I don’t really have anything to say today, but I just saw a commercial for a new drug and it humored me so. It is called Requip. And it has been invented to combat the terrible, horrible, debilitating effects of Restless Legs Syndrome. I kid you friggin’ not.
Here take the quiz and find out if you too can benefit from this important new drug:
Do you sometimes have a compelling urge to move your legs, often accompanied by uncomfortable leg sensations?
Does moving your legs provide temporary relief?
Do your leg symptoms begin or get worse when you are sitting, lying down, or trying to rest?
Does the urge to move your legs get worse in the evening or night?
Seriously. This whole drug thing is getting out of control. Are enough people in this country really going to their doctors and saying, “Look doc, when I’m trying to sit for 14 hours straight and watch the entire Lifetime Movie Marathon I get these really inconvenient urges to actually move my body. If I move I may miss what happens when you sleep with danger, and I wouldn’t want to miss that, it’s important television, you know.” Do we really need research scientists working on this? There’s really nothing else that they can be researching and developing drugs for besides twitchy legs? Come on.
Do you realize you could feasibly kill yourself with the number of drugs that are recommended during the course of one television show? If you took all these drugs, sure you’d suddenly find yourself running through fields and high-fiving more than normal, but you’d also probably be dead. Please make the drug commercials stop. Please. They are driving me insane. Perhaps I will invent a drug that will calm TV-watchers’ desire to put their feet through the screen every time some well-groomed model starts talking about their bowels and foot fungus and erections and herpes. Although I gotta look into getting some of those ailments because they seem to make you quite attractive.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
I don’t really have anything to say today, but I just saw a commercial for a new drug and it humored me so. It is called Requip. And it has been invented to combat the terrible, horrible, debilitating effects of Restless Legs Syndrome. I kid you friggin’ not.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
As I mentioned awhile ago my birthday was last week. I did not mention that another five of my group of high school friends also have birthdays around the same time. Because you don’t care about them. But they are relevant to this story, so we’ll pretend to care about them for at least the duration of this blog. Then we can go back to concentrating solely on me, which is really more comfortable for everyone.
Instead of having 6 parties in January we’ve recently decided that it would be a better use of our time and money and waistlines to just have one big birthday dinner and call it another year. This year I was in charge of making the reservations. I sent out an e-mail telling everyone to let me know if they could make it to a local chinese restaurant at 7:30 on Friday. Once I got the responses I called the restaurant to make the reservation. Because we had a party of 17 the chinese food place couldn’t give us a reservation until after 10. Which is a GREAT time to gorge yourself on chow mein, really. So then I had to move to Plan B. Since there wasn’t actually a Plan B I had to instead call some people and get opinions on where we should eat. We were trying to think of a place that could accommodate our size and general rowdiness. We agreed that a brewery might be the best fit for our needs. So I called up Sac Brewing Company and made a reservation for 17. Then I sent an e-mail out again letting everyone know that we were meeting at the Sac Brewing Company, which was in the Downtown Plaza. Great, wonderful, happy birthday to everyone.
Then I get to the brewery on Friday night and a friend walks up and says, “You know that we don’t actually have reservations here, right?” To which I replied, “What?” To which he replied, “We are at the River City Brewing Company, not the Sac Brewing Company.” To which I smacked him. Cause obviously I didn’t know that I had made reservation at the wrong brewing company, or I probably would have done something to change the fact that we were going to be sitting at one brewing company while a huge empty table waited for us at the other brewing company. But none of the other 16 people thought to send me an e-mail back pointing out the fact that I’m an idiot. Isn’t that nice of them?
Then another friend hung up her cell phone and said, “They wanted to know what time we were all meeting at the chinese restaurant.” At least I’ve found my herd.
And really, how many brewing companies does one town need? Is it a normal occurrence for a town to have 10 brewing companies, or is Sacramento just full of lushes who are impressed by large metal things full of beer? I just don’t know, but there seems to be a ridiculous number of breweries in this town. Are we too good for Budweiser and Keystone Light? (Ahhhh do you remember the days of Keystone Light? When we were actually PROUD to buy 12 beers for only $3? I think Keystone is the official sponsor of Underage Drinking, or maybe they co-sponsor with Natural Ice (or “Natty Ice” as we called it).)
I guess I just don’t see the point of breweries, why don’t they just ship the beer into their restaurant? Why do they have to make it on-site? All it does is make the restaurant smell like ass while I’m trying to enjoy a nice artichoke dip. And then there are the places that actually allow you the honor of making your own beer right there, so you can take it home and drink it later. Wow, that’s exciting stuff. I’m thinking this is a guy thing, the whole excited by the prospect of cooking beer thing. Perhaps this is finally a recipe they can get behind. But this does not intrigue me in the least. Especially when I’m out at a restaurant. Next thing you know they are going to be offering me the unique opportunity to cook my own food there as well. I can hardly wait.
But don’t let me detour you from visiting our lovely town and drinking your way through all of our local breweries. I’m sure they are all quite a treat, once you get used the ass smell, that is. I’d hit Sac Brewing Company first though, cause we know they have at least 17 seats waiting to be filled...
Friday, January 27, 2006
I find the whole thing hilarious. First of all, how incredibly stupid does a person have to be to lie to Oprah Winfrey? At what point did that seem like a good idea? It’s OPRAH for god’s sake. She could crush us all with her pinky toe. If I had written a memoir and I knew that I had possibly fibbed a couple or 834 parts of it I might hesitate when asked if I wanted to be a part of Oprah’s book club. I might, because I would have a good imagination, be able to imagine the many ways this could turn out poorly for me. (not the least of which would involve me being crushed by a pinky toe.) Then I might say something along the lines of, "You know what Ms. Winfrey I sure do appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I’m up for that kind of attention. It’s an honor to be considered though." And then I would hang up and move to Pakistan just to be safe.
But no, James decided it would be a fabulous idea to tell Oprah a gang of lies. Cause what were the odds someone would find out about them, right? I mean everyone loves Oprah, who would try to discount the validity of the world’s most popular media icon? That would be crazy talk, right? Riiight. For someone who is supposed to be sober James sure does have some clouded judgement.
I also love the publisher lady that was on the show. She was all, "You can’t ask your writer if they really were a horrible person." As if fact-checking a piece of non-fiction would be an infringement on the writer’s privacy. "Yes I know it seems unlikely that he could fly off a high rise with a pair of wings that grow out of his ass. But the ass is a very private part of the body, I don’t want to offend him by asking about it."
I, of course, have read this book. Because for some unexplainable reason I’ve started watching Oprah this year and have fallen into line in doing all that she tells me I should do. I can’t explain why I’m on the Oprah bandwagon after 19 wagon-free years, but I’ve just accepted it and moved on.
Personally I wasn’t very shocked to hear that there were parts of the book that were untrue. I read the book and always thought it read like a movie. I was reading it like fiction and then every once in awhile I reminded myself that it was a true story. But either way it’s a pretty good story, even if it’s all made up. But then again, it didn’t really suck me in the way it seemed to get everyone else. I remember Oprah saying that she was staying up nights reading it and it only took her a few days to finish it. It took me forever to finish it, and it didn’t keep me up any night. But that’s just me. I could give a poop about addicts, and really have no sympathy for them whatsoever, so the story wasn’t really a page-turner for me. This whole scandal is actually much more interesting to me than the book itself.
In the spirit of honesty I would like to clear up some points of this blog. I haven’t been completely truthful in my portrayal of myself on this site. In truth I am much more attractive, I can write with much greater skill and I weigh ten pounds less than I’ve represented myself. It feels so good to let the truth out. Now I just need some water and some flop sweat and I’ll be completely free of these horrible lies.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Here is a picture of the gift from God himself:
Do ya get it? If the name wasn’t adequate explanation, I’ll describe it in simpler terms. This thing helps you find stuff. Get it now? Apparently you put a little pager on commonly misplaced items and then when you misplace them you can push their corresponding button and they will beep until you find them. To make the search even more entertaining the beep changes cadence as the remote gets closer to the missing item. It’s all very dramatic.
As I look at the picture I wonder if there is really a need for eight buttons. The ad for the product says, "Always losing your glasses? Remote? Keys? Kid's favorite toy? "Now You Can Find It!"® locator puts a pager on all elusive things!" This is quite exciting, but I really don’t see how this product is going to work for anything besides the keys. Cause I don’t know about you, but I think it would be a bit cumbersome to have a "flashing beeper disc" attached with a "keyring or double-sided adhesive pad" to my glasses at all times. Dontcha think? And, "Come here Johnny, let me attach this flashing beeper disc thing to your stuffed bear. Do not be alarmed if it starts beeping and sounds somewhat like a soon-to-detonate bomb. That is just "Now You Can Find It!"® hard at work making sure your toy is never lost again."
Honestly, while this is a brilliant invention I fear that it would be pretty useless to me. Hearing isn’t exactly my strong suit. When I misplace my phone I’ll often call it so the ring can help me find it. This never works. I can usually narrow down what room it’s in, but beyond that I’m pretty much useless when it comes to figuring out an exact location. It actually works better for me if the missing phone is on vibrate, because then I can just lay across various spaces, call the phone, and then just wait for something to vibrate.
The "Now You Can Find It!"® features a magnetic docking unit that you can attach to a metal surface. When the "Now You Can Find It!"® is away from its dock for more than six minutes it starts beeping. This is to keep you from misplacing the misplaced items locator. As you’d be in a bit of a pickle if you needed a locator for the locator. My problem would be that it would take me way more than six minutes to figure out where the hell the beeping was coming from and then the damn locator would start beeping, in addition to the beeping locatee, and well, you can see how this would make for a somewhat frustrating experience which would most likely result in my just lying on the floor, hoping something would just vibrate.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Yesterday I wrote of my hearing aide's trip across the country, on its way back into my head. Today I had to change the hearing aide battery of the one hearing aide I still have. When I dug my new package of hearing aide batteries out of my purse I found it to be ridiculously complicated. Why have a simple little package when you can have one that involves 4 steps?
Here is the hearing aide battery package. I know, it looks like some sort of computer device or perhaps something worthy of an infomercial, but no, it's just a holder of hearing aides. I don't know.
Step 2 involves pushing the little yellow thing out, catching one of the batteries and sending said battery away from its holder.
In Step 3 the battery sticks to the handy dandy magnet on the end of the dispenser. The magnet holds the battery in place, eagerly awaiting Step 4.
In Step 4 you (and by "you" I mean "deaf person") holds their hearing aide up and uses the dispenser to easily place the battery in the battery slot of the hearing aide.
Are you exhausted? I am. I've never seen such a complicated process for changing a battery. Who hell thought it would be a good idea to add mechanical aspects to my battery holder? I don't get it. And did anyone stop to think that most of the people using hearing aide batteries are probably arthritic and can't even operate their friggin' battery container? Good lord.
And in other Photography News:
You might have to click on this one to see it larger, so you can get the true affect of it. I saw this as I was sitting at a stop light this weekend. The yellow sign on the left says "Elegant Dining", the green sign on the right says, "Health Inspected". Hmmm. This is the only other selling point they could think of to put in neon lights? Not "Happy Hour" or possibly "Great Eats"? No, they went with "Health Inspected", cause I know that is always my first concern about places with "Elegant Dining".
Have you ever seen this before? It's a shampoo for PEOPLE and it's got HORSES on it. It's called Mane and Tail for god's sake. Who's marketing idea was this? I pointed it out to my roommate, who was shopping with me.
"Is this a human shampoo?"
"Yeah, it works well."
"It's got horses on it."
"Well it's saying that it could be used on horses hair, that's how good it is."
"Being appropriate for washing a horses ass is considered a selling point?"
"Oh, when you put it that way..."
Monday, January 23, 2006
I was at my friend’s house in DC and I took my ears out before I took a shower. I put them on her dining room table and returned to them after my shower. However, after the shower I had all my clothes and my towel in one hand, so I could only put one ear in my head. I figured it was no big deal. I’d put my clothes away and then return to insert the other ear. Sure, I’ve never in the entire time I’ve had the ears only put one ear in, leaving the other alone, waiting to bring sound to my brain. But what was the worst that could happen really?
Well then. When I returned to the scene of the hearing aide there was no hearing aide to be seen. I looked everywhere, crawled around on the floor, went through nearby purses, tore apart my suitcase, just in case I’d picked it up instead of leaving it on the table. But the ear was nowhere to be found. I was SOOOOOOOOOOOOO very pissed off. Mostly at myself, because I swear to God things just fly away from my possession on a regular basis. And it’s quite ridiculous that I’m a grown woman and I can’t keep track of anything. Normally this is not a huge deal as getting copies of keys and credit cards and cameras is not the end of the world. But when you are losing $2500 hearing aides, the end of the world seems very near.
So I left my friend’s house and made my way up to NY in all my handicapped glory. (Talking to people in Chinatown with only one hearing aide? An amazing display of language and communication that I’m sorry you missed. Actually I missed most of it myself, so don’t feel left out.) My DC friend called me while I was in NY and alerted me that my ear had been found in a blanket. I’m convinced that her cat had something to do with the whole thing. She is offended by the suggestion. As if her cat would never EVER picks something up off the ground and possibly hide it in a blanket. Totally out of character for a cat.
Coincidentally I had a similar situation while visiting another friend a few years ago. I took a nap and woke up to find that my hearing aides were no longer on the table next to me, where I had left them. I found one on the floor but could not find the other. I was convinced that the cat ate the hearing aide. My friend was less convinced but eventually relented and we gave the cat a kitty laxative. We ended up finding the hearing aide under a chair leg. And the cat ended up having a rough night.
As I wait for my hearing aide to make its trip across the country I am trying to adjust to the entire world of sound coming in my right ear. People are trying to get my attention on the left side, calling my name and what not, but it all sounds like it’s coming from the right side of me, so I turn and look, wondering where the hell these people are hiding while calling my name. When I’m walking with my friends I have to grab them and put them on the right side of me so I can actually hear what they are saying. This often happens after they hit me and I realize that they’ve been talking for quite some time on my left side and now they’ve asked a question and are wondering why I’m staring off into a oblivion. When I go to the movies or theater I have to make sure everyone is sitting on the right side of me. It’s been awhile since I’ve had to be conscience of this and so more often than not I don’t remember this detail until we are already at our seats. Then we have to get up and play musical chairs for the confusion of everyone else in the theater. And let’s not even get started on the phone.
Oh how I’m looking forward to one of my major senses arriving via Fed Ex. I’m so forgetful that I lost my hearing aide. I am not even 30 years old. Let’s hope Fed Ex can ship entire brains by the time I’m in my 50's, cause things are looking grim for that decade.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
I’ve just opened three different e-cards (“When you care, but not enough to waste a stamp”). The e-cards entertain me so. They have dancing, singing, high kicks and great background music. And they always feature animals performing. I seriously can’t get enough of talking (or singing) animals. I don’t know why, it’s just my thing. AFLAC commercials? Crack. Me. Up. The Foster Farms chickens? Love them. I think we all know that I’m a simple girl. So the three cards I’ve just watched included two monkeys who alarmingly knew and sang my name, two cats who not only enjoy a martini, but also seem to have tremendous dexterity with their paws, and a duck and chick who enjoy shopping, and of course singing and dancing. Good times.
Then I received yet another e-mail from another friend saying that their birthday reminder reminded them that it was my birthday. And that I’m turning 45. Ah, I crack myself up. Every time I sign up for one of those reminder things I always put in a random year of birth. I’ve been congratulated on my 65, 82, 42, 53 and 10th birthdays this week. It’s a big week.
And finally I received my first singing of Happy Birthday on my voice mail. Every year it becomes painfully obvious how few people I know who can actually sing. The friend who called me at midnight also called me last year at midnight, although last year it went a little differently. My message last year was of her and several other people in a bar singing happy birthday to me (even though most of them mumbled through my name). Then the next day she called me:
“I am a horrible friend. I was out last night and I kept reminding myself that I had to call you at midnight, because it was your birthday. I kept looking at my watch and telling everyone that we had to call you at midnight for your birthday. But then I got way too drunk and totally forgot about it. I’m a horrible friend.”
“Uh, actually I got a message from you. A singing message. From you and what sounded like several other drunk people.”
“You don’t remember?”
“The evening has some unclear points, yes.”
“Well, you called. Right around midnight too.”
“I am a great friend!”
“You really are.”
“Oh god, I wonder who else I called.”
Sure they can’t sing, but my friends never fail to entertain...
Friday, January 20, 2006
It has been ever so long since we’ve had a photo of the ceramic dog. I am so sorry, my camera taking up residence in Honduras seemed to put a bit of a strain on Fido’s photoshoots. But don’t worry we are back on track now. Here is what she is wearing for the her New Year’s celebration. I’m assuming that she’s celebrating based on the outfit. Fido doesn’t give away much with her emotions. She’s so stoic.
I know that many of you have been clamoring to see Fido’s outfits these past few months and I might just get out the Nov and Dec wardrobe and take a picture. My mother promises that the Christmas getup was adorable. My mother also thinks that you are all pathetic for wondering about her dog’s outfit. She says, "Yes, I may dress a ceramic dog, but I think waiting to see what the ceramic dog is wearing indicates even less of a life."
I wonder where I get my testy nature...
Thursday, January 19, 2006
First of all, it only cost me $100 to get from NY to Sac. On the other hand it cost me $350 to get from Sac to DC on Southwest. This might have had something to do with the fact that I booked that flight about 4 minutes before I actually flew. But still, that’s ridiculous. At a $100 a pop to NY and back my friend on the east coast better get used to having house guests who wear 14 layers at all times.
Then on top of the fantastic fare they also have TV’s in the back of their seats. TV’S IN THE BACK OF THEIR SEATS. Now I know this not exactly groundbreaking, as several other airlines offer TV’s, but these TV’s also had DirectTV. Holy fun in the air Batman. I had like 50-some channels I could watch while flying over Minnesota (and one of the channels actually showed me when I was flying over Minnesota). I was flipping between Scrubs and Basketball and Queer Eye and Cosby Show and News. It was amazing. I vowed then and there to never fly on another plane that didn’t allow me the option of watching South Park. Again, I have very high standards.
Do you know how much I love JetBlue? I love it so much that the fact that we spent the first 2 hours bouncing violently didn’t even bother me. Scrubs had back to back episodes on, so I was cool. The guy next to me, not so cool however. He was not loving the bouncing so much. Poor guy had his head in a barf bag for the entire 6-hour trip. Well, not the same barf bag. Several barf bags. His barf bag, my barf bag, our neighbor’s barf bag, everyone’s barf bag. Until finally they just brought him a garbage bag. It was all quite lovely. He was a young man, maybe early to mid-20’s and he was wearing a suit and tie and trying very hard to be a grown up businessman. When I first sat down next to him he smiled and flirted a little. The flirting was interrupted by puking once we were airborne. He might have to work on his airplane game.
Even though I spent 6 hours bouncing next to a puking man I still love JetBlue. That’s how much I love TV. I’m a simple girl who doesn’t need much. You don’t have to feed me, you can give me a ride full of turbulence and you can even have my barf bag. Just give me DirectTV and I’ll be a satisfied customer.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
I call this picture Packing Light.
This is a picture of me attempting to pack light. I tried so very hard. I got the smallest suitcase out and I fully intended to take the small suitcase after being reprimanded by many an airport personnel for my enormous bag during my Honduras trip. But then I started packing and I found that only my coat fit in the small suitcase. I'm thinking the small suitcase is for Swimsuit Season, not Wear As Many Layers As Possible So You Will Have Plenty Of Padding When You Keel Over From Hypothermia Season. So yeah, I ended up going with the big suitcase.
I call this picture Poor Vacation Choices.
This is a self-portrait taken to show you what I looked like for the past three days. Yes, I nearly suffocated 8 times, but I survived. Thank god those layers broke my fall.
I would blog more, but I've been traveling all day and I'm tired and my body has no idea what time it is and whether or not to trust the rise in temperatures now that we have returned to a state that has its weather under control.
Monday, January 16, 2006
I do know how to time a vacation just right, do I not?
When I got off the bus in Chinatown the wind was bringing the rain down sideways. I was walking sideways as well, trying very hard not to be blown out of Chinatown. As I was walking across the street, towing my rolling suitcase behind me, hair swirling around my head, the wind took both me and the suitcase about three feet to the left. This flipped the suitcase over completely. As I was in the middle of the intersection and blinded by my own hair, I had to just keep moving. This meant pulling my suitcase through three inches of water on its non-wheeled side. When my friends came to pick me up I could tell by their howling laughter that I looked like a complete mess.
I heart traveling.
I'm wearing long underwear and the only parts of my body that are visible are my eyes. And you can't even really see them, because when I breathe into my scarf I fog up my glasses. It's all quite metropolitan and glamorous.
We are only here for a few days and we are making the most of it. We figured out that we spent about $900 yesterday. Doing our part to support the local economy and what not. We are so socially conscious. We saw two shows, ate three meals, went to Caroline’s for the late night comedy showcase and nearly died at the hands of a cab driver who secretly longs to be a NASCAR driver. It was a big day. Today we go to Letterman and to buy 34 “I Heart NY” shirts for everyone we know. Cause they are like $2 each. And everyone we know doesn’t need to know how cheap they are.
The weather forecast predicts that the temperatures will rise about 14 minutes after I get on my plane to leave. Which is wonderful and again, just perfect timing.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
And while you're at it Lord, would you please issue sainthood for whoever invented wireless internet. For they are the only reason I still have my (mininimal) wits about me. Everywhere I roam I am but a click away from the internet. And that calms me.
So far I have visited three states (four if you count DC as a state) and I've yet to take any pictures. I've also yet to lose my camera, so I consider that a small victory as well.
I will sleep now, so that I can once again face the a.m. hours tomorrow. I'm in DC, so perhaps I will drop off a new law at the White House requesting working hours to be changed to noon-9pm. This would work much better for me.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Have you noticed that the blog hasn’t had pictures on it lately? Uh, yeah, there is a very significant reason for that. I was mugged in Honduras and someone took my camera. Okay, maybe "mugged" is a strong word. Perhaps, just perhaps, it might even be the wrong word. Perhaps the right words are "an idiot". Yes, that might fit a little better. I was "an idiot" in Honduras and someone took my camera.
Before I left for Honduras my mother repeatedly offered to let me take her credit card just in case I lost my wallet while I was gone. The credit card I use is actually an ATM/credit card and therefore if it were stolen someone could theoretically empty out my bank account by using the credit card feature.
Every time my mother offered her credit card I scoffed, "Mother. I am a grown woman. I should be able to be trusted with the responsibility of my own credit card, for God’s sake."
"Yes, you should."
"Are you saying I’m not responsible?"
"You lost your purse when you went to Cancun."
"Mom, I was 18 years old and drunk for 7 days straight, I probably lost a lot more than my purse. I am an adult now, I wish you would stop treating me like a child."
So then. I lost my purse in a video arcade. Yeah. Cause not only am I an adult that is responsible for her own belongings, but I’m also an adult who is hanging out in video arcades. I’ve always been really good at proving points. As you can see.
So the digital camera I had was super-tiny, it could fit in my jeans pocket without any problem. Unfortunately it could also fit in the change purse of my purse/wallet thingy. Awesome. The only relatively good thing about my purse getting stolen was that my ATM card had already been stolen by some computer hacker in Poland before I even left the US. Therefore whoever found my purse in Honduras wasn’t able to use my credit card to empty out my bank account. Cause the dudes in Poland had already taken care of that. Look, I said it was a "relatively" good thing. I’m reaching here.
Lesson #1: I bought a new camera today. When the asked if I wanted the two year warranty I said, "Hell no, what good is a warranty if I lose the damn thing in six months?"
Lesson #2: Before this trip my mother once again offered her credit card. This time I skipped my proclamation of maturity and just took it. I found out the credit limit is something ridiculous like 15 grand.
Lesson #3: In an effort to avoid losing another camera I’ve decided to just leave the new one at home. Then I’m going to hire a personal photographer with the 15 grand my mother gave me. I mean, if I’m gonna be immature and irresponsible, I might as well do it right, right?
I will very briefly discuss two phone conversations I had today with two different friends.
Friend: “I’m stressing the hell out. I’m working too much, I don’t like my job, I can’t figure out my life, and I had a Go Girl! energy drink this afternoon, so I’m hyper as hell.”
Me: “You need to calm down, you are going to give yourself a heart attack.”
Friend: “I know! But the good news for you is that you get my death benefits if I die.”
Friend: “I put you down as the benefactor on my life insurance at work.”
Me: “What about your family?”
Friend: “They all have money, I figured you could use the money more than them. Maybe you could fix your credit or something with it.”
Friend: “Stop. I shouldn’t have told you, now you are plotting.”
Friend: “My new years resolution is to be softer, more approachable. Because my younger brother, who is only 11, told me that I’ll never get married because I scare all the men away. If I’m scary to an 11 year-old imagine what grown men are thinking.”
Me: “I can’t wait to hear how you are becoming softer.”
Friend: “I bought a pink shirt. Pink is soft, right?”
Me: “Oh yes, definitely. Now you might have to also stop getting in arguments with various high placed members of local government. I mean, if you are going for soft.”
Friend: “Pink is all I can commit to at this time.”
Those are just two of the many many many conversations I’ve had lately as many of my friends collectively suffer from the New Years FREAK THE HELL OUT Virus. Another year has officially passed, we are inching are way towards 30 (aka: the point of no return (or at least the point at which we are officially unable to blame our stupidity on youth)) and we need to lose 10 pounds, make more money and have at least 2.5 kids within a year or so. Mathematically this is troublesome at best and therefore we are FREAKING THE HELL OUT.
And by “we” I mean, “everyone else, not me”. I tend to have my FREAK OUT around April. Who knows why, I think that’s when the year starts to feel like it’s getting away from me. Right now? I’m all, “It’s January, and fresh and new, and there are infinite possibilities! Some of which include me suffering from a major case of frostbite while on the East Coast. But still! New Year! New Plans! New plotting of friend’s death so I can come into some money!” Ah, it’s an exciting time.
So to all my friends who are FREAKING THE HELL OUT my advice is this: Stay away from Go Girl! energy drinks (you are already operating in cap-lock mode, it can’t be healthy for your heart to beat any faster), call me whenever you are having a meltdown (I have been watching Oprah this season and can walk you through most of your emotions (and tell you how to pick the perfect bra)), and when all else fails...by a pink shirt (not really sure why, but I’m afraid of my “soft” friend and don’t want to disagree with her theory).
Happy FREAKING OUT everyone...
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
"Dawn, what color is your hair really?"
"See the dark brown underneath?"
"Yeah, that’s really dark."
"That’s my real hair color. I change it all the time. That’s the fun thing with hair, you can try all sorts of different things with it and it just grows out eventually."
"There’s a girl in my class, Cassie, she told her hair dresser to just cut like two inches and the lady cut like her whole head and it’s really really short now."
"Oh, that sucks."
"It does. But not really, because Cassie is like my arch enemy."
"My arch enemy."
"Really. I thought only superheroes had those."
"I really don’t like her."
"What did she do to become your arch enemy?"
"I don’t know, she was born. I don’t like her."
"Just all sorts of stuff. Like, like, listen to this. So one day I asked her if she wanted to play, cause you know, Josie was sick and so I needed another person to play with."
"Yeah. And so we were playing and I found a four leaf clover and I showed it to her and then she took it and ran to the teacher and showed it to him and was all like, look at what I found, a four leaf clover. And totally took credit for it."
"Wars have been started over less."
"I hate her, and I wish she would just die."
"No you don’t, don’t say that, wish for her to trip and fall in a pile of poo or something. Cause if you wish her to be dead and something happened to her, you’d feel horrible."
"That’s true. It would be even better if she fell in poo anyways."
"So her hair is really short?"
"Yeah, and everyone says she looks like a boy, and I think it’s hilarious."
"That’s not very nice, remember last year when your hair was cut too short and people thought you were a boy?"
"Yeah, that sucked."
"So you should have some sympathy for her."
"Just because it sucked for me doesn’t mean I can’t be happy that it sucks for her."
This is where a lesson should have come in. But again, this is not my kid. I just feed her McDonald’s and play board games with her. The lessons can be taught by the person who gets to write the kid off on her taxes.
I wonder where the kid gets her cheery disposition...
Monday, January 09, 2006
So I went and saw Munich and Brokeback Mountain. And then I tried to throw myself off of the first building I could find. Cause if you are looking for two pick-me-up movies, you might want to look somewhere other than this double feature. Holy world rid of humanity Batman.
So then. I saw Munich first. Considering it was about the bloodshed following the murders of 11 Israeli Olympic athletes in 1972 I probably should have guessed it wasn’t going to be a pick-me-up type of movie. And I would have guessed right. The movie centers around a group of men who have been enlisted by the Israeli government to assassinate several men believed to be responsible for the Olympic murders. They go and kill everyone in sight, blah blah blah. What I found most interesting about this movie, and every movie that takes place in a foreign country – the people speak excellent English. Now I get that it’s an American movie and therefore the filmmakers have everyone speak English, so that we can actually understand what is going on. But I always love how even though they are all speaking English, the characters still have accents. Cause you know, they are from a different country, so they should at least have an accent. This is why stupid Americans travel the world saying, “Do you speak English?” and honestly believe that everyone does. Only with an accent.
After watching Munich and discovering the benefits of revenge and violence, I wandered over to Brokeback Mountain, to learn about the soul-crushing effects of homophobia. Thank god I had my popcorn nearby or else I would have doubted that anything good still existed in the world. Anyone who hasn’t had their head in a microwave for the past 6 months knows that Brokeback Mountain is about the gay cowboys. They fall in love, lead miserable lives of longing and shame, frown a lot, blah blah blah. What I found most interesting about this movie was the previews before it.
Usually previews are put before movies based on the audience of the movie. If you are seeing a horror movie then you are probably going to get some horror movie previews, maybe an action flick with guns, and possibly a raunchy comedy, cause you are probably a guy who is entertained by blood and boobs. If you are seeing a teary drama then you are going to get a preview for a romantic comedy, an independent-y foreign-y type film and maybe a chick flick cause you are most likely a gay man. The people organizing the previews for Brokeback Mountain didn’t really know what the audience for a gay cowboy movie is, as this is probably the first of its genre, unless of course you count the unintentionally gay ones.
So the previews included a movie about a man trying to save a bunch of dogs that are his “family”, a romantic comedy about a black woman who falls in love with a white guy, and a psychological thriller about Jullianne Moore not wearing any makeup. I don’t know where the psychological thriller ties in with the gay drama, but the other two crack me up.
“The people watching this movie will be open to alternative relationships, how bout we give them previews for a movie with an inter-racial couple and the guy that loves dogs?”
“Yes, that’s perfect because a movie about the crushing effect of societal and personal prejudices is pretty much the exact same theme as a woman who is wondering if she should make out with her hot white gardener.”
“Yes, and don’t forget about the dogs. Everyone knows that right after gay marriage is approved it will only be a matter of time before people start trying to marry their dogs.”
“Especially if the dogs can garden.”
So there you go, Dawn’s Completely Useless Movie Reviews. (sponsored by: The Need to Put These Depressing Movies Out of My Head)
Friday, January 06, 2006
And speaking of ridiculous how much do I love Pat Robertson? I mean really, the guy is a walking Moron Soundbite. I LOVE it. He entertains me so. Seriously, the guy is one of the biggest boobs on the planet and never goes more than a few weeks without making sure we all have a very clear understanding of his idiocy. Today Robertson said God was pissed and so he gave that Sharon guy a stroke. Turns out God didn’t like that Sharon was dividing up God’s land. Or something. Seriously, I LOVE this guy.
Over the years he’s been pretty general in his hate spewing, the standard women are inferior, gays are satan and the lord loves all his people, except for all you evil sinners. But lately I like the focus he is giving to God’s wrath. Instead of just using the bible as an excuse to vomit hate throughout the land he is now kicking it up a notch and crediting God for all horrific natural disasters and deaths. It’s great. I bet God is loving all of this attention. I picture the big guy just sitting upstairs watching TV saying, "Is there any possible way for me to sue this guy for slander? Do I have a lawyer on retainer? No? None up here? Damn." (Easy lawyer joke, I’m sorry.)
Below is a little comic from me to you, please excuse the ghettoness, but it’s the best I can piece together with Google images and lack of sleep. In this comic the role of God is being played by Homer Simpson. Please make a note of it. Also make note of the fact that camera phones, while not allowed in Federal Buildings, are welcomed in heaven. But you are going to pay a hell of a roaming charge.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
So I had to mail three packages and I refused to let the stupid federal government and its ridiculous rules keep me from going to the nearest post office. So I hid my phone in the bushes and made my way into the terrorist-free zone of the United States Postal Service.
As I was walking in some poor woman was standing by the security checkpoint holding her purse in one hand and a stamped envelope in the other. She was looking at the Security Idiot and then to the big picture of a cell phone with an X through it. She was baffled.
“I know, it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
She turns to me, her mind still trying to make sense of what she was being told, “I can’t bring-”
“I know. Cause terrorists are now hijacking post offices with camera phones.”
The Security Idiot recognizes me from my previous rants in the security line, “It’s NOT because this is a post office, it’s because this is a Federal Building.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever. Do you realize that?”
“It’s a Federal Building.”
“What does that have to do with a camera phone? People blowing up federal buildings with camera phones now?”
Security Idiot #2 comes over, “Yes. Now would you please run your purse through the x-ray.”
I grab my purse as it gets spit out of the x-ray machine. I’m still mumbling under my breath and exercising that fun Freedom of Speech right when Security Idiot #2 comes over, demanding to see in my purse.
“What are tampons not allowed in Federal Buildings either?”
“You have something electronic in there.”
I pull out my Palm Pilot/bomb and show it to him.
“It’s a Palm Pilot. You know the Federal Government could probably use one of these, it’s got a budgeting feature on it.”
He waves me away, off to wrestle a phone away from some other poor person who just wants to mail a belated birthday card to their Uncle Lou.
I get in line and wait my turn. Suddenly there is talking behind me. A man is talking about getting a PO Box. A woman is trying desperately to avoid this conversation. I can smell the alcohol coming off this guy. I turn around, as it’s a long line and this guy sounds kinda entertaining to me.
“I’m getting a PO Box cause I am going to be writing some letters and people need to be able to respond to them.”
“Really, whoya writing to?”
“Everyone. All the people who are famous and powerful. I’m writing to Bin Laden.”
“You have his address doya?”
“Of course, I have them all.”
“Don’t worry about being in this line. You are safe as long as I’m here.”
“I was a bodyguard once, for big stars, huge stars, but they couldn’t afford me, $1000 a minute, you can’t afford that, right?”
“Want to trade glasses?”
“I’m legally blind.”
At this point a small Asian woman, she couldn’t have been more than 4 feet tall, creates a ruckus over by the security people. Her crazy was more interesting than my drunk guy’s crazy, so I tuned him out for a second. The little woman was running (well scooting really, cause her legs were so short she couldn’t really run that fast) away from the security checkpoint, towards the line I was in. The Security Idiots, being the great security that they are, yelled at her to come back. She made a scooting U-turn and went back to them, dropped off her bag, made another U-turn and started off again towards the line. The Security Idiots called her again, bringing her back to the x-ray machine. When she returned the second time she did a full lap around the machine and took off again. The Security Idiots just threw up there hands and let her go. Cause crazy women running through the building = A Okay, but camera phones = Homicidal Terrorist.
Right then. Back to drunk guy, who was off and running on some sort of drug commentary that lead to how my hair looked nice. I thanked him for the compliment as I climbed over the rope to grab an envelope. On my way back over the rope he said, “Damn, you must be a track star. Hurdles right?”
“Yes, I’m quite the athlete. Did you see how much air I got over that rope?”
“100 yard hurdles or 50 yard?”
“Both. I was awesome. I did 150 yards, I was that good.”
“I did sprints, I was a great sprinter, I’m not gonna lie. I’m 57.”
“But that’s old if you die at 50, right?”
“Cause that one guy, he died at 50, you know the one, he was real famous. Who am I talking about?”
“Any other clues besides the fact that he’s dead?”
“He was Robin Hood. Now you know. Now you have to know.”
“I’m pretty sure that was before my time.”
“And not dead.”
Unfortunately I was at the front of the line now and had to leave my 57 year-old friend of Bin Laden. When I got up to the counter the cashier motioned me close.
“I saw them rummaging through your bag, and I saw you givin’ him a piece of your mind. That was great.”
“Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, can’t bring camera phones in here.”
“Girl, don’t even get me started on them idiots.”
I didn’t know you could fall in love with a post office, but today I did.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
So this year when I saw a big present under the tree with my name on it I was momentarily psyched. The kid in me automatically thought it had to be something cool, simply because it was big. Then the adult in me reminded me that the only things that come in big boxes for adults usually belong in a kitchen. And the kitchen makes me neither holly or jolly, so my temporary “That’s Badass!” was immediately replaced by “Cooking, my ass!”
Come Christmas day I found that my parents weren’t insane and hadn’t bought me anything for the kitchen. (They have long ago given up on me ever being able to feed myself with anything that isn’t acquired while I’m sitting in a running automobile.) Instead my present was an equally tantalizing Space Heater. You know, because in addition to not being able to feed myself I’m also living in the coldest house in America (quiet Michigan). They done raised me right.
I set up the space heater downstairs so that my guests would stop catching hypothermia while visiting. (It’s bad enough that I feed them Chicken McNuggets for dinner parties.) The other night when my home became the collapsing point of several drunk people I surrounded their passed out bodies with space heaters to keep them warm. I plugged in the heater my parents gave me and turned it on. I then went to move it closer to the sleeping people, knowing full well that it was a good possibility they were already frozen to death. When I picked up the heater it began buzzing not unlike someone was being electrocuted to death in the living room. By the way one of the drunk people jumped, terror in her hazy eyes, I thought perhaps it had somehow managed to electrocute her.
“What the hell is that?!”
“My space heater.”
“Is it electrocuting you?”
“No it just sounds that way.”
“Why? Why, why would it make that horrible sound?”
“I think it’s trying to alert me to the fact that it is no longer on solid ground. My other space heater just turns itself off when it’s not on solid ground.”
“Maybe this one does too. After it electrocutes you.”
I lay the heater on its side. It continues to let out the most horrendous sound I’ve ever heard. It also continues to stay on. And the really intoxicated people continue to sleep right through it.
So then. If I’m not in the room when the space heater falls over then I may return to my home to find it up in flames, but with a really handy buzzing sound coming from inside. That seems like the best design ever, does it not? Of course if the house went up in flames our house would no longer be the coldest house in America. So it’s getting the job done, one way or another. If that ain’t a badass present, I just don’t know what is.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
My post-New Years hangover is my main reason for this resolution. I am a lightweight when it comes to drinking, and I feel as though that might be why I feel like such a pile of poo once a year following my annual drunkenness. Maybe if I really applied myself and got better about regular drunkenness I would be less likely to get such bad hangovers. Ya think? I think. Cause I haven’t always been this light of a drinker and back in the day, when I used to drink before going out to drink, I never had hangovers like I do now that my old "warm-up" would be enough to kill me. It’s all quite a sad turn of events.
Another thing that might be contributing to the hangovers: I can’t so much taste tequila when it’s mixed with at least a little bit of margarita mix. Yeah. Handy right? Also a little dangerous. So this New Years Eve, like any other annual drinking on my part, involved me getting a margarita, drinking about a fourth of it, then sending a friend to have the bartender fill the rest up with tequila. Cause the average Mormon might drink more than me, but when I go, I go big. Why not really? Well, you know, besides the hangover I mentioned earlier.
This year I tried to impede the hangover by feeding it to death at 3 a.m. This is another trick that I learned from the days back. In preparation for the drunk people that would likely ascend on my house following our New Year’s Party I stocked up on all things calorie inducing. My kitchen was like 7-11 and we ravaged it like we were a bunch of crackheads on a 5 day bender. (Do crackheads like 7-11? They seem to always be there when I stop by. Maybe it’s the Slim Jim/3 Day Old Burrito combo they find appealing.) Fortunately I had bought quite a bit of ready-to-consume food, like chips and dough-netts and cheese dip. Unfortunately I had also bought several need-to-be cooked items, like pizza and chicken wings and mini tacos.
These need-to be cooked items brought the frenzy of the kitchen to a complete standstill as everyone gathered around and stared at the oven, waiting for it to de-thaw the wonder. When I entered the kitchen I found my friends hypnotized by the oven and a large flimsy metal tray sitting next to them on the counter with two frozen chicken wings and some ranch. I pointed.
"Michaela tried to put all the chicken wings on that thing and put them into the oven. That is a serving tray, she didn’t listen to me. She even put ranch on the tray before she put it in the oven."
Michaela shrugged, "It’s been 7 minutes since the pizza was put in."
"It’s supposed to be in for 14 minutes."
"Maybe it’s done now."
"It’s only been 7 minutes."
"But it’s just cheese and bread, it’s probably done now."
I open up the oven to find a barely thawed pizza and a pyramid of chicken wings balancing in a small metal tin.
"Did you put all of the chicken wings from the box in that little pan?"
"No, two wouldn’t fit."
"I think the pizza is done."
This was the fire alarm. Going off because perhaps something from the pyramid had fallen to the bottom of the oven and was now creating smoke that was now escaping because the oven was open. Despite this alarm only one person moved to do anything about it. The others were undeterred from their dreams of pizza and ranch. While they sliced the pizza and sat down to eat two of us frantically stood on the table and whipped a towel near the fire alarm. (I have really high ceilings.) I went to open a window, which unfortunately was near an eating drunk person.
"Uh, it’s cold out there."
"Yes, but the fire alarm thinks the house is burning down, so we have to get some fresh air in here."
"But it’s very cold."
"Well, then move your chair to one of the other 764 places in the house that doesn’t have an open window."
"I’m sitting and eating pizza, and ranch. I can’t move."
"You know I actually have plates, you could put the ranch on something besides that napkin in your hand."
"I’m sitting. The napkin is fine."
Then someone entered to investigate the progress of the tower of chicken, allowing the smoke to escape again. "REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK"
My friend hops on the table, waving wildly. I pull my hearing aides out of my ears, hoping that a pile of chicken will not be the reason I end up losing what little hearing I have left.
"No fair, you can turn your ears off. While I sit here freezing to death while licking ranch dressing off a napkin."
"Dude, where are the cheese Munchie things?"
"Wusshername ate them."
"No! All of them?! Why? No. Are you serious?"
"Have a dough-nett."
"I want the Munchies."
"How bout chips and cheese dip?"
"How do you just eat a whole bag of someone else’s Munchies?"
"I have half of the snack aisle of the grocery store in here, you can find something. Have a strudel, extra frosting."
"What about the pizza, is it done?"
"No, but we ate it anyways."
"Where’s the chicken?"
When you’ve all given up on that silly working out resolution come on over to my place. I’ll be doing as much drinking as possible and we have plenty of snacks to go around. You might want to bring your own toaster oven though...