one will come in handy in the morning when you're so tired you can't construct a decent sentence, let alone an outfit that doesn't look like it was put together by Hilary Clinton in the 90s.
5. Finally, as a last resort, read a book of the Bible. Not one of the pleasant, poetic books or one that tells a story. Nope, it has to be one of the books where they're just naming people or counting things. If that doesn't put you to sleep, you know it's not happening, and you might as well get up and watch some TV.
I do realize that people aren't likely to take suggestions about getting to sleep from someone else who isn't getting any sleep, either, but you do have to admit that shadow puppet-making sounds pretty cool right about now...
Friday, February 17, 2012
I think you should know something. This may be hard for you to accept, but it's important that you hear this: Cute is not a valuable commodity.
Whew! I'm glad I got that off my chest. That one's been in there a long time.
Maybe it's just me, being grumpy and un-cute myself, but somehow when another adult woman looks at me and shakes her head and says, "Hee hee....when I think about things like that, I get so confuuuuuuuuuuused!" it makes me throw up in my mouth. It isn't endearing, and it doesn't make me want to rescue you from potential brain-spraining. It makes me want to take your pretty pink purse (don't get me wrong...I love purses, but when you're in your 50s, a plastic Barbie purse seems a wee bit inappropriate for everyday use) and hit you over the head with it. This isn't out of jealousy: I'm totally okay with not being cute (well, my husband thinks I'm cute, but I'm pretty sure that's because I make the best waffles in all of creation). I'm smart, and to me, that's much more valuable.
Some people, however, seem to think they're more attractive when they act helpless and stupid. I can't think of a worse idea. That may pique someone's interest in the beginning, but no one wants to help you tie your shoes for the next 50 years. I don't think anyone needs you to be a brain surgeon, but it's nice if you have some sort of skill set, or that you're at least reasonably self-sufficient and don't start every sentence with an obnoxiously high-pitched little giggle.
Again, maybe that's just me, too. I don't think so, though. I'd bet none of my favorite women have "cuteness" at the top of their list of favorite qualities about themselves. My sister, who is pretty much the coolest person in existence, for example. I'm sure she has her ditzy moments, like everyone else, but I've never seen her put on the "helpless female" act to make herself more attractive. Thank God, because if she did she'd be the only person on the planet I'd feel free to smack upside the head.
Please, please, please don't depend on your cute helplessness for your future happiness in life. Not only are most women not going to be taken in by that for too long, but most men will also get sick of it after a while. If they don't they're probably not worth being around permanently. So when you're no longer cute (it's inevitable) you'll be stuck, old and alone, with no friends and no partner. Be good at something, or interested in something. Learn new things and don't be afraid to try stuff that looks too difficult. You'll probably fail and be embarrassed a lot of the time, but you won't be an idiot and I won't write a whole blog page that describes in detail how irritated I am when I have to be around you.
Or maybe I just need a nap. It's hard to say.
Whew! I'm glad I got that off my chest. That one's been in there a long time.
Maybe it's just me, being grumpy and un-cute myself, but somehow when another adult woman looks at me and shakes her head and says, "Hee hee....when I think about things like that, I get so confuuuuuuuuuuused!" it makes me throw up in my mouth. It isn't endearing, and it doesn't make me want to rescue you from potential brain-spraining. It makes me want to take your pretty pink purse (don't get me wrong...I love purses, but when you're in your 50s, a plastic Barbie purse seems a wee bit inappropriate for everyday use) and hit you over the head with it. This isn't out of jealousy: I'm totally okay with not being cute (well, my husband thinks I'm cute, but I'm pretty sure that's because I make the best waffles in all of creation). I'm smart, and to me, that's much more valuable.
Some people, however, seem to think they're more attractive when they act helpless and stupid. I can't think of a worse idea. That may pique someone's interest in the beginning, but no one wants to help you tie your shoes for the next 50 years. I don't think anyone needs you to be a brain surgeon, but it's nice if you have some sort of skill set, or that you're at least reasonably self-sufficient and don't start every sentence with an obnoxiously high-pitched little giggle.
Again, maybe that's just me, too. I don't think so, though. I'd bet none of my favorite women have "cuteness" at the top of their list of favorite qualities about themselves. My sister, who is pretty much the coolest person in existence, for example. I'm sure she has her ditzy moments, like everyone else, but I've never seen her put on the "helpless female" act to make herself more attractive. Thank God, because if she did she'd be the only person on the planet I'd feel free to smack upside the head.
Please, please, please don't depend on your cute helplessness for your future happiness in life. Not only are most women not going to be taken in by that for too long, but most men will also get sick of it after a while. If they don't they're probably not worth being around permanently. So when you're no longer cute (it's inevitable) you'll be stuck, old and alone, with no friends and no partner. Be good at something, or interested in something. Learn new things and don't be afraid to try stuff that looks too difficult. You'll probably fail and be embarrassed a lot of the time, but you won't be an idiot and I won't write a whole blog page that describes in detail how irritated I am when I have to be around you.
Or maybe I just need a nap. It's hard to say.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
As I have mentioned in a previous post, Costco can be hazardous. I didn't realize how terrible these hazards could be until this morning, so I want to warn everybody out there, in order that they, too, might avoid the fate that has befallen me.
I bought a huge bag of gross coffee.
It was just like any other day, except that I'd recently decided to switch from the coffee I normally buy at Costco to a coffee they sell at Trader Joe's. Mind you, I have to drive an hour to get to a Trader Joe's and two hours to get to a Costco, so it seemed to make sense. However, the day in question was a day I just happened to be going by the Costco, when I just happened to have enough extra time to stop in. As my husband and I are going down the aisle by the coffee, he says, "Don't you need some coffee?" and I say, "No. Remember, I'm switching to the Trader Joe's one, because I like it better."
Then, it happened.
My husband said, "Hey! This one looks pretty good, and I don't know if we'll have time to stop at Trader Joe's on the way home. Maybe you should just try it."
So I brought it home.
Yesterday morning, I ran out of my other coffee. I ground enough of this new one for a couple of days, so I wouldn't have to run the grinder and wake anyone up this morning. I thought to myself that the coffee smelled pretty good, and I was looking forward to trying it this morning. If I'd only known.
I poured my first cup and sat down to answer my emails. Then, I took a drink. The coffee assaulted me. I kind of want to sue it for harassment. It's that bad. It tastes like cat pee, but worse. It tastes like cat pee from a cat that drank a bunch of coffee. And asparagus. That's what we're dealing with here.
Now, to find someone to palm it off on....
I bought a huge bag of gross coffee.
It was just like any other day, except that I'd recently decided to switch from the coffee I normally buy at Costco to a coffee they sell at Trader Joe's. Mind you, I have to drive an hour to get to a Trader Joe's and two hours to get to a Costco, so it seemed to make sense. However, the day in question was a day I just happened to be going by the Costco, when I just happened to have enough extra time to stop in. As my husband and I are going down the aisle by the coffee, he says, "Don't you need some coffee?" and I say, "No. Remember, I'm switching to the Trader Joe's one, because I like it better."
Then, it happened.
My husband said, "Hey! This one looks pretty good, and I don't know if we'll have time to stop at Trader Joe's on the way home. Maybe you should just try it."
So I brought it home.
Yesterday morning, I ran out of my other coffee. I ground enough of this new one for a couple of days, so I wouldn't have to run the grinder and wake anyone up this morning. I thought to myself that the coffee smelled pretty good, and I was looking forward to trying it this morning. If I'd only known.
I poured my first cup and sat down to answer my emails. Then, I took a drink. The coffee assaulted me. I kind of want to sue it for harassment. It's that bad. It tastes like cat pee, but worse. It tastes like cat pee from a cat that drank a bunch of coffee. And asparagus. That's what we're dealing with here.
Now, to find someone to palm it off on....
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Today is weigh-in day. I'm already on the other side of it, but I think that it should never happen the day after a holiday. Of course I'm going to weigh more. I ate an entire bowl of chips and salsa, followed by a ginormous meal involving steak, washed down with a platter of cake. Okay, maybe not that much, but you get the point. So this morning when I stepped on the scale and saw that I was up an entire pound, I did the usual things: moved the scale, in case there was an imperfection in the floor under the scale, causing it to make me weigh more (this is dangerous, as more often than not, I weigh slightly more after I move it and I have to decide which weight to enter for the day). When this tactic failed to produce results, I then went to the bathroom and tried to pee again. Of course, seeing that I just went about 2 minutes before this, I wasn't surprised when I couldn't do anything. Finally, I went for the old stand-by. I convinced myself that it was because of my lady time. Of course, that (and if you don't know what that is, call your mom and ask) is nowhere in sight, but it makes me feel less like it's my fault. I actually went in and looked at myself in the mirror and said, "Wow....I look super bloated. It MUST be water retention."
I think I'm going to write a book called, "How To Get Out of Stuff/Make Yourself Feel Better About Eating An Entire Quart of Ice Cream." It's going to be really short, about three chapters long. The first one will be a prologue, all about me and my qualifications (none). The second chapter will be called "Pretend You're Having Your Period," and the final chapter will be called "Explosive Diarrhea - They'll Buy It Every Time." (I say this, not having ever used it.) Explosive diarrhea? Genius! Who would make that up? You know they're going to let you leave work or whatever it is you're trying to get out of, because...come on. You know they can't call your bluff unless they follow you into the bathroom, and they're not going to do that. It's like the Ace of Spades of excuses.
That being said, I wouldn't try it too often, or they'll get suspicious.
Oh, and the period excuse? That doesn't really work with other people once you're out of high school, so use it while you can (unless you're a man, in which case I wouldn't use it all). Afterwards, it can become a way to make yourself feel better about not being perfect. Can't concentrate? Hormones. Looking fat? Water retention. Feeling lazy? Body's trying to tell me something. Better lie on the couch, watching reruns of The Love Boat, as I may be getting cramps at any moment. I'm not talking about real hormonal issues, either, as those are truly awful and have nothing to do with this. This is just referring to times when you want something more to blame it on and the usual, "Oops, I ate too much. Better work out extra this week!" doesn't quite cut it. It just doesn't feel very nice, so the solution is to invent an excuse that you know your brain will accept.
Another idea is to start a blog and then write about nonsense when you really should be getting work done, and then end abruptly when you've completely exhausted your subject matter. I like that one a lot.
I think I'm going to write a book called, "How To Get Out of Stuff/Make Yourself Feel Better About Eating An Entire Quart of Ice Cream." It's going to be really short, about three chapters long. The first one will be a prologue, all about me and my qualifications (none). The second chapter will be called "Pretend You're Having Your Period," and the final chapter will be called "Explosive Diarrhea - They'll Buy It Every Time." (I say this, not having ever used it.) Explosive diarrhea? Genius! Who would make that up? You know they're going to let you leave work or whatever it is you're trying to get out of, because...come on. You know they can't call your bluff unless they follow you into the bathroom, and they're not going to do that. It's like the Ace of Spades of excuses.
That being said, I wouldn't try it too often, or they'll get suspicious.
Oh, and the period excuse? That doesn't really work with other people once you're out of high school, so use it while you can (unless you're a man, in which case I wouldn't use it all). Afterwards, it can become a way to make yourself feel better about not being perfect. Can't concentrate? Hormones. Looking fat? Water retention. Feeling lazy? Body's trying to tell me something. Better lie on the couch, watching reruns of The Love Boat, as I may be getting cramps at any moment. I'm not talking about real hormonal issues, either, as those are truly awful and have nothing to do with this. This is just referring to times when you want something more to blame it on and the usual, "Oops, I ate too much. Better work out extra this week!" doesn't quite cut it. It just doesn't feel very nice, so the solution is to invent an excuse that you know your brain will accept.
Another idea is to start a blog and then write about nonsense when you really should be getting work done, and then end abruptly when you've completely exhausted your subject matter. I like that one a lot.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
In honor of the holiday, I would like to share my views with you on this whole Valentine's Day thing. Here we go!
Valentine's Day may be one of those holidays made more popular by greeting card companies, but really, which ones aren't hyper-commercialized? Look at Christmas. We start celebrating that one in October, and I don't hear people complaining about having to get their significant other a present then. Well, I do, but it's different complaints so I'm not worrying about that today.
GIVE YOUR PARTNER A GIFT. It's that simple. When people say, "I don't need a special day to tell my wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/partner/whatever that I love him/her," it just means that you're too lazy and/or cheap to do anything special. It should be considered an additional day to show people you love them. Heck, I'm 33 and I still get gifts from my parents on V-Day. Our family lives for gift-giving occasions the way other families live for....well...non-gift-giving occasions.
I, personally, love the heck out of having an excuse to do something silly and sweet for my husband. (Again, I realize that it's hard for people to picture living up to my level of perfection, but it's really not impossible. Just unlikely.) It's never a burden for me to do something nice for him. Maybe think of it that way: an extra bonus day for you to make your relationship a little happier.
Also, Valentine's Day is not just about romantic partners. It's a day where you can make dorky cards and give them out at work or make a batch of cookies for your friends. I say this with all sincerity: Homemade is just as good, if not better. Really.
Here's a big part of it, as well: If you tell a person that homemade is acceptable, mean it. Don't say it if you don't want to run the risk of getting a two-foot diameter chocolate chip cookie that tastes like foot. It happens sometimes.
Don't feel like you have to buy someone an expensive piece of jewelry. I think people like to feel that they're important enough for you to spend a little extra time on them, and that's what matters. We all get sucked in by these commercialized ideas of holidays, when really we need to learn how to make some stuff ourselves and spend time on the people we love instead of money. This year, I went online and looked up "Homemade Valentine's Day Gifts" and found a bunch of crafty stuff to make. Even if you stink at making things, try. It really is the thought that counts on Valentine's Day. Some of the things I made look like a four-year-old who failed his pre-school art class made them, but I know my family will love them, because they'll know I spent time on them.
Oh, and don't forget that taking two seconds to scribble a picture of a heart on a piece of typing paper because you forgot it was Valentine's Day until the end of the day does not count. That's just pitiful.
DISCLAIMER: My husband does not do any of the bad things mentioned above. This is not aimed at him in any way, shape or form, because he is an awesome Valentine. This is aimed at people who are always complaining about how they make every day super special for their partner, and then go out and buy him/her a potato peeler for Valentine's Day. Argh. Don't do that.
Valentine's Day may be one of those holidays made more popular by greeting card companies, but really, which ones aren't hyper-commercialized? Look at Christmas. We start celebrating that one in October, and I don't hear people complaining about having to get their significant other a present then. Well, I do, but it's different complaints so I'm not worrying about that today.
GIVE YOUR PARTNER A GIFT. It's that simple. When people say, "I don't need a special day to tell my wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/partner/whatever that I love him/her," it just means that you're too lazy and/or cheap to do anything special. It should be considered an additional day to show people you love them. Heck, I'm 33 and I still get gifts from my parents on V-Day. Our family lives for gift-giving occasions the way other families live for....well...non-gift-giving occasions.
I, personally, love the heck out of having an excuse to do something silly and sweet for my husband. (Again, I realize that it's hard for people to picture living up to my level of perfection, but it's really not impossible. Just unlikely.) It's never a burden for me to do something nice for him. Maybe think of it that way: an extra bonus day for you to make your relationship a little happier.
Also, Valentine's Day is not just about romantic partners. It's a day where you can make dorky cards and give them out at work or make a batch of cookies for your friends. I say this with all sincerity: Homemade is just as good, if not better. Really.
Here's a big part of it, as well: If you tell a person that homemade is acceptable, mean it. Don't say it if you don't want to run the risk of getting a two-foot diameter chocolate chip cookie that tastes like foot. It happens sometimes.
Don't feel like you have to buy someone an expensive piece of jewelry. I think people like to feel that they're important enough for you to spend a little extra time on them, and that's what matters. We all get sucked in by these commercialized ideas of holidays, when really we need to learn how to make some stuff ourselves and spend time on the people we love instead of money. This year, I went online and looked up "Homemade Valentine's Day Gifts" and found a bunch of crafty stuff to make. Even if you stink at making things, try. It really is the thought that counts on Valentine's Day. Some of the things I made look like a four-year-old who failed his pre-school art class made them, but I know my family will love them, because they'll know I spent time on them.
Oh, and don't forget that taking two seconds to scribble a picture of a heart on a piece of typing paper because you forgot it was Valentine's Day until the end of the day does not count. That's just pitiful.
DISCLAIMER: My husband does not do any of the bad things mentioned above. This is not aimed at him in any way, shape or form, because he is an awesome Valentine. This is aimed at people who are always complaining about how they make every day super special for their partner, and then go out and buy him/her a potato peeler for Valentine's Day. Argh. Don't do that.
Monday, February 13, 2012
On Saturday, my husband and I went to Santa Fe to have lunch and see a movie. We would've just stayed in town, but we got a gift certificate for a fancy restaurant for Christmas, and we like to go there on Saturdays and have a hamburger for lunch, so as to squeeze the maximum number of free meals out of the certificate. We've already gone twice and I'm pretty sure the servers think, "Ugh!" when they see us, because we are definitely a $5 tip table, as opposed to people that drink wine and eat seafood for lunch. Hey, come on, if the tab's $25, I'm not leaving a $10 tip unless the service is immaculate, and that's not going to happen, because they can tell we won't be ordering booze or dessert.
That's beside the (non-existent) point. We had our lunch, complete with a staring session with the guy at the table next to us. He was a tourist, of course, and he was staring with his mouth open and even moved his chair so he could stare without turning his head, which was making me laugh, because I realized about halfway through that I could turn my head slightly in his direction, and he'd drop his head really fast, like I'd busted him. So I kept doing it, to see if he'd realize that I was just messing with him. He didn't. It was great.
After lunch, we went to the movies. In Santa Fe, they have a big theatre that shows the popular movies, and they have an old, run-down one in a mall where no one shops that shows the more artsy-fartsy films. We like the old one, because when we first started dating, we used to go there and watch those kinds of films to show off for each other. Now, we're way past the showing off, but we still like the ambiance. Nothing says fun more than a dying mall.
We weren't thrilled with any of the offerings, but since it's been a month or more since we went to the movies, we decided to just pick one and go. We liked the look of Albert Nobbs, but when I read the reviews I thought, "Do we really want to spend our afternoon watching Glenn Close look constipated?" I guessed that we'd probably better save that for a rental, and we went to The Artist instead. There was a bit of hesitation, due to the whole "lack of dialogue" issue, but the ratings were so good we thought we'd chance it. Plus, we sneaked in a Cadbury Dairy Milk candy bar, and there's no way you're not having a good time if you're eating one of those. That should be on a controlled substances list. For seriously. They also have Coke Zero at that theatre, which is a good one because sometimes with Diet Coke, the lines get mixed up between the fruit punch and the soda, causing the Diet Coke to be slightly tinged with fruit punch taste, which is gross. Coke Zero has no issue with that. I realize that choice of diet beverage isn't part of most people's theatre selection process, but when fat people go to the movies they have to think about these things. It's a part of the whole experience.
Anyway, we were sitting behind a really fun group of people. It was two men who I'm pretty sure were a couple or wanted to be because of the amount of touching that was going on behind the seats, and an older lady. The two men were sitting on either side of the lady and making her laugh so much, I thought she might pee her pants. Maybe she did. I don't know. One of the men was talking about how he couldn't have dinner with them because he needed to buy supplies for his restaurant, and the other man and the lady were trying to convince him that he should skip it and eat with them. He said, "No, I can't. I need to go buy my steaks and if I wait until tomorrow, all the good ones will be gone." So the other guy says, "You want me to make you a tubesteak?" The old lady lost it, and so did we. I almost tapped the guy on the shoulder and asked him to be my friend. Okay, I didn't almost do that, as I'm way too shy, but I really, really wanted to.
Then we watched the movie, which was not as hilarious as the conversation in front of us, but it was exceptional. We both loved it. It's nice to see something where actors and directors don't need a lot of special effects to make a statement. It was very human and very touching, which I don't generally tend to go for, but in this instance it was perfect. Just well-made and lovely.
The following day, my husband made red-chile enchiladas. That's all I need to say about yesterday. In the history of the world, there have never been such enchiladas as these enchiladas. If I was a poet, I'd write a sonnet about them. Since I'm not, I'll write a haiku about them:
your cheesy goodness
chile so hot my nose runs
sunrise in a bowl
I know, I know. I'm just so talented. It's a burden, really.
So, all in all, it was a great weekend. A little light on the fart jokes, perhaps, but we watched Hot Fuzz last night and that sort of made up for it. Tomorrow, I'll have a special Valentine's Day blog for everybody. Maybe it'll contain the secret to true happiness, hmm? Or maybe it'll contain more rambling crap, like the rest of my posts. I guess you'll just have to read it to find out.
That's beside the (non-existent) point. We had our lunch, complete with a staring session with the guy at the table next to us. He was a tourist, of course, and he was staring with his mouth open and even moved his chair so he could stare without turning his head, which was making me laugh, because I realized about halfway through that I could turn my head slightly in his direction, and he'd drop his head really fast, like I'd busted him. So I kept doing it, to see if he'd realize that I was just messing with him. He didn't. It was great.
After lunch, we went to the movies. In Santa Fe, they have a big theatre that shows the popular movies, and they have an old, run-down one in a mall where no one shops that shows the more artsy-fartsy films. We like the old one, because when we first started dating, we used to go there and watch those kinds of films to show off for each other. Now, we're way past the showing off, but we still like the ambiance. Nothing says fun more than a dying mall.
We weren't thrilled with any of the offerings, but since it's been a month or more since we went to the movies, we decided to just pick one and go. We liked the look of Albert Nobbs, but when I read the reviews I thought, "Do we really want to spend our afternoon watching Glenn Close look constipated?" I guessed that we'd probably better save that for a rental, and we went to The Artist instead. There was a bit of hesitation, due to the whole "lack of dialogue" issue, but the ratings were so good we thought we'd chance it. Plus, we sneaked in a Cadbury Dairy Milk candy bar, and there's no way you're not having a good time if you're eating one of those. That should be on a controlled substances list. For seriously. They also have Coke Zero at that theatre, which is a good one because sometimes with Diet Coke, the lines get mixed up between the fruit punch and the soda, causing the Diet Coke to be slightly tinged with fruit punch taste, which is gross. Coke Zero has no issue with that. I realize that choice of diet beverage isn't part of most people's theatre selection process, but when fat people go to the movies they have to think about these things. It's a part of the whole experience.
Anyway, we were sitting behind a really fun group of people. It was two men who I'm pretty sure were a couple or wanted to be because of the amount of touching that was going on behind the seats, and an older lady. The two men were sitting on either side of the lady and making her laugh so much, I thought she might pee her pants. Maybe she did. I don't know. One of the men was talking about how he couldn't have dinner with them because he needed to buy supplies for his restaurant, and the other man and the lady were trying to convince him that he should skip it and eat with them. He said, "No, I can't. I need to go buy my steaks and if I wait until tomorrow, all the good ones will be gone." So the other guy says, "You want me to make you a tubesteak?" The old lady lost it, and so did we. I almost tapped the guy on the shoulder and asked him to be my friend. Okay, I didn't almost do that, as I'm way too shy, but I really, really wanted to.
Then we watched the movie, which was not as hilarious as the conversation in front of us, but it was exceptional. We both loved it. It's nice to see something where actors and directors don't need a lot of special effects to make a statement. It was very human and very touching, which I don't generally tend to go for, but in this instance it was perfect. Just well-made and lovely.
The following day, my husband made red-chile enchiladas. That's all I need to say about yesterday. In the history of the world, there have never been such enchiladas as these enchiladas. If I was a poet, I'd write a sonnet about them. Since I'm not, I'll write a haiku about them:
your cheesy goodness
chile so hot my nose runs
sunrise in a bowl
I know, I know. I'm just so talented. It's a burden, really.
So, all in all, it was a great weekend. A little light on the fart jokes, perhaps, but we watched Hot Fuzz last night and that sort of made up for it. Tomorrow, I'll have a special Valentine's Day blog for everybody. Maybe it'll contain the secret to true happiness, hmm? Or maybe it'll contain more rambling crap, like the rest of my posts. I guess you'll just have to read it to find out.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Now that I've started a blog, I've also started a list of potential blog topics. This is very important. I am definitely a list maker and my iPod is chock full of notes that are my lists. Every once in a while, I go through them to clean them out, but then I find lists that I forgot about and then I lose track of the whole cleaning-out process. So I have about 50 lists on there, right now.
Sometimes when people see the list of my lists, they make comments like, "Wow. Do you USE all of those?" To which I generally feel like replying, "Yes. Do you use all of your big old butt?" I don't ever say that, though, because I'm no longer in fourth grade and those kind of comebacks are no longer effective. Come to think of it, my general "your mom" comeback probably isn't effective, either, but I find it so hilarious that I don't think I'll ever stop using it.
I keep a list of all of the books I've read from the library. Not from my house, because I've read all the books I own so that would be silly, but I do keep another list of each author that I really love so I can make sure that if I buy a book of theirs, I don't already have it. I also keep an ongoing grocery list, divided up into the four main stores that I go to. I keep another list that is just clothing items that I need to get at some point, and another list of house projects that I'd like to do. My favorite list is the one where I list possible cleaning projects that I might overlook occasionally, so they don't get forgotten. You know, stuff like dusting the closet doors and cleaning my record collection.
And now I've just listed some of my lists for you. Isn't that a beautiful thing? I feel no list shame; I really enjoy having my stuff all lined up. I also hang and fold my clothes by color (rainbow order...works every time) and arrange my socks and underwear in the drawer by when I wore them last, so they each get worn the same number of times (I also arrange our towels, sheets and dishcloths the same way). I think Martha Stewart would be proud. In addition, I alphabetize my books (within their category, as each category is on a separate bookshelf) and CDs. Now I'm just bragging, but I do love to alphabetize.
So, as you can imagine, it gets pretty wild around here on weekends. As it is Friday, I wish you all a good weekend. A weekend that's full of lining things up, dusting them, and arranging them in color and/or alphabetical order. Awwww yeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!
Sometimes when people see the list of my lists, they make comments like, "Wow. Do you USE all of those?" To which I generally feel like replying, "Yes. Do you use all of your big old butt?" I don't ever say that, though, because I'm no longer in fourth grade and those kind of comebacks are no longer effective. Come to think of it, my general "your mom" comeback probably isn't effective, either, but I find it so hilarious that I don't think I'll ever stop using it.
I keep a list of all of the books I've read from the library. Not from my house, because I've read all the books I own so that would be silly, but I do keep another list of each author that I really love so I can make sure that if I buy a book of theirs, I don't already have it. I also keep an ongoing grocery list, divided up into the four main stores that I go to. I keep another list that is just clothing items that I need to get at some point, and another list of house projects that I'd like to do. My favorite list is the one where I list possible cleaning projects that I might overlook occasionally, so they don't get forgotten. You know, stuff like dusting the closet doors and cleaning my record collection.
And now I've just listed some of my lists for you. Isn't that a beautiful thing? I feel no list shame; I really enjoy having my stuff all lined up. I also hang and fold my clothes by color (rainbow order...works every time) and arrange my socks and underwear in the drawer by when I wore them last, so they each get worn the same number of times (I also arrange our towels, sheets and dishcloths the same way). I think Martha Stewart would be proud. In addition, I alphabetize my books (within their category, as each category is on a separate bookshelf) and CDs. Now I'm just bragging, but I do love to alphabetize.
So, as you can imagine, it gets pretty wild around here on weekends. As it is Friday, I wish you all a good weekend. A weekend that's full of lining things up, dusting them, and arranging them in color and/or alphabetical order. Awwww yeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh!
Thursday, February 9, 2012
It has reached the point in the afternoon where I'm starting to feel like I'm going to die if I don't have some cake. There is no end in sight, and I haven't eaten anything in around three hours. I wonder what would happen if I went into the office down the hall and stole all of the candy they keep on their desk for customers. They might get mad, but I think I could take the old lady working the front desk, because I'm pretty strong and I think she has to walk with a cane.
I don't really want their candy, though. Their office smells funny and I would bet the candy has absorbed the strange smell so it'll taste like half candy and half musty vanilla air freshener.
I heard a rumor once that there was a snack machine in the next building, but that sort of kills the whole snack idea for me. I don't want to have to clock out, walk down all those stairs, go out into the cold, walk to their building, go up the stairs, get the snack, then go all the way back to my desk. That is way too much work for a lousy bag of Cheetos. Or is it? See? My mind's all muddled from hunger.
If this is the last thing I ever do, I'll be so embarrassed. I guess I'll have to survive to write another (much less crappy) post.
At least I didn't just spend the last two minutes reading some crazy lady's ramblings about being hungry. That, my friend, was you.
I don't really want their candy, though. Their office smells funny and I would bet the candy has absorbed the strange smell so it'll taste like half candy and half musty vanilla air freshener.
I heard a rumor once that there was a snack machine in the next building, but that sort of kills the whole snack idea for me. I don't want to have to clock out, walk down all those stairs, go out into the cold, walk to their building, go up the stairs, get the snack, then go all the way back to my desk. That is way too much work for a lousy bag of Cheetos. Or is it? See? My mind's all muddled from hunger.
If this is the last thing I ever do, I'll be so embarrassed. I guess I'll have to survive to write another (much less crappy) post.
At least I didn't just spend the last two minutes reading some crazy lady's ramblings about being hungry. That, my friend, was you.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Musicals are an interesting phenomenon. Not only is everyone in a musical either reasonably attractive or hideously disfigured, but everyone on stage at any given time bursts into song over really small things, like finding a shoe in the bushes. My sister and I started an ongoing musical a few years ago which never gets written down on paper and changes constantly, based upon whatever we think is really funny at the time. It's mostly about our family, but sometimes a song gets thrown in there that's about a stranger who does something interesting, or something we have to eat that's really good. For example, I wrote a song last week called, "My chocolate chip bagel and me." It was a pretty nice song, but sometimes they're not so nice, which is why we probably couldn't ever sell our musical. A good 90% of the songs are making fun of somebody, and we wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings.
Hahahahahaha....I totally lied just there. It has nothing to do with hurt feelings, we're just pretty sure no one wants to sit through 12 hours (just an estimate, since we have a ton of material) of songs about the polyester pants my mom used to wear when we were kids that made a swishy noise, or about getting explosive diarrhea in an airplane bathroom when it's a small plane and you know everyone can hear you. My favorite in recent years was the one I wrote about the lady who sat next to me on a plane and peed her pants so much that when we landed, the sides of my leg was all wet with her pee. Yep, that really happened. I know, I couldn't believe it either, and with my OCD issues, I almost died. I think most people would've, though, even normal ones without hand-washing issues. So I made a song about it, to the tune of "Lay, Lady, Lay" by Bob Dylan. It's called "Pee On My Leg." The best part is that the someone else wrote the music, and the words are constantly changing so I don't ever write them down. That would ruin it. It's also the worst part, because it's way more work than I want to do, so the musical probably won't ever happen. I usually only write a stanza or two and then move on to something else, and it'd be hard to get a whole musical together out of scraps. It's also way more difficult to start up a gang of Cockney pickpockets than you'd think, and that shuts us down about half of the time.
If life was more like a musical, it would probably be really fun, but also embarrassing. I would have to run out of the room and hide a lot. Still, it would be worth it sometimes because you could celebrate something that happened that was awesome, or you could be all sneaky and hide something while singing about it, and nobody would ever notice because they'd be used to it. I don't think I'm perky enough to take part, but watching it would be entertaining. I'd have to really psych myself out to actually start singing like that in a place like the grocery store or a library.
Oh, and I don't like Glee at all. Just in case you were wondering. I love Jane Lynch and I think she'd be hilarious in most anything, but those kids make me want to throw myself in front of a train. So this has absolutely nothing to do with that kind of thing. You know, shows that are all uplifting, and you feel like you learned something at the end? Yeah. That's not my style. Neither is Cats. Generally, I can find something to laugh about in any situation, but that thing is a mess. When I was dragged to Cats by a friend, I mostly just sat in my seat feeling ashamed for the actors, and occasionally looked over at my husband, who also had his mouth hanging open in astonishment that that piece of crap even got made in the first place. I'm pretty sure that someday T.S. Eliot is going to come back to life to beat the crap out of Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I may make a musical about that. In the last two minutes, so many new song ideas have flooded my brain that I can hardly bear it. I think I'll call it, "You Can Sell Anything but Talent" or maybe, "Wow, People Really Will Buy Tickets to Anything!". The possibilities are endless. After all, it won't really be uplifting, and you won't have learned a thing by the end. Just as it should be.
Hahahahahaha....I totally lied just there. It has nothing to do with hurt feelings, we're just pretty sure no one wants to sit through 12 hours (just an estimate, since we have a ton of material) of songs about the polyester pants my mom used to wear when we were kids that made a swishy noise, or about getting explosive diarrhea in an airplane bathroom when it's a small plane and you know everyone can hear you. My favorite in recent years was the one I wrote about the lady who sat next to me on a plane and peed her pants so much that when we landed, the sides of my leg was all wet with her pee. Yep, that really happened. I know, I couldn't believe it either, and with my OCD issues, I almost died. I think most people would've, though, even normal ones without hand-washing issues. So I made a song about it, to the tune of "Lay, Lady, Lay" by Bob Dylan. It's called "Pee On My Leg." The best part is that the someone else wrote the music, and the words are constantly changing so I don't ever write them down. That would ruin it. It's also the worst part, because it's way more work than I want to do, so the musical probably won't ever happen. I usually only write a stanza or two and then move on to something else, and it'd be hard to get a whole musical together out of scraps. It's also way more difficult to start up a gang of Cockney pickpockets than you'd think, and that shuts us down about half of the time.
If life was more like a musical, it would probably be really fun, but also embarrassing. I would have to run out of the room and hide a lot. Still, it would be worth it sometimes because you could celebrate something that happened that was awesome, or you could be all sneaky and hide something while singing about it, and nobody would ever notice because they'd be used to it. I don't think I'm perky enough to take part, but watching it would be entertaining. I'd have to really psych myself out to actually start singing like that in a place like the grocery store or a library.
Oh, and I don't like Glee at all. Just in case you were wondering. I love Jane Lynch and I think she'd be hilarious in most anything, but those kids make me want to throw myself in front of a train. So this has absolutely nothing to do with that kind of thing. You know, shows that are all uplifting, and you feel like you learned something at the end? Yeah. That's not my style. Neither is Cats. Generally, I can find something to laugh about in any situation, but that thing is a mess. When I was dragged to Cats by a friend, I mostly just sat in my seat feeling ashamed for the actors, and occasionally looked over at my husband, who also had his mouth hanging open in astonishment that that piece of crap even got made in the first place. I'm pretty sure that someday T.S. Eliot is going to come back to life to beat the crap out of Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I may make a musical about that. In the last two minutes, so many new song ideas have flooded my brain that I can hardly bear it. I think I'll call it, "You Can Sell Anything but Talent" or maybe, "Wow, People Really Will Buy Tickets to Anything!". The possibilities are endless. After all, it won't really be uplifting, and you won't have learned a thing by the end. Just as it should be.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
After watching the Super Bowl, I realized that it only takes two things to sell a product: Boobs. Most of the commercials that were really good (and you could tell which ones were good by the amount of money the advertiser spent on the commercial) had a woman in either a bikini or some kind of shirt that let her boobs hang out. (Note that I didn't say "entertaining.") The way I figure it, there must be something to the whole boobs thing. They must be really awesome for so many people to spend so much time and money to put them on TV. Therefore, I need to start putting boobs on my advertisements for my business. I mean, it has absolutely nothing to do with my business, but what do boobs have to do with beer or cars? I have boobs, but I don't drink a lot of beer, and I certainly don't drive an expensive car (or slide down the front of it with my boobs hanging out). Plus, you can really tell that having big boobs is more important than, say, having a personality or being smart.
I think I may have just won the award for having the highest use of the word "boobs" in a single blog page. Just in case, here's some more: Boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs.
What happened to the cute commercials? The ones with puppies and kittens and little kids doing cute stuff? Or even farting? Come on. Those are great. There was one that had a little kid that had recovered from cancer, and that was good, but it made me cry, and it's embarrassing to cry in front of everybody, so I had to fake allergies, which was a lot of effort and I would've rather just not seen the commercial. I do like football, so it wasn't like I was just watching the game for the commercials, but I was overall pretty disappointed. It seemed like sex won out this year over funny. Funny should always win that battle.
Maybe I've just turned into a feminist in my old age. I don't know. It just seems to me like young girls shouldn't see that stuff being portrayed as awesome. Being smart is awesome, or so I'm told. Being funny is, too, along with being clever and being nice and being creative. Since we're over 50% of the population, can't we, I don't know, stop marketing the idea that women are air-headed bimbos that were created to be looked at, but not really taken seriously? I don't know about you, but if that's all I offer to the world, I'm in trouble. Serious trouble. I will never be that girl, unless they suddenly stop making cake and Clover Club barbecue potato chips (please don't let that happen), and I get massive plastic surgery to remedy my defects.
Plus, I think girls aren't supposed to make fart jokes or enjoy sporting events or be able to fix broken stuff and I do all of those things. I can also do math and check the oil in my car. In addition, I know the difference between a crescent wrench and a hammer. That should count for something, too.
To sum up: If you want to sell something, put boobs in your ad. If you want to be a great human being, worry less about the boobs and more about making quality fart jokes. The end.
I think I may have just won the award for having the highest use of the word "boobs" in a single blog page. Just in case, here's some more: Boobs boobs boobs boobs boobs.
What happened to the cute commercials? The ones with puppies and kittens and little kids doing cute stuff? Or even farting? Come on. Those are great. There was one that had a little kid that had recovered from cancer, and that was good, but it made me cry, and it's embarrassing to cry in front of everybody, so I had to fake allergies, which was a lot of effort and I would've rather just not seen the commercial. I do like football, so it wasn't like I was just watching the game for the commercials, but I was overall pretty disappointed. It seemed like sex won out this year over funny. Funny should always win that battle.
Maybe I've just turned into a feminist in my old age. I don't know. It just seems to me like young girls shouldn't see that stuff being portrayed as awesome. Being smart is awesome, or so I'm told. Being funny is, too, along with being clever and being nice and being creative. Since we're over 50% of the population, can't we, I don't know, stop marketing the idea that women are air-headed bimbos that were created to be looked at, but not really taken seriously? I don't know about you, but if that's all I offer to the world, I'm in trouble. Serious trouble. I will never be that girl, unless they suddenly stop making cake and Clover Club barbecue potato chips (please don't let that happen), and I get massive plastic surgery to remedy my defects.
Plus, I think girls aren't supposed to make fart jokes or enjoy sporting events or be able to fix broken stuff and I do all of those things. I can also do math and check the oil in my car. In addition, I know the difference between a crescent wrench and a hammer. That should count for something, too.
To sum up: If you want to sell something, put boobs in your ad. If you want to be a great human being, worry less about the boobs and more about making quality fart jokes. The end.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Dear Guy Who Gave Me A Booger-Covered Envelope,
I don't really know you, but I feel somehow that we now have a very special connection. I mean, not only did you give me a payment, but you took the time to enclose it in an envelope with your mucus on it. Not everyone is so considerate. In fact, some people just hand me a nice clean check, without bothering to crumple it up and smash it into a dirty old envelope which is then closed with an extra-large helping of spit, to keep it moist. Not to mention their envelopes' conspicuous absence of phlegm.
I truly appreciated the extra effort that must've gone into wiping your snot on the filthy envelope. You'd already done the crumpling and gotten the check filthy, but no, that wasn't sufficient. You had to go the extra mile.
After you walked out the door, I wanted to call after you, "Hey! Is there a charge for this little gift?" but you were already too far away to hear me. I knew, though, that you must really care.
And as I put on gloves, disinfected everything, put on a new, clean set of gloves and re-disinfected, I felt so special that I almost threw up.
Yours Truly,
The Person Who Had To Handle Your Booger-Covered Envelope
I don't really know you, but I feel somehow that we now have a very special connection. I mean, not only did you give me a payment, but you took the time to enclose it in an envelope with your mucus on it. Not everyone is so considerate. In fact, some people just hand me a nice clean check, without bothering to crumple it up and smash it into a dirty old envelope which is then closed with an extra-large helping of spit, to keep it moist. Not to mention their envelopes' conspicuous absence of phlegm.
I truly appreciated the extra effort that must've gone into wiping your snot on the filthy envelope. You'd already done the crumpling and gotten the check filthy, but no, that wasn't sufficient. You had to go the extra mile.
After you walked out the door, I wanted to call after you, "Hey! Is there a charge for this little gift?" but you were already too far away to hear me. I knew, though, that you must really care.
And as I put on gloves, disinfected everything, put on a new, clean set of gloves and re-disinfected, I felt so special that I almost threw up.
Yours Truly,
The Person Who Had To Handle Your Booger-Covered Envelope
Friday, February 3, 2012
I just realized that I started blogging on a Tuesday. That means that if I skip weekends, I will always end each week with a weird number of posts. Unless, of course, I skip a day during the week, which would even up the overall total, but it would make the posts for the week wrong. I really like to have things line up, and since there are five days in a work week, I would like to see the total number of posts always end on a multiple of five. This is going to drive me nuts until I figure out a solution.
Moving on, in honor of the fact that today is Friday and many of us are approaching two days away from the insanity, I wanted to share with you some of the more unusual comments I've heard and behavior I've witnessed (not always at work, some are from other places, too).
1. "Mmmmm...that looks good. Can I have a bite?" from a total stranger who actually reached out her hand to get my sandwich. I was then forced to cram the whole rest of it in my mouth and say, with my mouth full, "Sorry. What?"
2. "Do I need to let them know that I'm having my period?" In a dental office? Probably not.
3. "You look familiar. Have you ever bought Cheerios?" Yes. Yes I have. Let's bond over our love of its oatful goodness, shall we?
4. The 75-year-old man who tells me (out loud and in public) that he's taking Viagra, then stands there raising his eyebrows and winking at me.
5. Sterilizing all the pens in the pen jar. Yup, that was me. I'm not ashamed. Those things get full of contaminants.
6. "You should see the boil I've got on my ass right now. I's the size of a baby's fist!" Someone actually said this in casual conversation with a complete stranger in full hearing of about ten people. Yikes.
7. "Is there a bathroom in here? I had tacos for lunch." Honestly, I've heard this one more times than I can count. Its hilarity diminishes greatly with each hearing, and now I'm at the eye-rolling stage. Knowing my deep and abiding love for poop and fart-related humor, I'm surprised. At least once a month, though, someone comes up with it, and it's always tacos. Wonder why...
8. People sit on the couch, with other people out there, and just feel free to let it rip. Loudly and proudly. I've witnessed this at several locations. Who does that?
9. "Excuse me, I need to go first. My parakeet is having separation anxiety." Said at Starbucks by a lady pushing her way to the front of a twelve-person line. I let her go in front of me, because I was in awe of her bizarre lie-inventing skills.
10. "Milk and tampons! Milk and tampons! Milk and tampons!" sung to the tune of that song they play at baseball games, in an aisle of the grocery store. What a weirdo. Oh wait, that was my Dad, not a complete stranger.
And it was awesome!
Moving on, in honor of the fact that today is Friday and many of us are approaching two days away from the insanity, I wanted to share with you some of the more unusual comments I've heard and behavior I've witnessed (not always at work, some are from other places, too).
1. "Mmmmm...that looks good. Can I have a bite?" from a total stranger who actually reached out her hand to get my sandwich. I was then forced to cram the whole rest of it in my mouth and say, with my mouth full, "Sorry. What?"
2. "Do I need to let them know that I'm having my period?" In a dental office? Probably not.
3. "You look familiar. Have you ever bought Cheerios?" Yes. Yes I have. Let's bond over our love of its oatful goodness, shall we?
4. The 75-year-old man who tells me (out loud and in public) that he's taking Viagra, then stands there raising his eyebrows and winking at me.
5. Sterilizing all the pens in the pen jar. Yup, that was me. I'm not ashamed. Those things get full of contaminants.
6. "You should see the boil I've got on my ass right now. I's the size of a baby's fist!" Someone actually said this in casual conversation with a complete stranger in full hearing of about ten people. Yikes.
7. "Is there a bathroom in here? I had tacos for lunch." Honestly, I've heard this one more times than I can count. Its hilarity diminishes greatly with each hearing, and now I'm at the eye-rolling stage. Knowing my deep and abiding love for poop and fart-related humor, I'm surprised. At least once a month, though, someone comes up with it, and it's always tacos. Wonder why...
8. People sit on the couch, with other people out there, and just feel free to let it rip. Loudly and proudly. I've witnessed this at several locations. Who does that?
9. "Excuse me, I need to go first. My parakeet is having separation anxiety." Said at Starbucks by a lady pushing her way to the front of a twelve-person line. I let her go in front of me, because I was in awe of her bizarre lie-inventing skills.
10. "Milk and tampons! Milk and tampons! Milk and tampons!" sung to the tune of that song they play at baseball games, in an aisle of the grocery store. What a weirdo. Oh wait, that was my Dad, not a complete stranger.
And it was awesome!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
I often wonder why in the world people choose the ringback tunes they choose for their phones. So as a public service, I'd like to tell you all exactly what I'm thinking while waiting for you to answer your phone. Note that most of these thoughts occur when waiting to speak to someone over 40. I'm not talking about teenagers here, as that would require way more time than I've got, because, well, ew.
For the adults out there:
If your ringback tone has any words in it referring to bikini-covered body parts, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
If your ringback tone is a song that's about getting drunk, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
If your ringback tone is a heavy metal song with unintelligible words, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
See a pattern? Sometimes when I see someone after having heard their ringback tone, I'm shocked that they're sober and still have so many teeth. I know, however, that there are ever so many Megadeth t-shirts in closets throughout this town, in case you ever need to borrow one. That's all I'm going to say about that.
For the adults out there:
If your ringback tone has any words in it referring to bikini-covered body parts, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
If your ringback tone is a song that's about getting drunk, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
If your ringback tone is a heavy metal song with unintelligible words, I'm thinking that you're probably not very smart, and I doubt that we'll ever be best friends.
See a pattern? Sometimes when I see someone after having heard their ringback tone, I'm shocked that they're sober and still have so many teeth. I know, however, that there are ever so many Megadeth t-shirts in closets throughout this town, in case you ever need to borrow one. That's all I'm going to say about that.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
I'm drinking coffee and writing this on a laptop. This makes me feel like the episode of Family Guy where these two guys are writing on laptops in a coffee shop, because they're only real writers when other people see them write. Except, well, I'm alone in my house so maybe I should go into the room where the bird is so I can get validated.
Or not. That's not really my style, plus I'm in a very comfortable chair.
I'm feeling like my blog doesn't have enough adjective-y/adverb-y sentences. You know, with words like "luscious" and "magnificent." I'm going to remedy this today by telling you all about my bagel-making day yesterday. That way, my blog will be pretty and fancy like everyone else's, and I won't feel left out.
Yesterday, I decided to make two tasty batches of appetizing bagels to send to my work. I had bravely experimented the day before and made two outstanding batches for my family, but I wanted to try again, because, as luscious as the results were, the bagels I made didn't look very magnificent. Therefore, I decided to tweak the recipe and make a batch of decadent chocolate chip bagels. I also decided to shape the bagels in a different way, to make them look more like delicious store-bought bagels and less like unappetizing circles of tan dog poo (oops, I mean feces). This delightful experiment was a success, and my bagels were true masterpieces of culinary perfection.
Okay, enough with the fancy paragraph (about food, no less). I just made myself throw up. I think them purty words ain't fer me. I'll just stick to my banjo and my commas. I did sneak the word "feces" in there, though, didn't I? Ah, mission accomplished.
Or not. That's not really my style, plus I'm in a very comfortable chair.
I'm feeling like my blog doesn't have enough adjective-y/adverb-y sentences. You know, with words like "luscious" and "magnificent." I'm going to remedy this today by telling you all about my bagel-making day yesterday. That way, my blog will be pretty and fancy like everyone else's, and I won't feel left out.
Yesterday, I decided to make two tasty batches of appetizing bagels to send to my work. I had bravely experimented the day before and made two outstanding batches for my family, but I wanted to try again, because, as luscious as the results were, the bagels I made didn't look very magnificent. Therefore, I decided to tweak the recipe and make a batch of decadent chocolate chip bagels. I also decided to shape the bagels in a different way, to make them look more like delicious store-bought bagels and less like unappetizing circles of tan dog poo (oops, I mean feces). This delightful experiment was a success, and my bagels were true masterpieces of culinary perfection.
Okay, enough with the fancy paragraph (about food, no less). I just made myself throw up. I think them purty words ain't fer me. I'll just stick to my banjo and my commas. I did sneak the word "feces" in there, though, didn't I? Ah, mission accomplished.
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