Feedback

So it seems that a few of my readers don’t enjoy my rambles about various TV programs or TV related matters. They would like me to stop posting them. And I would like to have a life that was entertaining enough to supply me with a new blog-worthy topic every day. Ahh, isn’t it fun to have dreams?

But alas, despite my references to Laffy Taffy jokes and carpel tunnel my life actually isn’t that exciting. I know, I know, I had you all fooled with my tale of 18 hour work days and late night furniture moving. But things can’t always be that action-packed. And I know you love ‘em but how many posts can a girl write about her drunk friends? They have to sober up at some point. We’ve been out of college for years now.

So what do I do when life fails to entertain me (and therefore definitely won’t entertain you, because you are a rough crowd)? Do I go out in search of all there is to see and do in this lifetime, and then return to you full of engaging stories of my triumphs and travels?

Yeah, no.

I just turn on my TV and flip through the channels until somebody does something ridiculous and then I blog about it. Do you see how this is a lot less work than actually living life? Life requires movement and probably a shower and maybe even a clean shirt. TV requires, well, an outlet. So there you go. I understand that you want to read about something other than TV, but you should probably understand that that’s probably not going to happen.

But thanks for the feedback.

What I find most amusing about the negative postings is that all of a sudden everyone became “Anonymous”. Seems people are hesitant to post their names when they are pointing out that a writer is a loser. What I find less amusing is that one of the negative postings came from my very own mother.

I think I’ve reached a low point on many levels when my own mother is posting negative messages on my blog about my lack of writing abilities or life.

This all reminds me of a TV show I saw once…

Short Attention Span Reality

You know what I hate about reality shows? (Besides the fact that no one has offered me a gig on one) I REALLY hate how they feel the need to tell you what is coming up after the commercial break. Dude, it’s TWO MINUTES from now, do I really need a sneak preview? No. How bout trying something crazy like, and I’m just throwing around ideas here, letting the audience WAIT TWO WHOLE minutes and see for THEMSELVES what is going to happen on the show?

I know, I know. It’s nuts. I know that every time I’m watching a show and it goes to commercial I’m thinking, “God, if ONLY I knew RIGHT NOW what was going to happen after this commercial break, I’d totally stick around and watch the rest of this show. But I don’t know what is going to happen, so I am going to go ahead and change the channel now and take my viewership elsewhere. Maybe I’ll go watch a rerun…cause then I’ll be guaranteed to know what is coming.”

It’s ridiculous.

I already refuse to watch any previews for any upcoming shows because they totally ruin the show. “Next week on ER…the most EXPLOSIVE ER EVER!” And then they proceed to fit every key scene from the next week into a 30 second preview. Making it pointless to even watch the show. So every week I fast forward past the previews and then spend the rest of the week adverting my eyes every time a preview comes on. It takes a lot of effort and concentration on my part to be able to watch my favorite shows and actually be surprised. And I generally don’t exert effort in haphazard fashion.

But then the damn reality producers decide to put the previews IN the damn shows. And they ruin everything. All my hard work and determination shot. With one little, “Still ahead…”

Bastards.

We’re Still Old

It’s Week #2 for our (Attempting to Play) Soccer Team. Conditions have not improved. We’re like the Bad News Bears. Only we cuss more.

Good News: We all survived last week.
Bad News: Two of our players visited the hospital and/or doctor after last week’s game and were advised by their health professionals to not play this week.
Badder News: Two of the players that were actually GOING to play were still limping from last week.

Good News: We had just enough people to play. Five on the field and one in goal.
Bad News: None of us learned how to play goalie in the past week.

Good News: We started off strong.
Bad News: After two minutes one of our forwards pulled her quad muscles and could no longer move.

Good News: Because we had no subs our injured forward moved (very slowly) to the goalie position. Because that was the only position that didn’t require actual movement.
Bad News: We already had one of the limping girls playing goalie.
Badder News: It turns out the goalie position actually does require some movement.

Good News: Our goalie did make one stop.
Bad News: Our goalie making even one stop was such a big event that our ENTIRE team started clapping when she picked up the ball.

Good News: We have all known each other for over a decade.
Bad News: This kind of closeness leads to many encouraging comments like, “Dude, where are you GOING? The ball is over THERE!” and “You have GOT to be kidding me!” and “Oh CRAP…” (from our goalie, every time the other team touched the ball, no matter where they were on the field) and my favorite, “What’s WRONG with you?!!”

Good News: The other team scored 2 less goals on us than last week.
Bad News: That’s cause we forfeited after the first half.

Good News: We can’t really get any worse than this game.
Bad News: Technically we CAN get even older by next week though…

I Might Be Working Too Much…

So I sleep weird. As I’ve mentioned previously, I can’t hear, so I just have to wake myself up in the morning, without the help of an alarm. I think this has disrupted my sleeping patterns over the years and now I wake up about 10 times during the night, just to check the clock, and make sure I’m not oversleeping for something. I’ve also been known to sleep walk a little. You know, get up in a half-sleep and think it’s time to go wherever it is I’m supposed to go in the morning. Usually I wake myself up before I actually get dressed or anything. But sometimes I don’t. I am probably the only person in America who locks her bedroom door for the purpose of keeping herself in, instead of keeping the bad guys out.

So all of this is to explain my actions the other night.

I was up late working on work. Which is something that is becoming quite a regular occurrence. Because I’ve been working so much my carpel tunnel has been killing me. In addition to wearing my attractive hand brace while working, it also helps to wear it while I’m sleeping. So before I go to bed I plug my cell phone into its charger on the nightstand, then I put the arm brace on, affixing the four Velcro straps and tuck myself in. (Why did Word just capitalize the word Velcro? Is it a brand name? Like Kleenex? Hey look, it did it to Kleenex too. Who knew Velcro was a brand name? What else would you call it, if not Velcro? You can call Kleenex tissue or something, if it’s the generic brand, but what would you call Velcro? Discuss.)

ANYWAYS…

So I wake up in the morning and find that the arm brace is no longer on my arm. And it’s nowhere around me either. I wonder what happened to it and where I put it when I decided to take it off in the middle of the night. Cause I had to have taken it off, there’s no way it could have fallen off. I’m not too concerned, as I’m sure it will turn up. Then I reach for my phone on the nightstand, to see if there are any messages yet this morning. But the phone is not there. Hmmm. I look all around the bed for it, on the ground, behind the bed. Nowhere to be found. Now I’m a little concerned. It seems someone has broken into my room and stolen my arm brace and my phone. But left my TV and computer. They must have carpel tunnel too. And needed to make a phone call.

So I get up to find the house phone, so that I can call my phone. I am not looking forward to this, as I’m sure that the cell phone is on vibrate, which makes it ever so much fun to try to find. On my way out of my room I trip over my arm brace, which has been thrown across the room and has landed in front of the door. Apparently I was done wearing the brace at some point during the night and I felt the need to get it as far away from me as possible.

I grab the house phone and call my cell phone. I then proceed to lay my entire body on my bed, my floor and various piles throughout the room. This is an effort to feel the phone while it is vibrating. It’s not a frustrating process at all.

So on about the third call to my phone (I actually left myself messages, which is actually kinda sad) I hear the phone vibrating somewhere. But I can’t find it. I search the room for the sound. A hearing impaired girl chasing a sound – quite effective, let me tell you.

Finally I narrow the sound down to my nightstand, which seems weird as the phone is not on the nightstand. But…I open the nightstand drawer and find that I have hidden the phone in the drawer, beneath a pile of magazines.

I think a psychologist could have a field day with this whole scenario. My subconscious is apparently taking things into its own hands and is now throwing the brace off and hiding the phone so that no clients can call and give me any more work.

Now if only my subconscious would smarten up a little and just start DOING the work while I’m sleeping…that would be a lot more helpful.

The Life of the Designated Driver

I don’t drink much. It lost its allure around age 21. Ironic huh? Although my friends were sad to lose such a great partier they were happy to gain such a great designated driver. And so began my life as the “Driver of the Drunks”.

This weekend a friend called and said that she and another friend were going out to a club. I had work to do so I passed on the drunken sweatfest that is going to a club. But I offered to pick them up later if they needed a ride.

So around 1:45 a.m. my phone rings.

“DAWN!”
“YES!”
“We’re walking to your house. But we’ve gotten lost.”
“Where are you?”
“We were on 16th and uh, S.”
“I live at 9th and D. You aren’t walking to my house. Where was the club you guys were at?”
“Uh, 17th and S.”
“So you haven’t gotten too far in your walking?”
“We have heels on. Can you come pick us up? We’re walking.”
“Well, stop walking. Hug a tree till I get there.”
“There are no trees. There’s a park a couple blocks up though.”
“Stay where you are. What streets are you on now?”
“16th and…a for sale sign. We’ll stay here.”
“I need a letter.”
“There’s a homeless guy. And a paint store. And a bug! Ahhh! A HUGE bug on the ground!! What is that?!”
“I need a letter to find you."
“We’re on a corner. In heels. At 2 a.m. People probably think we’re hookers.”
“Lovely.”

(I find them next to the paint store.)
“DAWN! We love you for picking us up!”
“No problem.”
“Dawn, I have a very serious question to ask you.”
“Uh huh…”
“Can we get Taco Bell?”
“Sure.”
“Seriously. Love you.”
“And love Taco Bell.”
“Yes, and Taco Bell.”
“Dawn, the club sucked. There were no cute boys there.”
“There was that one.”
“Oh yeah.”
“But he was gay.”
“Yeah, but we let him buy us a drink anyways.”
“And there was that one guy that bought us a drink who couldn’t hear.”
“Oh god. This guy had been shot in the head. So he couldn’t hear or see out of his right side.”
“But we let him buy us a drink anyways.”

"And we had to stand on his left side."
“Dawn, don’t you dare write a blog about this!”
“What did you do tonight?”
“Got some work done.”
“Oh, we interrupted your work. I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s good for you to get away from the computer. We are helping your carpel tunnel by having you pick us up. It’s really in your best interest.”
“You’re too good to me, really.”
“Why is there a tambourine in the back seat?”
“Because someone stole it from the mambo line at the wedding last weekend and left it in the car when I drove all the drunk people home.”
“Was that just last weekend?”
“I have no idea where we are right now.”
“I’m taking you to Taco Bell.”
“I want macaroni and cheese.”
“They don’t have macaroni and cheese at Taco Bell.”
“But they do have chips and cheese. Same thing.”
“You’re not going to write a blog about this, are you?”
“Where are we? Oh, look we’re on Broadway. Okay, I know that restaurant in front of us.”
“There was a fire there.”
“No, I just ate there.”
“No you didn’t, cause there was a fire.”
“I really just ate there. There couldn’t have been a fire.”
“Look, that on…in…on…in thingy is burned.”
“What?”
“That on…in thingy. That striped thing above the door.”
“The awning?”
“Awning! I knew it was “on” something.”
“I guess it’s been a couple months since I ate there.”
“Oh NO!!!”
“What?”
“Look!”
(All the Taco Bell lights are off. It is not open.)
“What? How is that possible? Taco Bell shouldn’t close!”
“We went there last weekend after the wedding.”
“We were drunk earlier last weekend.”
“Dammit! If only we hadn’t let that gay guy buy us a drink!”
“It’s fine we’ll go to Del Taco up the street.”

(after a forty-five minute wait in a line full of bar discards we are almost to the drive thru order speaker.)
“I’m gonna want lots of burritos.”
“Are the breakfast burritos available now?”
“Those are gross. Those aren’t even real eggs.”
“I don’t care, they’re scrambled.”
“I want some burritos.”
“And I want a breakfast burrito.”
“You two are actually going to be with me when I get up there, so you don’t have to give me your order right now.”
“Don’t blog about this, kay?”
“I have $17 is that enough?”
“If $17 is not enough at Del Taco then you guys have some binging problems.”
(We make it up to the speaker.)
“We want a bean and cheese burrito.”
“With no sauce.”
“With no sauce.”
“And extra sour cream and guacamole.”
“And extra sour cream and guacamole.”
“And a veggie burrito.”
“And a veggie burrito.”
“And a breakfast burrito. No red sauce.”
“And a breakfast burrito. No red sauce.”
“No red sauce.”
“I know.”
“And a small fry.”
“And a small fry.”
“No, medium.”
“No, medium.”
“And a taco, and a chicken taco.”
“And a taco, and a chicken taco.”
“And a quesadilla.”
“And a quesadilla.”
“And a Pepsi, and a water.”
“Oh god, yes, water.”
“And another burrito.”
“You want another one?”
“I love burritos.”

"They are called Half Pound Burritos. You've already ordered a pound of burritos."

"I love burritos."

"I bet the sour cream and guacamole add weight."

"But I took off the sauce."
“And another burrito.”
“With no sauce.”
“With no sauce.”
“And extra sour cream and guacamole.”
“And extra sour cream and guacamole.”
“Is that it?”
“Hmmm. Yes.”
“No red sauce!”

(We pull around for our order. Drive thru window guy looks at order and then at the three skinny girls in the car.)
“Did you guys have a really big order?”
“Yep that was us.”
(He smirks. I roll my eyes. He hands us the drinks, but no straws.)
“We need straws.”
“He’ll get them.”
“We need them though.”
“Wait a second.”
(Instead of waiting, or even taking the lid off the drink, my passenger decides to suck the liquid out of the straw hole while holding the drink upside down.)
(Man hands us enough food to feed seven cars. He smirks. I roll my eyes. I hand the food to the passengers. It is for the first time in an hour completely quiet in my car.)

Except:
“Dawn, seriously, don’t you dare write a blog about this.”

Scary Ad

So I'm waiting in a waiting room today. (As that's what you do in a waiting room usually.) And I'm flipping through a magazine and I see this ad. It's for a dishwasher. A really quiet dishwasher. You know it's quiet cause the baby is sleeping while it's on. Or something.

I have two problems with this ad:

1) Babies sleeping through something doesn't exactly make it quiet. I held my friend's sleeping baby the other night at a wedding reception while he and his girlfriend danced. To blaring music. From the 70's. And this baby didn't even think about waking up. (She did wake up to She Shook Me All Night Long though, cause every human being is born with the instinct to dance to that song.)

2) Why the hell is the baby sleeping on the COUNTER unattended?!! Is a noisy dishwasher the ONLY reason people weren't letting their babies nap on the counter?

At least the parents were smart enough to put a nice little blanket down for the kid.

Oh, and if you're thinking that maybe the baby is laying on the floor instead of the counter I have two problems with that as well:

1) Who puts a kid down for a nap on the kitchen floor? With a knife on the counter above them? (cutting the oranges)

2) AND if this baby is laying on the floor then this baby is a giant baby and is actually the size of the dishwasher. In which case his parents need to get his baby butt down to the Maury Povich Show ASAP. We all know Maury loves him some giant babies.

Genius Penguins

Have you seen that new documentary about the penguins? It’s called ‘March of the Penguins’. I think. Go check it out, it’s pretty good. It’s all about penguins. Marching. Well, as close to marching as penguins can get, seeing as though I don’t think they really have knees.

So Morgan Freeman narrates this story that he says is all about “love”. But it’s really all about these crazy ass penguins that waddle their crazy little penguin butts 70 miles to meet up with their mate. And I can’t even be bothered to go down the street to the local bar. And I have knees that make marching much easier.

But knees be damned, these penguins return to this same spot every year to make babies. They wander the frozen, barren land of some really cold, southern country (geography is not my strong suit) and they always seem to end up in the right place. Does it seem weird to anyone else that these penguins can find their way for 70 miles to the middle of nowhere and I need to use Mapquest every time I’m going to go more than two blocks away from my house? Apparently humans did not evolve from penguins. (No matter how similar drunk groomsmen look to them after a wedding reception)

And so you’d think these animals are geniuses, the way they can navigate to each other and pick their mate out of a group of thousands of drunk groomsmen. But let’s be honest, if they were geniuses they would have set up some sort of mass transit system to avoid that grueling 70 mile walk. Lack of opposable thumbs has probably been their stumbling block.

Without thumbs these poor penguins are left to shield their newborn chicks with only their bodies and the huddle masses of the other new parents. At one point a huge winter storm comes through and some of the little chicks get separated from their parents. And other chicks are peaking out from underneath their parent’s fur, causing their little faces to freeze. And here I am in the theatre thinking, “Take care of your BABIES! What are you doing! They’re cold!” Then I realize that I am honestly getting upset with a penguin. And I have to calm myself down. Because it wouldn’t be fair to fight an animal with no thumbs or knees.

But what struck me the most while I was watching these thousands of little animals huddled together in 100 mile an hour wind, in 80 degrees below zero temperatures, in the middle of some really remote southern country was the fact that I was able to WATCH this happening. And why was I able to WATCH this happening? Cause some stupid humans were sitting in that same 100 mile an hour wind, in 80 degrees below zero temperatures, in the middle of some really remote southern country FILMING this.

The penguins were probably like, “He has thumbs, why is he putting himself through this hell?”
And another penguin says, “That’s a human. He evolved from a monkey.”
“You mean the animal that throws its own poo?”
“That’s the one. So keep an eye on him. It’s awfully windy…”

Defected

I’m sitting here, trying to type my eagerly awaited blog o’ the day and I’m having to situate my arm in a way that doesn’t cause me great pain. Cause my arm has added itself to the list of things that are falling apart on my body. It is becoming quite a little list. And I’m not even 30. Lord help me and the live-in nurse that is going to have to take care of me when I’m like 52.

I know you think I’m being dramatic. I am not. Well, at least not without really good reason to be dramatic. The following is a list of things that are defective on my body:

My Ears: My ears are the most notable manufacturer defect, if only because their defect cost me the most money to aide. Five grand later I have two little microphones in my ears and I can finally hear people speak to me. After a childhood spent wondering what everyone is saying I now know – nothing of too much importance.

My Eyes: I don’t really mind these not working cause I enjoy the fact that people think I’m smart just because I wear glasses. It makes up for the fact that I never finished college. Also, people think I’m hip and happenin’ because I wear glasses. And as long as they don’t look at anything else I’m wearing they might continue to believe that…But it would be fun to be able to see well enough to, I don’t know, play soccer or something like that. So then I wouldn’t have to wear my glasses while playing and then get kicked in the head while playing and then have the glasses break and then have to superglue the glasses back together and then stop looking hip and happenin’ and start looking like an idiot with broken glasses that are so loose on her face that they tend to arrive a few moments after her head has turned.

My Knee: I trained for a marathon about a year and a half ago. Before this time I hadn’t moved farther than my freezer in approximately, well, ever. And I thought that it would be perfectly healthy to run 300 miles in 4 months. Yeah, for future reference, that’s a bad idea. A really bad one. So now if I sit too long or run too long or walk down too many steps (“too many” being “more than none”) or up too many steps or drive past the park I where I used to run my knee starts throbbing. Proving once and for all that I’ve been right all along – exercise, and stairs, are bad.

My Ankle: This one isn’t really a permanent one, but I think it shows exactly how fragile my poor body is. I twisted my ankle playing soccer about two months ago. Well, okay, so I wasn’t so much playing soccer as I was just standing on the field after the soccer game. And then I just fell off my own foot. Which doesn’t seem all together even possible. I mean, if you’re walking and you trip, that’s one thing, but what on earth could I possibly trip over if I am just standing? It wasn’t even windy or anything. You know, to blow me over. But whatever it was it hurt. And it still hurts. Just when I think it might be okay I step weird or fall off my feet again or I try to kick away a nine-year old who has just discovered her passion for tickling and there you go, the ankle is swollen again. Cause heaven forbid anything actually HEAL on my body, ever.

My Arm: My work keeps me in front of a computer most of the day. And my procrastination on my work keeps me in front of it for the rest of the day. This has lead to a nice little flair up of carpel tunnel in my arm. It’s quite lovely, having to choose between constant pain and not getting a paycheck. In an effort to keep me off welfare my doctor gave me a fun little arm brace.

Now please, if you will just take one minute of your time to visualize with me. Here I sit. Wearing hearing aides, glasses and an arm brace. When I get up I’ll limp. But in that way that you limp when your knee hurts on one leg and your ankle hurts on another, and you’re trying to figure out which one hurts less, so you know which one to limp onto.

And now, if you will, go ahead and flash forward 20 years and try to visualize exactly what kind of mechanical device is going to have to be constructed to be my eyes, ears, hands and feet after all those body parts just fall off my body from defect.

I sure hope my health insurance covers it.

TV

Oh my lord.

Another dancing show came on tonight. Man, are the people at the networks original. I can’t wait to see what celebrity crackhead couple they make a show about in an effort to copy Bobby and Whitney. The fun just never stops. How network execs still have jobs is an absolute mystery to me. That’s what they should do: have a reality show in which people compete to pick a TV line-up that doesn’t suck monkey balls. The one who wins gets to take over for whatever exec decided to leave Joey on the Fall schedule but leave Scrubs off. I think the guys in charge are confused because Joey has a laugh-track built in so the they think people are actually laughing during the show. They are not.

So anyways, sorry about that little tangent there, I don’t know if you’ve noticed from my blogs, but I enjoy TV. I’m a walking TV Guide, and have been since I was just a wee child. When other kids were reading Highlights magazines I was reading Entertainment Weekly and studying ratings and deals. Okay, occasionally I read Highlights too. But that’s not the point. The point is that I am fully qualified to judge TV and it’s perfectly rational for me to become personally offended when TV networks don’t even try to put on decent shows.

Yes, I know I should put down the remote and perhaps step outside every once in awhile. Pretend that I’m at least a relatively functioning member of society.

But who are we kidding? It’s hot outside, I have an air conditioned house with a big red velvet couch that is the most comfortable thing in the world, and one of the judges from Dancing with the Stars has, for some reason, turned up on this new Fox dancing show.

Society is just going to have to wait.

We’re Old - UPDATED!!

A couple blogs ago I mentioned my group of friends that I grew up with. A good majority of the females in that group all played soccer together throughout high school. So when the local indoor soccer facility called me up and asked me if I wanted to put together a team, I said, “Sure! I have a bunch of friends who play soccer! It will be fun!” What I should have said was, “Sure! I have a bunch of friends that USED TO PLAY soccer! It will be FUNNY!”

So tonight we had our first game. Eight of us came out to play. You play with five on the field and one goalie, so we had two subs. That’s great, we’d have plenty of time to rest. We were all ready to go. Well, except for the girl who didn’t bring shin guards. But other than that we were good to go.

Good news: We had the first kick-off.
Bad news: The second person on our team to touch the ball after the first kick-off immediately fell to the ground. For no apparent reason.

Good news: We had two subs.
Bad news: One of them had an asthma attack after 4 minutes and had to be taken to the hospital.

Good news: We’d all played soccer before.
Bad news: None of us had ever played goalie.

Good news: After one team gets a lead of four or more goals the other team gets to put an additional player on the field.
Bad news: We had an additional player on the field for a majority of the game, leaving us with no subs.

Good news: The ground is pretty soft.
Bad news: Two of our players were having their own competition to see who could fall down the most times.

Good news: We had some great shots on goal.
Bad news: We didn’t have any shots that actually went IN the goal.
Badder news: The other team had quite a few go IN their goal.

Good news: Through many years of playing soccer we all have developed many tried and true methods of successful soccer playing.
Bad news: Slide-tackling, pushing, tripping and just throwing your entire body onto another player are all considered “fouls” in rec soccer. What a bunch of pansies.

Good news: Everyone was able to walk off the field at the end of the game.
Bad news: We had one pulled groin muscle, one pulled hamstring, three twisted ankles, a “my bones hurt”, and quite a few rug burns.

Good news: When we were young we could play 3 soccer games in a day and not even bat an eye.
Bad news: We are old.

UPDATE:

Dawn,

My asthma's fine, nothing 5 hours in the hospital won't fix.

Dawn,

I can't wear regular shoes, cause my foot is so swollen.

Hey Dawn,

I thought I'd give you the story on my toes to add to all of the "drama" of our soccer game.....So, both of my big toes have be hurting bad and were swollen, so I finally went to the doctor to see what was wrong because it still hurt to walk. Long story short, I have what is commonly known as turf toe (it has a medical name that I can't remember right now). Basically, both of my big toe nails got hit and buckled, causing all of the blood vessels and whatever else underneath your toe to make like a blood clot. This caused swelling and turned the underneath of my toe black. So the doctor had to use a needle and drill a few holes into each of my nails to release the fluid and blood that was all stuck underneath the toe. Quite a site, let me tell ya. And to top that off, he said there is now nothing left that is keeping my nail attached, so they both will be falling completely off soon! Just thought you might get a good laugh out of this!

She’s Every Woman

Never has there been a greater American Tragedy than poor Whitney Houston. She was an innocent young thing, just wanting to dance with somebody and then she rose up to fame (the good kind) and then plummeted to fame (the bad kind). And now she has a reality show. Because when people in Hollywood can’t get anyone to give them a job they just create their own job by hiring a camera crew to follow them around. Because who needs talent when you can just videotape yourself eating fancy dinners and shopping a lot?

So you know the summer months are bleak in the way of TV programming, cause I’ve actually seen Bobby and Whitney’s show a few times. (That and it’s on Bravo, which replays things 435 a week, so it’s hard to miss.) I’m not really sure what to make of the whole thing. Other than it seems weird to me to that I’m watching a show that very well could be used as evidence in a court of law at some point.

Bobby sways between using the f-word as a term of endearment to using it as a warning of empending ass-whoopings. And then he drinks a beer. And a vodka. And a shot. The man enjoys his liquor. And then Whitney says, “Aw, hell no.” And you almost think maybe she’s temporarily awakened from her 20 year stupor and is looking around at her life, and that’s the only response she can come up with. And then their poor daughter wanders in the room and you wonder if maybe she is hoping to use the tapes of the show to help her in her emancipation efforts.

Cause her parents are crazy. And not in a good Osborne way either. I mean, I don’t even think British accents would help out Bobby and Whitney. And British accents make everyone seem a little better.

But at least their daughter has siblings to share in her pain. Even though I have no idea where the siblings came from. Every once in awhile a new Brown kid shows up. Now, I’m all about mixed families, BUT has anyone noticed that Bobby’s son is younger than his daughter with Whitney? Hmmm. So, I’m not that great at math, but I’m thinking that his son (who is not Whitney’s son) was born AFTER his daughter. And AFTER his daughter was born he was probably still married to Whitney. (“Aw, hell no.”) Unless I missed something. Which is quite possible. I’m way too sober to be watching this show and actually take in all that is happening.

I’m pretty sure the whole show is just a big show, that Bobby is acting for the cameras. But only someone who is crazy would act as stupid as he does in front of the cameras. Newsflash: If everyone thinks you’re nuts – try not to release video proving them right.

Sweet Mary, when is summer TV over? I don’t know how much more I can take.

Wedding DD

I have a group of friends from high school. There’s about 20 of us that all still hang out. It’s great. And it leads to a LOT of weddings between the ages of 25 and 30. We are becoming quite good at these wedding things. Pretty soon, I’m sure we’ll have a choreographed number prepared for all the common wedding songs. It will be like a Broadway show. Only with a lot of alcohol and cake added in for kicks.

This weekend two of the group of 20 got married. This is helpful, the inner-marrying. It cuts down on the number of weddings (and more importantly wedding presents).

There was an open bar at the wedding. And many intoxicated friends. Who needed a ride home. I didn’t drink, so I agreed to take some home. Have you ever been in a car with 6 drunk people? Not only is it tremendously legal in a car that only fits 4 passengers, it’s also quite loud as well. Why do drunk people have to yell EVERYTHING? Adding to the mix is the fact that we’ve all known each other since we were like 13, so there’s always the risk that we will revert to that age at any given moment. Alcohol assists that reverting…

“You can’t fit in here!”
“I have to fit in here! You’re going to my house!”
“Have him sit in the very back!”
“He’s already sitting back there! Two won’t fit!”
“They have to fit!”
“Can we go to Taco Bell?!”
“Dude, you’re like laying on top of me! Watch your feet!”
“Where do you want me to put my feet?!”
“Not there! Ouch! Not there either!”
“Hold up the sheet so no one can see you out the back window!”
“No one can see us!”
“You mean besides the people in the car behind us?!”
“Fine! Get off the sheet! Ouch! Careful with your feet man!”
“You are all invited to our wedding next year, it will be so fun!”
“Put the CD in that they gave us as a party favor!”
(CD playing most bizarre, middle-aged song ever)
“I have known both the bride and the groom 15 years and I’ve never heard either one of them mention this song!”
“I kinda want Taco Bell!”
“I don’t feel well!”
“You’re drunk!”
“Oh, I’M drunk?! And you’re sober?!”
“At least I’m not holding a sheet!”
“At least I’m not in a wet t-shirt contest!”
“Whoa! That’s not fair! You can’t bring up things from that long ago!”
“You should totally be proud of that!”
“Be proud of dancing around with a wet shirt?!”
“You won the contest!”
“Thatta girl! I can’t believe I missed it!”
“You weren’t there?!”
“Uh, no!”
“Like at all?!”
“The girls went to Mexico for their senior trip and the guys went to Hawaii!”
“Really?!”
“Don’t you think I’d remember?!”
“I’d think I’d remember!”
“Where is the nearest Taco Bell?!”
“Oh, no! There’s a Highway Patrol!”
“Everyone look sober!”
“Look like you aren’t sitting on top of each other!”
“Hold up the sheet!”
“He’s not going to pull us over! He can’t see us!”
“How can he not see us?! Just cause you close your eyes doesn’t mean you are invisible! Glass windows! See through!”
“Why don’t you all be quiet?! There’s a Highway Patrol!”
“The Highway Patrol can’t HEAR us!”
“You are all uninvited to our wedding!”
“I think I just saw a Taco Bell!”
“Oh my god, it’s only 11 pm! How am I this drunk and it’s still so early!”
“You started drinking at 5!”
“True!”
“I can’t wait till the next wedding in two weeks!”
“Can you drive again Dawn?!”
“Only if you buy me one of those new Crunch Wraps at Taco Bell. And a Coke.”

A Plea

Why, why, why do Mexican take out places insist on providing a container the size of a tube of lipstick to hold my salsa? Why? Please explain it to me. Because I’m obviously missing something in the business plan that does not allow for a person to take more than a tablespoon worth of salsa in one container.

Now I get that they are trying to keep you from getting too much free salsa, cause on the whole businesses don’t like the give things out for no dinero. But seriously. Come on. How much money are you really saving by giving me such a small container? Does the fact that you are giving me small containers stop me from getting too much free salsa? No it does not. It just forces me to fill up 32 little containers while everyone stands around and takes bets on whether I can balance them all on the way to the car.

So really, I’m getting just as much salsa as if you gave me a bigger container. Actually I’m probably getting more than I would have gotten, because I’m over-compensating for the small container size by filling up way too many little plastic things.

So then, instead of saving money on salsa the business owner is spending more money on the ridiculous amounts of little plastic containers and lids that I’m taking. Those things must add up quick at 10- 20 a person.

So please. For the love of chalupa. Give me a salsa container that is big enough for uh, more than two scoops of salsa. And I know I might be pushing it, but if it could actually be big enough to fit an ENTIRE chip in it as well, I would be the happiest senorita at the fiesta.

Thank you.

Conversations

A work meeting took me near the home of a family member the other day. I knew that two of my younger cousins were hanging out at the house that day, so I called my aunt to see if the kids were available to get some ice cream. She told me that she had just sent them down to Taco Bell for lunch, but I could catch up with them there.

By the time I got to Taco Bell they were done eating.

Me: “Hey guys.”
Kid #1: “Hey.”
Kid #2: “Hey.”
Me: “You done eating?”
Kid #1: “Yeah, we’re soooooo full.”
Kid #2: “We ate sooooo much food.”
Me: “Oh that’s too bad, I was going to take you to ice cream. But if you’re too full….”
Both Kids: “Oh no! We’re not full!”
Me: “You just said you’re soooooo full.”
Kid #1: “Well, we’re soooo full of FOOD. And ice cream is basically just milk, right? So that’s like a drink. We have room for a drink.”
Kid #2: “Yes, plenty of room for milk.”

So I took them to the ice cream store. Because they are not my children, and that’s what you do with kids that aren’t yours – you feed them crappy food. And then you return them.

Kid #1: “Hey Dawn this is the ice cream store with the Papa Murphy’s next to it. Remember last week when we were here you went in and bought that container of cookie dough?”
Me:“Yes, and it’s gone already. Maybe I should get some more.”
Kid #2: “You know what I’m going to do when I grow up? I’m going to buy cookie dough and eat it without cooking it, just take a spoon and eat it.”
Kid #3: “That’s what Dawn does.”
Kid #2: Awed silence.
Me: “Yeah, who has time to bake? The cookie dough tastes better.”
Kid #2: “My mom says I can’t eat it cause it has raw eggs in it.”
Me: “A little e coli never hurt anyone.”

Kids order ice cream.

Kid #2: “Are you going to get some cookie dough?”
Me: “I don’t know.”

Kids are eating ice cream.

Kid #2: “Maybe you could get some cookie dough?”
Me: “I’m not going home after this, I wouldn’t have anywhere to keep it cool.”
Kid #2: “We could eat it all in the car.”
(is it a surprise to anyone that this kid is related to me?)

We are walking back to the car.

Kid #2: “Pleeeeeaaaase, let’s get cookie dough.”
Me: “In the last hour you’ve gorged yourself on Taco Bell and ice cream. If you eat anything else you are going to puke.”
Kid #2: “It would totally be worth puking.”
Me: “No it would not. You don’t want to puke on something as good as cookie dough, cause then you will forever associate it with puking and won’t be able to eat it again.”
Kid #1: “That’s not true. I’ve puked up LOT’S of things. And I still eat them.”
Kid #2: “Yeah, let’s puke!!”

Kids rock.

Let’s Get Physical-Physical

Okay, so as I mentioned in a previous blog I’ve recently been rearranging furniture. This process resulted in an old entertainment unit in my hallway. The unit needed to be disposed of, but it weighed approximately 5,000 pounds so I was unable to move by myself. Plus I live in a two story Victorian house with very high ceilings. Which means the stairs to the second floor have to go at an approximately 90 degree angle to get up to the second floor. Which makes moving furniture up and down the stairs ever so fun.

My hope was that I could find the various nails and screws in the entertainment center and take it apart piece by piece. But when I found the screws they had no interest at all in coming out. So then I thought since the furniture was so old, and barely staying together, that I might be able to push it from side to side and cause it to become a parallelogram and then eventually a pile of wood. So there I am in my hallway engaging in a very violent pushing match with my entertainment center. To no avail. The piece did not crumble. It did weaken however. But that was little use to me. I would have to wait until The Roommate returned from her weekend getaway so that she could help me move the thing down the stairs.

When The Roommate returned she had little to no interest in assisting in the moving process, so the entertainment center remained in our tiny hallway. Then tonight The Roommate returned from drinking quite a bit of wine and decided this to be an excellent time to move furniture. She seemed very enthusiastic and was even singing “Let’s Get Physical, Physical” over and over again. I wondered if it was a good idea to have a drunk girl in flip flops moving furniture. I told her to put some tennis shoes on – that should help.

So we sllllllooooowwwwllllllyyyy started making our way down these stairs:

The furniture was ridiculously heavy and creaking and quite cumbersome. But at least The Roommate had the spirit to keep singing “Let’s Get Physical, Phsyical” throughout the process. Getting the entertainment unit down the stairs was basically of combination inertia and falling and “Do you have it?” “No, do you have it?” “I think the wall has it.” “Are you okay?” “I don’t have it.” “Why did I think this was a good idea?” “Because you’re drunk.” “Oh, then I definitely don’t have it.” Yet, we somehow made it to the bottom of the stairs. At which point The Roommate began to reevaluate her decision to perform manual labor while intoxicated.

We had to take a moment so that she could avoid getting ill. I was a bit worried. We had managed to get the furniture right in front of our front door. If we stopped now I didn’t want to think about how long it would be before either one of us was drunk enough to want to move it all the way down our porch steps and out to the dumpster across the street.

But following a few deep breaths and another “Let’s Get Physical, Physical” The Roommate caught her second wind and was ready to roll.

We decided to pick up the furniture and carry it out the front door. This was short-lived and we then decided to return to our tried and true “sliding/falling down the stairs” method we had perfected just moments ago. So we were sliding, one stair at a time and then we finally got one end on the solid ground.

How exciting!

It was at this point that we heard a series of popping sounds, followed by some cracking sounds and then some, “Oh $@#&*!!” sounds. And then the entire entertainment unit disintegrated in our very hands. I swear to god, it just collapsed. All the pieces decided at that very moment that they were done being connected to each other and wanted to try things out as individual pieces of wood.

We are available for all your moving needs…

We don’t charge much. But you do have to get us drunk enough to actually want to move your stuff.

Dirty Dancing Flashbacks

Dude. How did none of you watch the finale of “Dancing with the Stars”? I can’t believe you’ve denied yourselves such a cultural phenomenon. As well as that much sequins in such a condensed period of time.

How do I know that you people didn’t watch the show? Because I finally got around to watching my tape of the finale and if any of you had watched it there is NO WAY you could have refrained from sharing the following two highlights with me:

1. Patrick friggin’ Swayze showed up. I kid you not. My head nearly exploded from excitement. The Old Guy needed help lifting his partner and who better to bring in than someone who perfected a lift in a movie? Thank god the old guy didn’t need help drawing blood or something cause he would have been screwed when he brought in Robin Williams (aka Patch Adams) to help.

Patrick showed up with both his Dirty Dancing moves and his Dirty Dancing face (thank you weird wax museum plastic surgery) and taught the old guy all he knew. After that 15 seconds he just smiled and gave high fives. Why they wasted time with the silly dance contest instead of letting Patrick mambo for the rest of the hour, I’ll never know. And speaking of lifts and plastic surgery, where the hell was Baby? She better not be in a corner somewhere. (Not that anyone would recognize her there if she was…)

2. When the Young Chick and her Hot Partner were practicing their lifts he dropped her on her head. Is that exciting? No. But because she got dropped on her head (and because she was trying to make up for her lack of dancing ability with her abundance of good body parts) she decided that they would get in their bathing suits and practice in her pool. Ala: Johnny and Baby practicing in the lake!!! It wasn’t quite the same because they didn’t make out or even share any long passionate stares. But still. Exciting.

Since none of you watched the show and I’m sure you are wondering, I’ll tell you who won. I’ll tell you just like the show does





(dramatic music)





(close up of one contestant)

(weird lighting)

(dramatic music)

(close up of the other contestant)






(we’ll be right back after this commercial break)



(dramatic music)


(close up of one contestant)


(weird lighting)




(all the contestants in one shot)






The Young Chick won. Which still baffles my mind. She really can’t dance that well. But she’s hot and her partner could dance really well. Most of the time he’d just flail around while she stood in one place trying to show more of her abs. In their grand finale they did a lot of that, but they also added some lifts and spins. Every once in awhile the guy would pick her up and start spinning her in the air. This looked cool until she had to be returned to the ground. It was at that point that some actual dancing ability would have come in handy, as she basically landed smack on her knee caps. I’m sure that hurt more on the dance floor than it did in the pool…

But don’t feel too bad for The Old Guy. From what I can tell the only thing the winner got was a trophy. With a huge disco ball on it. Seriously.

Patrick Swayze. Dancing in the pool. Girls being spun around. Disco balls. I can’t believe you people didn’t watch this show.

Spring Cleaning in July

I’ve had a TV sitting on my bedroom floor for three months, awaiting an entertainment center. This weekend I finally bought some new bedroom furniture. I went a little crazy. Once I got it in my actual bedroom I realized that I had very little room for said furniture. Seems measuring the space might have been a good idea before purchasing furniture. Hmph. Details are so boring.

The good news is that the furniture is in more than one piece, so I can be somewhat creative as to how I fit 8 feet of furniture in 4 feet of space. Running out of patience and ideas I invited my roommate into my room for her advice as to where I should put the furniture.

“You have way too much crap.”
“That has nothing to do with furniture.”
“It has to do with what’s ON the furniture.”
“But what I need is help on what to do with the furniture I bought.”
“You need a two bedroom apartment all to yourself. So you could have a bedroom and an office.”
“Okay, well that’s a great idea. BUT not so much helpful for the current situation.”
“You should get rid of those two desks and get one of those corner desk thingys, that would take up less space.”
“The TV has been sitting on my floor for three months. I don’t move so quickly on furniture purchasing. So how bout we try to work with the furniture I have now?”
“I think that bookcase will fit in that space.”
(Dawn measures the space, it is 20 inches. Dawn measures the bookcase, it is 22 inches.)
“I don’t think it will.”
“I really think it will.”
“Let’s pretend like it won’t. What should I do with this furniture?”
“You have way too much crap. What is all that?” (motions to piles of very important stuff)
“It’s my stuff.”
“You need to throw out your stuff.”
“I don’t know what my stuff has to do with the FURNITURE.”
“Because I can’t think clearly in a room with this much clutter.”
“Thanks so much for your help.”
“Can I borrow that movie that’s sitting on top of that pile of stuff?”

Soooo, in an effort to allow my roommate to think clearly I decided to start throwing away some of my crap. And the reason why I have so much crap is because I refuse to throw things away. I can find a reason to keep just about anything. And I can usually find some sort of sentimental reason to keep everything as well. Which makes these random cleanings fun. Cause I get to find all the stuff I deemed “Very Important and Worthy of Keeping Because Someday It Will Be Special To Find This And Remember the Moment Associated With It”. Of course, I can only remember about half the moments associated with any of the stuff. But still, the cleaning was special nonetheless.

Take for instance an e-mail correspondence I printed out between a friend and I. This is the entire transcript, word for word:

Friend: So…..are we going to leave at noon on Friday?

Me: Do you know how long it takes to get there?

Friend: I think about 67 hours.

Me: We should leave at 11:45 then.

Friend: I thought we were going to leave at noon!

Me: Oh, did you want to leave at noon? You hadn’t mentioned that before.

Friend: Well it depends. How long do you think it will take to get there?

Me: I can’t remember who I heard it from, but someone said like 67 hours.

Friend: Really? What time do you think we should leave then?

Me: I was thinking around noon, what do you think?

Friend: Okay. Let’s leave at noon. What time do you think we’ll get there by?

And that’s the end of the e-mail correspondence. And it’s e-mail, not Instant Messenger. Because we were both very good employees and saw nothing wrong with having that conversation over the course of 10 e-mails instead of just having a simple phone conversation. I have no idea where we were going or if we ever got there or why I felt like that was an e-mail I needed to save forever.

But when I was “cleaning” I put it back in my desk, cause “Someday It Will Be Special To Find This And Remember the Moment Associated With It”. And maybe by then I’ll remember the moment associated with it.

So far the cleaning is not going well. I might just have to move into a two bedroom apartment.

Marco! …

Tonight I went to see a sport that is sure to begin sweeping the nation as soon as this blog is read.

It is called Inner Tube Water Polo. And it is exactly what it sounds like. It’s water polo. On inner tubes.

Have you ever seen water polo played? It looks absolutely exhausting. You have to tread water for hours while someone tries to pull off your speedo. I think that’s the basic jist of the sport. From what I’ve seen on TV. There is also a ball involved, but basically these guys just try to drown each other without anyone noticing it.

Because most parents hesitate to sign their kids up for recreational experiences that may result in drowning the sport had to go through a bit of a makeover to attract young kids. And that’s where the inner tubes come in.

“Hey little Johnny, wanna exert a great deal of energy by treading water and swimming while playing water polo?” “Uh, not really.” “Oh, well do you want to play a sport where you can float in the water and splash people for an hour?” “That sounds GREAT! Where do I sign up?”

And so began Inner Tube Water Polo.

The sport goes a little something like this:

A bunch of kids sit on inner tubes and splash around after a ball.
There is no strategy, there are no plays, there is no real logic to the game at all.
There is a ball and it is thrown around in no particular direction, with no particular interest in getting it in any sort of goal.
The game lasts for an hour.
About 10 minutes into the game about half of the players have stopped going for the ball and are just trying to tip each other’s inner tubes over.
About 20 minutes into the game they have stopped tipping and are just chatting amongst themselves.
Occasionally the ball accidentally lands near or off the head of one of these uninvolved kids.
At that point he/she picks up the ball and throws it to the closest person, whether that person be on their team, on the other team, or merely a spectator who happens to be walking by.
The game finally ends, no one has any idea what the score is and the children who are off to the side talking have to be alerted that it is time to get out of the pool.

Only in America is this considered a sport:

Signs

Signs that a client might not be the highest quality:

1. Two months after billing them a mere $150 they still haven’t paid you.

2. In order to get the mere $150 you decide to go to one of their events and ask them for it. (You think of sending a large man named Bubba to go, but realize Bubba probably charges at least $200)

3. When you get there you find that the “Vice President” is manning the snack bar.

4. When the VP sees you he immediately offers you VIP seats to the event. (see #5 for how unquality this is)

5. The “VIP” seats turn out to be “soccer mom” chairs that fold up and fit in your trunk.

6. They don’t even have cup holders.

7. The VP offers you a free t-shirt, as you designed them.

8. When you ask for a Size Medium he says they only come in XXL.

9. When you ask for the money you are owed he says he has to call “The Money Lady”.

10. When you follow him to find “The Money Lady” you see that she too is manning the snack bar.

11. He grabs $150 in cash out of the register and hands it to you.

12. Their Accounting Department and the Slurpees are in the same location.


If the Accounting Department I used to work in had nachos I never would have left.

The Big Night

I think tonight is the big finale of Dancing with the Stars. Or maybe it was last night. I don’t know. I’m taping it, whenever it is. Because I’m addicted to this show. It’s quite ridiculous how much I enjoy it. But I’ve dealt with my dorkness and moved on.

It’s down to two couples: The older guy from Seinfield and some young chick from a soap opera. I really hope the old guy wins. He’s adorable. And he looks like he’s in pain about 95% of the time.

I’m not really sure why the chick from the soap opera is still on the show. I’m thinking it has quite a bit to do with her hotness – cause she can’t really dance. I think the home viewers are more interested in her body than if she can actually move it to any sort of beat. One week the strap on her shirt broke and she just about flashed the entire country. You could almost hear the collective gasp arise throughout the red states. It was at that point that she became a shoe-in for the finals. The blue states started voting for her like crazy in hopes that she would shimmy herself out of another shirt. Yes, Rachel Hunter could dance and was quite bendy, but her outfits always seemed to stay on. So she had to go.

And by the way, what are they competing for exactly? I know the announcer says, “They have everything to dance for.” But I’m wondering what “everything” is. I think they’re in a kind of catch-22. All of these “stars” are hard up enough for work that they actually subjected themselves to the cha cha for like two months. So they probably need to win some money. But they are on a show that is calling them “stars” and whenever you are considered a “star” on a reality show you have to donate all of your money to charity. I think that’s in the IRS rulebook somewhere.

So I’ll tune in to see if the young chick loses her clothes, if the old guy finally has a heart attack (as a result of dancing and/or the before mentioned loss of clothes) and what the hell they win. Oh! And I can’t wait to see who tries to do the lift (ala Johnny and Baby) for their big finale. That too could be followed by loss of clothes and a heart attack.

God, isn’t reality TV exciting?

The *&#$@! Post Office

Went to the post office to mail a package to a girl who worked on the movie.

Was quite impressed with myself, because I’m usually not too prompt to send things out.

Still have my friend’s Christmas present sitting on my bedroom floor.

Thinking of just saving it until next Christmas.

On my way home from lunch I see the post office, think of turning over a new leaf, decide to send the package, even though it’s been sitting in my car for less than six months.

Can’t find parking.

But don’t give up, for new leaves are not always easy to turn over.

Find parking a couple of blocks away.

It’s approximately 167 degrees outside.

Walk the two blocks.

Think I may die.

Get up to the post office, must go through security checkpoint, as apparently terrorists are now plotting to hijack post offices.

Put all my stuff in the little security bin to be passed through x-ray thingy.

Am asked if I have a cell phone.

Tell truth and show security lady my cell phone.

Am told I have to take my cell phone back to my car because it has a camera on it.

As apparently terrorists are taking pictures of the post offices before they hijack them.

Am not walking back to my car, as it is 167 degrees outside.

Walk down the hallway a bit, hide phone behind a missing persons poster.

Security lady says no, that won’t do, it must go back to your car.

As cell phones can apparently take pictures even when left unattended behind posters.

Walk out the door, put the cell phone in a bush outside the door, as I am not walking back to the car.

Re-enter and put my purse through the x-ray thingy.

Security lady says nothing about the small digital camera I have in my purse.

As terrorists apparently only use low resolution pictures when scoping out hijacking possibilities.

Get in very long line.

Wait very long time.

Get towards front of line, decide to fish the address out of the box.

Cannot find the piece of paper with the address on it.

Begin totally emptying the box.

Pull out a t-shirt from the movie, a small bottle of champagne from the movie’s wrap, a CD and an Amp energy drink.

All if this makes perfect sense to the person getting the package.

Not so much to the other people in the post office line.

Still cannot find address.

That’s okay, I’ll call my friend and get the address.

**&$#@!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Phone is in bushes outside.

Have to get out of line.

Post office security should be more worried about me going irate than terrorists hijacking.

Get phone out of bushes and call.

She doesn’t answer the phone.

Hike back to the car.

Nearly die from the heat.

Drive home, park my car, reach over to grab the package and see the address sitting on the passenger’s side seat – it had fallen out.

Phone rings – it’s friend calling with her address.

Tell her that she’s going to have to wait until Christmas.

Running From the Chapel - A Rebuttal

I wrote the following post about a Nameless Friend of mine. After reading the post she had a rebuttal. It is at the end of the post...

A friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, decided a couple years ago that she was madly in love with a boy. She had known this boy for approximately twenty-five minutes and she was convinced that she was going to marry him and live happily ever after. She instantly started perusing the web for the best wedding rings and dresses. During her time online she entered her name and wedding date into many a wedding website.

Then after about forty-five minutes of knowing Mr. Wonderful she realized that he was in fact Mr. Really Big Jackass. This put a damper on the wedding plans and an end to her online wedding research. However, as it turns out, the internet does not forget so easily…

It seems that one of these sites where she entered her info likes to send out periodic e-mails congratulating the happy couple on their various anniversaries. So even though she called off the wedding, told everyone that the guy was a Really Big Jackass, and tried to put the whole thing behind her she still gets an e-mail every few months saying, “Happy (insert number of months) Anniversary!!”

It’s horrible.

And quite hilarious.

Today she got the “Happy 15 Month Anniversary!!” that read: “You’ve been married 470 days!” And then it offered advice on how to merge two living styles into one happy couple. That’s helpful. You know what would be even more helpful? Not being reminded of your failed relationships via e-mail every few months. Could you imagine – “Happy 15 Month Anniversary of Your Heart Breaking!!” “Your train-wreck of a relationship ended 470 days ago!!” Good times.

The advice kills me though, I’m convinced it’s written by 85 year-old woman:

“Replace the hot-pink single-gal pillows on the sofa with more gender-neutral solid brown and understated floral versions.” You know why a girl with hot-pink pillows is single? Cause she’s 13 years old. What adult woman has hot-pink pillows? Seriously.

“Replace your guy’s favorite recliner with a swanky, upscale-looking model that cleverly conceals all of the mechanisms that make it function.” I have a lot of straight, single male friends and not one of them owns a beat up recliner. Because most of my straight, single male friends are actually trying to get laid by straight, single women.

So basically this website offers complete useless advice to married people and serves as a periodic reminder of bad relationship choices to those who ran like hell from the chapel.

My god, what did we do before the internet?

A rebuttal from Nameless Friend:

Um, as the individual in question getting sent the e-mails, might I make a few corrections?

First - I knew him for at least an hour.

Second - it was not as if "DECIDED" I was going to marry him independently. We looked at rings. He talked to my dad.

Third - I did not put my name in many website. I put it in ONE FREAKING WEBSITE (the Knot)- which is apparently the ONE FREAKING WEBSITE that sends monthly e-mails.

Fourth - I tried several times to be removed from the list. I called. I e-mailed. I bitched.

Fifth - and most important - he is not just a jack-ass. He was a man-whore.

The rest of the story is true.

Emergency Situation

People. We have an emergency on our hands. Let’s all forget about war and famine and Tom Cruise for a minute. Because there is one real issue that needs addressing.

Today I had a craving for a shaved ice (aka snow cone) and could not find a store ANYWHERE that sold them. (And by ANYWHERE I mean THE THREE PLACES I LOOKED) Where have all the shaved ices gone? And why didn’t I stock my freezer with them before they melted away?

The reason I was craving a shaved ice today was because I was at a swimming pool. My cousin had swim lessons and I had flashbacks to my many summers spent teaching swim lessons. When I flashback to those summers I don’t think of the crying kids or the permanent chlorine smell in my hair or even the fact that my tan would get so dark every year that I was often mistaken for a member of a different race.

No, what I remember is the countless shaved ices we ate. I can still almost taste the cool, flaky ice and liquid sugar that was poured upon it. Ahhhh. And I can still picture the nice old man who set up his little snow cone machine right outside our gate, luring us over with promises of sugar rushes and brain freezes.

Now that I’m older I wonder two things about my daily shaved ice addiction:

1) I don’t know that sitting in the sun all day and then making ice and grenadine your sole source of nutrition would be highly recommended by many health professionals as a wise medical choice.

2) And I wonder about how much money Mr. Snow Cone man was pulling in. The profit margin on that operation had to be enormous. It’s just ice. In a little paper cup. And it’s a cup that isn’t so much a cup as it is a kinda stiff napkin that disintegrates as the ice melts. Those can’t be that expensive. And at $1.50 a pop I’m thinking Mr. Snow Cone was sitting on at least $1.00 profit on each cone. And man could that fella turn out some cones in a hurry.

But apparently despite the obvious profit-margin the shaved ice business took a noticeable hit when I stopped working at the pool. Without my continued support of the industry it seems to have collapsed, leaving no surviving shaved ice stores. I’m so upset I could weep.

It’s summer. My cousin’s hair smells like chlorine. And I got a tan just watching her swim. But if I can’t ruin a white shirt by dropping crushed ice and syrup down the front of it then why even bother with the season at all?