And Speaking of Cell Phones…

What is up with the text messaging? When did this become the “thing” to do? And why didn’t I get to vote on whether it became the “thing”? Good lord in heaven. An underground movement of text messengers slowly, and quietly, mobilized. They started out with the teenagers, because their thoughts are just the right length for a five word text message. Then they slowly started making inroads into the adult community as well. And then one day, without warning, I’m getting 10 text messages a day on my damn cell phone. And each one leads me closer to a shooting spree. Only I don’t have enough time for a shooting spree, cause I’m too busy replying to text messages by typing one word a minute on a my NUMBERED phone. Holy mother of something ugly, these things are going to be the end of me.

Look, I know everyone is all about text messages, because ooo aren’t they so handy and to the point and quick. Uh, no, they are not quick. I type 70 words a minute. I can type faster than I can think. (which, okay, isn’t saying much, but still.) So when I am forced to type with only one finger on a tiny ass keypad I begin to think faster than I type. And then I forget what I was going to type, cause I’ve already thought to like my third sentence and I’ve only typed two words, and dammit, I spelled one wrong.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed by my ability to write between 500 and a 1000 words a day about nothing at all – but I like to ramble a bit. In fact, this blog sorta evolved from my constant rambling e-mails to friends. One finally said, “You know, you should really start a blog (and stop e-mailing me).” The part in parenthesis was implied.

So when people write me text messages it is actually painful for me to only be able to write a one sentence reply. Who has a one sentence opinion about anything? Well, teenagers do. But not me, as I am a deep, thoughtful person. And I tend to ramble a bit.

Now, I get why teenagers love the text messaging. It is the high tech version of passing notes in class. They are at that age where you can spend all your break time with your friends, have classes with them, talk to them for 3 hours a night on the phone and yet STILL have something that simply HAS to be written in note form. Because heaven forbid you have a single thought that isn’t instantly relayed to your BFF. So I think text messaging is perfect for that crowd.

And I can see how a quick text message saying, “When we meeting for dinner?” is also an okay use of the texting. But when you start doing a majority of your communications and/or making major announcements via text messaging, then there is a problem. And not just with the arthritis you must be building up in your poor fingers.

I got a text message from a friend of mine that said:

What?!! How is that a TEXT MESSAGE??!! I’m seriously wondering what this girl considers worthy of an actual phone call. I know cell phone minutes are expensive, but come on. If you are PIERCING anything that is covered by a bathing suit there needs to be words shared. Even if the words are complete silence on my part as I sit in shock.

So people. Stop texting me. I’m not going to answer. It’s a waste of my time and what little sanity I have left. If you really need a written response from me I’ll pass you a note the next time I see you. And then you can show me your nipples.

And Speaking of Teenagers…

I found this site online that lets you post any random music video you want. !!! They had some new music up there, some of the hip happenin’ artists of the day. But who cares about them? If I wanted to listen to them I could watch TRL and hear 10 seconds of their song between girls screaming.

I’m all about the real music. So I give you the great artist of my teenage years….Mr. Vanilla Ice…click on the link and it will open in another window...

"Ice Ice Baby"ByVanilla Ice

(to those of you who don’t have speakers or dsl or the right to watch bad 1990’s music videos at work…you are really missing out. But actually those of you who don't have speakers aren't really missing much. The joy of this video is all visual.)

Brain Tumor

Dude. What am I doing? I got my phone bill and it’s like $200. Dude. This is out of control. Seriously. Who am I talking to? Well, who am I not talking to, would probably be a better question to ask. And exactly how big of a brain tumor do you suppose I’m getting for my $200 a month?

Do you think that cell phones will be my generation’s cigarettes? You know, when people start dying because of diseases brought on by cell phones we’ll just kinda all shrug and say, “Oh, yeah, we really should have seen that coming.” I bet that most cell phone users would be a lot like cigarette smokers and say, “I know it’s killing me, but I just can’t help picking it up like 20 times a day.”

The most horrendous part of my bill is that I don’t even find it that horrendous. I don’t even bat an eye when a $200 bill comes in the mail charging me for speaking. Speaking. Granted, it’s a lot of speaking, but still, isn’t there something in the constitution about speaking being a right or something? My cell phone bill is unpatriotic, really. Someone alert Fox News, they’ll take care of it.

All I know for sure is that I have a serious problem. I can’t stop using the phone. And now I’m looking into getting a Blackberry. Whyyyyyy????? What am I doing? At what point in my life did it become absolutely imperative that I have the ability to contact anyone at anytime via any communication device necessary? Does Verizon offer courier pigeons? Cause I might be interested in subscribing to one of those as well.

I haven’t bought a Blackberry yet because I am a smart woman who can foresee the numerous traffic accidents that will be caused by my attempts to answer my phone, check my e-mails and change the radio station all while driving with my knee and eating french fries out of a bag on the passenger’s seat. (french fries are a regular enough occurrence to factor them into all driving scenarios.) I’ve got $200 phone bills, so I can’t afford the increased insurance premiums that will come every time I wrap my car around a tree while forwarding on THE FUNNIEST e-mail ever.

Notice that I say I haven’t gotten the Blackberry yet. Cause I know that eventually the smart woman voice will be drowned out by the crazy (and apparently very spend thrifty) voice that convinces me that I need to talk on my cell phone 23.75 out of every 24 hours, even when sitting right next to a perfectly good landline. It is really only a matter of time before the computer and phone in my office become obsolete as I sit there doing all my life’s work on my cell phone. If only I could print from my cell phone...

Maybe the courier pigeon could help me out with that.

California Weather

Sometimes I feel guilty living in California. We don’t really have natural disasters here. I mean, I guess we have earthquakes, but it’s not like there is an “Earthquake Season” that comes every year and wipes out houses and TV reporters who have been sent out to cover the season. And even when we do have earthquakes the extent of the damage can usually be found in the aisles of the local grocery store. The biggest risk our TV reporters face is the possibility of a jar of pickles falling on their head.

Not that our local media doesn’t try to make things seem more exciting than they are. “Our top story tonight is the rain that has been beating down on the central valley all day. We head out to Jim Dandy who is on the scene downtown, where some gutters are backed up a little.” I kid you friggin’ not, rain can be a lead story here. And if it dips below 50 degrees, look out, havoc in the streets. We might be a little spoiled when it comes to weather in this state.

We did have a couple of tornadoes earlier this year, though. Some people even lost shingles off their homes!! I know. Devastation. It was really devastating for me, because it caused a power outage at my work. Which meant I couldn’t do all the work I had to do. Instead I was forced to play pool for an hour while I waited for the computers to come back on. Oh yeah, it was really touch and go there for a second. CBS has already contacted me for the rights to my story. We’re going to do a tie-in with Doritos too, because they are the only thing that sustained me throughout my ordeal.

The local news moved on the tornado story as if it were aliens touching down, instead of a swirl of wind. All the stations switched over to live up-to-the-minute coverage. All three had to interview the same ONE guy who had been driving in his car and been picked up by the wind. (He thanked Jesus on each station.) Because it was an emergency situation, what with the wind and all, the stations ran their emergency ticker tape down at the bottom of the screen with up-to-the-minute safety tips. My favorite tip, “If you are in a car get out of the car and find a ditch to lie in until the storm passes.” First of all, if you are in a car, what are the odds you are going to be watching the ticker tape on the TV? Second of all, are there an abundance of ditches I’m unaware of, just waiting for people to seek refuge in them?

And that’s it, that is the extent of the chaos via nature here in California: one guy who didn’t have his TV on in his car, so he didn’t know to look for a ditch. But Jesus had his back, so he was okay.

When I hear about people in other states having to flee because it is a good possibility their entire state will be under water soon, I have a little bit of guilt. I feel bad that the most trying weather related event I’ve endured this summer is the fact that my air conditioning really only works in my bathroom (which is beyond handy, given the fact that that is the room where you fully drench yourself in water on a regular basis, so you definitely need it to be cool in there.)

So for all of you in states that actually have weather emergencies, I sincerely hope that Jesus has your back. And don’t forget about the ditches. Actually, on second thought, screw the ditches, just get in your car and move to California. You can crash on my couch. I’ll even move it into the bathroom, so you’ll be nice and comfortable.

Practical Jokes

Do you guys do the Netflix? This miracle of internet and postal service that somehow brings fresh DVDs to my home all the time? Aaaah. Just when I start to lose faith in the world we live in I find a DVD in my mailbox and I think, “At least SOME people in this world and focusing on the important things.”

If you are not familiar with Netflix (how on earth are you fitting your computer under that rock with you?) I will tell you that it is a beautiful thing. You go online, make a list of the movies you want to see, put them in the order you want to see them, then the internet gods just SEND you the movies to your house. Via fairies. I think. Most people make a ridiculously long list of movies and then don’t revisit the list for weeks at a time.

All that was the set-up.

So I go to my aunt’s office and I have some time to kill, so I go to Netflix to poke around and see if there are any movies I want to add to my list. But when I log on to the site another person’s account comes up. That other person is one of my close friends who happens to work in my aunt’s office. So I decide to have a little bit of fun. I try to find the most random, horrible movie I can find to add to the top of her list. Then she will get the movie in the mail and be baffled as to how that movie ended up at her house. Those crazy fairies!

Unfortunately there is no porn available on Netflix, cause that would have been perfect. And when I went searching in the gay and lesbian section I only found decent films, and I was looking for something horrible. So I ventured over to the documentary section. And there I found what I was looking for: A documentary on beavers. This struck me as an awesome choice. It was random as all hell. And it had the word “beaver” in the title. If I have to explain why that is funny then you are way too mature to even bother with.

So I add the riveting doc to the top of her list and then wait a week or so for her to call. Because I knew she would know I was the one that sent it and we’d laaaaaaauuuuuuggggh. Oh so funny.

But she never called. So I called her. Her boyfriend answered. She was busy doing something so I asked him if they had gotten anything funny in the mail. He said no. I said damn, I put a funny movie on your Netflix list, but she must have seen it on the list and taken it off before it got sent. He said, oh, yeah, she must have, what was the movie? I said, it was a documentary on beavers. He said, “Oh! I LOVED that movie!”

I said, uh, didn’t you wonder why a documentary about beavers randomly showed up at your house? He said, kinda, but I love documentaries so I didn’t really care, I learned a lot. In the background I hear my friend yell, he won’t shut up about the damn beavers! Then he says, they are really amazing animals….and goes off on a tangent about their little beaver things they build and all the other things he learned.

And then, “Thanks for putting that on our list, how’d you know I’d like it?”

“Who doesn’t like beavers, really?”

Fun With Videos! Surfing!

So I got a DVD burner on my computer. And I’ve been a burning fool ever since. I’ve been going through the millions of tapes I have stacked here. Why I never felt the need to actually LABEL tapes as I stacked them is beyond my level of comprehension right now.

But I came across some fun video from a couple years ago when I trained for a marathon. The video has nothing to do with the marathon, other than it took place after the marathon, while we were in Hawaii.

Having just moved my body for 26 miles I thought I could do anything. Anything! Including surfing, apparently. Uh, I was wrong.

The beach people gave me the surfboard and said, “If you fall, don’t put your feet down.” Whatever. I grabbed the surfboard and headed off to my eventual career as a professional surfer. It was really only a matter of time before I was on the pro circuit.

Unfortunately my Blue Crush dreams were shattered with my first fall from the surfboard. I tried to not put my feet down, but as it turns out that is where your feet want to go when you fall. It’s kinda natural. And there’s not really much you can do about it, short of keeping your feet out of the water, while your head remains submerged. Also, despite the fact that I was a good 45 miles off the shore the ocean was still only about 3 feet deep where I fell. Uh, yeah.

So my feet, more specifically my right foot, came into contact with some coral. I didn’t think much of the pain the coral caused as I had just recently drug my ass for 26 miles, so at this point pain was kinda a permanent part of my body. I climbed back on the surfboard and began looking for my next great wave. Eventually I looked back at my foot, to see if there was a bruise yet. There wasn’t. But there were quite a few porcupine-type needles sticking out of the foot. Holy poop.

My friend tried to pull them out but just ended up breaking them off really. Lovely. I paddled my way back to shore and was met with my amused friend and the video camera. I was not nearly as amused.

The beach people got some vinegar to kill the poison in my foot. And the rest of the day my friend kept saying, “You smell like Easter.” Easter, by the way, does not smell good.

Here’s some video taken by my very amused friend. I recommend pushing play then pause and letting it load all the way to the end before playing it, then it won’t stop as it’s playing. I also recommend everyone note how in shape I was following my running of about 300 miles in 4 months. And I recommend ignoring the fact that I’m wearing pigtails. I was on vacation, high on the permanent stream of Advil pulsing through my body, and really felt that wearing my hair in pigtails for a week was fun.





Video sharing at JussPress.com

Margaret – The Landlord

A few years ago, when my friend and I were looking for a place to live we feared we would never find a place that was just right. There were places in good locations, but they were too expensive. Or places that were within our price range, but had no A/C. Or places that were perfect in every way, but we couldn’t convince the current tenants to move out.

Are patience was growing thin when we stumbled across an old Victorian house. We both fell in love with it immediately. It was to be ours, we felt it. The only person who didn’t feel it was the landlord who was renting the house. Her name was Margaret.

I don’t know Margaret’s exact age, but if I had to ballpark it it would be around 112-113 years old. She looks like someone you would cast in the role of the Cranky Old Landlord who loves studying the credit checks of her unsuspecting applicants. She wears the waist of her pants up just below her breasts. And to be honest, I’m not sure if she’s pulled the pants up to meet the breasts or if the breasts have finally fallen far enough to meet the pants. I really don’t care to examine her close enough to solve this mystery.

Margaret has one way of assessing a person: Their credit. I had terrible credit and therefore I was a horrible person who should never have shelter over my head. My roommate, however, had stellar credit and was praised by dear Margaret.

Because I was crime spree waiting to happen Margaret decided to do some checking up on me before she allowed me the privilege of renting from her. First she called the HR department at my job. Once she confirmed that I actually worked there she then proceeded to ask the HR lady if I was a good employee and if I was going to be fired any time soon. Seriously. The HR lady called me immediately after the interrogation in fits of laughter.

Once she was convinced that I wasn’t going to get canned she decided to call my roommate. And warn her. About me. She called the roommate and told her that I had really bad credit and she should know this before deciding to live with me. The roommate thanked Margaret for the warning but then informed her that she had known me for years, and had even lived with me before, she was not worried about me not paying rent. Margaret was still not convinced though.

She called me up and told me that my credit was horrible. As if this were some sort of news to me. I told her I knew that, but that I had great renter’s credit and I was willing to pay whatever deposit she wanted in order to get the house. Margaret finally gave in. Not because she had any faith in me, but because, “Well, your roommate has great credit, and maybe it will be good for you to be around her. Maybe she can help you.” Now Margaret has me in a 12 step program, wherein my roommate is my sponsor. Lovely.

I moved into this house 3 years ago, and Margaret continues to be a stellar landlord.

When I call her she says, “Oh hi dear, how are the kids doing?” I don’t have the heart to tell her I don’t have any kids.

Whenever I call for a problem her response is, “Fire, flood or blood dear, that’s the only reason we come out to the property.”

In the last three years I’ve had three roommates, the first one left for a job out of town, the second one bought a house and left (people are willing to take on 30 year mortgages just to get out of living with me). All of these roommates have had great credit. And even though I’ve always paid my rent and never caused any problems Margaret still says, “I’m just so glad that you have such responsible friends. Someday these roommates of yours are going to rub off on you.”

Doesn’t she just warm the heart?

Vibrating Razors

I am sometimes very confused by advertising campaigns. Every once in a while I’ll catch a commercial on TV and wonder why it is that someone felt the need to invest millions of dollars into a flashy ad campaign for the least flashy products in the world.

Most of these confusing ad campaigns stem from bathroom products. The toothbrush and toothpaste industry alone makes up a good 30 percent of my commercials. And they are an even higher percentage of daytime commercials. (Apparently people who don’t have to work during the day have a lot of extra time to brush their teeth. And go to technical schools. And hire personal injury lawyers.) Am I the only person in the country not buying a toothbrush every time I go to the grocery store? And I the only one who just steals all her toothbrushes from her dentist?

But the one product that has always baffled me the most is the razor. My dear lord there are a lot of ads for razors. And they are always so exciting. Things are flying all over the screen, blades multiplying like rabbits on speed, incredibly hot people who definitely have the razor to thank for their incredible hotness. I just don’t see the point of all these razor ads. How many razors are people buying? And how excited can a person really get about a plastic thing that is going to spend a good deal of its time in your armpit?

Lately one razor ad in particular has caught my eye. It is the new Venus Vibrance. It’s the first battery operated razor for women. It’s pink. And it confuses me a little. Why on earth do I need a battery operated razor? I mean the thing looks just like a regular disposable razor, except it has a battery inside of it. Look, unless the battery is going to result in me being able to put the razor on the floor of the tub and have the razor shave my legs for me, I don’t really see the point.

Just when I thought the razor company might be over-advertising their razor I receive visual confirmation of their slightly bizarre advertising campaign:


Yes, this is an SUV. Painted pink. With pink rims on the tires. With a big razor on the side of it. And the words “Soothing Vibrations”:

This ad campaign is all about the vibrating. “With the push of a button turn on Soothing Vibrations.” Uh, I don’t know about you, but when I think of a woman’s product that vibrates and involves batteries, I just don’t think of a razor. Perhaps, that’s just me. Perhaps I should stop watching so much daytime TV. But I just think the whole concept of a vibrating razor is bound to lead to some calls to that personal injury lawyer. Is all I’m saying.

Dance-Off

Now I know my readers are annoyed when I talk about TV, but too bad. Cause there is BIG TV news to report. Following much debate and slow-motion instant replaying it has been decided that the only fair way to settle the Dancing with the Stars Controversy is to have the final two contestants compete in a Dance Off.

!!!

How Every 80’s Movie Made is that? I love it. For those of you who are not cool enough to know what the hell I’m talking about, let me catch you up:

The final two contestants on Dancing with the Stars (aka: the show that decided to class up ballroom dancing with Britney Spears’ music, exposed ab muscles and Patrick Swayze) were an Old Dude from Seinfeld and a Young Hot Chick from Some Soap Opera. Guess which one won? Yeah, the Young Hot Chick. Sure The Old Dude could dance better, but he looked horrible in a bikini.

The Old Dude’s fans were quite upset and demanded to have their voices heard. (Don’t piss off middle-aged women.) They felt that they weren’t given an adequate opportunity to vote their silver-haired sex symbol into the winner’s circle. And then the Young Hot Chick’s soap opera fans (a whole nother group of middle-aged women apparently) said that their girl deserved to win. So there was an uproar. Because this was very serious business.

I mean the winner gets a trophy with a disco ball on it. For god’s sakes. If that’s not worth fighting for, I just don’t know what is.

So ABC has announced that there will be a Dance-Off show in which the final two get to go head to head to decide once and for all who gets the biggest rash from their sequins. Or something.

Is it wrong that I am picturing this whole thing as a big crowd of people with Old Dude and Young Hot Chick in the middle doing various dance moves while periodically throwing in a “talk to the hand” move and getting high fives from their posse? And then of course after the contestants’ rigorous display of dancing talent the entire crowd will simultaneously break into a perfectly choreographed dance routine. That happens in real life, right?

God, I hope Kevin Bacon shows up.

I Dare You to Break Into Our House This Week

It has not been a good week. A lethal combination of PMSing and my vertigo making a return appearance and all things going all bad. So I’m pissy and I’ve lost the energy to hide it any longer. I come home, stomp up my stairs and yell at The Roommate.

“Everything sucks! I am in a HORRIBLE mood!”
She comes running out of her room, “ME TOO! I’m so glad you are too!”

I kick my shoes off my feet and into my closet with such force that they are nearly embedded into the wall. Why this makes me feel better, I do not know. The Roommate plops herself down on my bed, I plop myself down on my chair. And we’re off…

“The entire world is conspiring against me.”
“Nothing is going right.”
“Nothing. I lost out on two jobs that had all but been promised to me.”
“My best friend told me he loves me and wants me to move in with him.”
“Is he cute?”
“No, but he’s rich.”
“Oooo, work with that.”
“There’s nothing there. And now we can’t be friends. Cause he’s in love with me.”
“Damn. Would you mind if I moved in with him?”
“Go for it.”
“A Republican told me he was in love with me and wanted to date me.”
“Is he cute?”
“Yes.”
“Rich?”
“A little.”
“So…”
“He’s a friggin’ REPUBLICAN.”
“Oh, well, maybe I can date him.”
“He’s too short for you.”
“Damn!”
“I am just in a HORRIBLE mood.”
“Me too, I feel like at any moment I could go on a ten state shooting spree or maybe just burst in to tears. It could go either way.”
“Exactly! Or maybe both at the same time.”
“I’m PMSing.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, that’s bad. We should put a sign on our door or something.”
“I pity the fool who tries to break into our house this week.”
“They’d have to call the cops to pull us off of him.”
“Man I hope someone picks a fight with me this week.”
“I got your back.”
“My vertigo is back.”
“Spinning?”
“Spinning.”
“And then, then! That crazy dude I am working on that project with?”
“Oh god yes, the crazy one.”
“He is not returning my calls!”
“Who cares, he’s CRAZY.”
“Yeah, but what does that say about ME, when the CRAZY people aren’t calling me back.”
“I called my ex three days ago and he hasn’t called me back.”
“I got broken up with today via Instant Messenger.”
“Wow. So high tech.”
“I know. I was on a call and checking e-mails at the same time. I like to multi-task my break-ups.”
“There is a girl at work who is the most annoying person on the planet. Everything she says sounds like a question. But it’s not. She just brings up the end of every sentence. “I went to eat lunch at the deli? And I had a sandwich? And it was good?” I swear to god I almost threw my computer at her today.”
“My computer caught a virus today and wouldn’t stay on for longer than 5 seconds before turning off. And 5 seconds is not long enough to get the millions of hours of work off of it before it flatlines.”
“My friend tried to screw me out of a job.”
“My friend got a job at Hooters.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. But it would be a better thing if she worked there right now. Cause then we could go eat french fries and milkshakes.”
“French Fries!”
“Exactly. But isn’t it our friggin’ luck that she doesn’t start till next week.”
“Our luck sucks.”
“I read in my horoscope that Saturn is in my sign or something and that’s bad luck.”
“Where is it?”
“In my sign.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know, but I thought it was doohickey so I didn’t read about when it’s supposed to LEAVE my sign.”
“I think it’s a full moon.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t know, we could find out, look it up, look on a calendar, maybe they’ll have something on TV.”
“Or we could just walk outside and look up.”
“My grandmother used to say that people go crazy during a full moon because it affects the tide and it also affects our hormones so that’s probably why we are so irritable.”
“Either that or we are just bitches.”
“Could be that too.”
“Bitches with PMS.”
“That’s bad.”
“Very bad.”
“Everyone is out of whack this week though. Everyone. Cause it’s a full moon.”
“Everyone?”
“Two of my friends, they can’t stop crying.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, one can’t get pregnant and the other’s mom has cancer. See. They are out of whack too, just like us.”
“Well, except that they have actual problems and we are just in a week long bad mood that is running dangerously close to becoming a personality trait instead of just a mood.”
“Oh! AND I got turned down for a SAVINGS account today.”
“How is that even possible?”
“Right? It’s MY money. I just want them to hold it, how difficult is that?”
“Did they tell you why?”
“They are sending me a letter in the mail. Then he said, “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” and I said, “Well, you’re a bank and I’ve got money that I need to put somewhere. And you can’t help me with that. So can you do anything about Saturn?””

Decade Girl

My cousin called me today. Left me a message.

“Hey Dawn, it’s me, I got your message, and now I guess we are playing phone tag. We just got in from Belize this morning at 2 a.m., I had a great birthday while we were there. But when we got back I found out the dog has fleas, so I have to deal with that. Call me when you get the chance, bye.”

Oh, and that birthday she was referring to? That would be her 10th birthday. Uh, what 10 year old plays phone tag? And what 10 year old flies in from Belize at 2 a.m.?

The same 10 year old who thinks she can “fit me in” on Sunday. What a peach.

Despite the fact that she obviously has a social calendar that rivals J Lo it is hard to believe that the kid is already 10 years old. Where the hell did that decade go? And thank god I didn’t age at all during that passing time. That would have been horrible.

But I gotta say, I like that she’s getting older. Who has any use for young kids? Sure they’re cute and all, but their conversation skills are horrendous and they very rarely understand good sarcasm. Babies are even worse. They just lay there. And poop. And they only laugh at peek-a-boo. So boring.

But you have to hang out with the babies, and then keep hanging out with them when they start to get older. Because if you only hang out with them once they are old enough to be fun then you have missed valuable influencing time. And if you don’t start influencing when they are young then there is a good chance they’ll never understand good sarcasm. And that’s how boring adults are made.

If you are able to play a key role in the life of a child as she grows up you will be blessed with many beautiful moments. There will be learning how to ride the bike, or losing teeth or maybe even 483 recitals, each off-key, disorganized one of them a priceless piece of my heart.

Or maybe you’ll be walking down the street one day with the child and a block away someone will yell, “Marco!” to an unknown person. And you will look at the child and without saying a word you will both yell at the top of your lungs, “POLO!” And the two of you will laugh. And other people on the street will stare at you with confused looks as you continue your out of water Marco Polo game. And you will say to them, “Ten years is a small investment in creating a little human being that gets my sense of humor.”

Diddy Daddy Do

THIS JUST IN!!! STOP EVERYTHING!!! PUT DOWN YOUR MORNING COFFEE, MINIMIZE YOUR SPIDER SOLITAIRE SCREEN, GET YOUR LOVED ONES ON THE PHONE!!!

P. Diddy has decided to remove the “P” from his name!!! Leaving just Diddy!!!

Yes, I know there is a war going on, and large commercial airplanes are falling out of the sky on a daily basis, but people please, this name change is the REAL news of the day.

Be sure to update all of your contact info for him immediately.

Why oh why do music personalities feel the need to change their names on a regular basis? Is there something about a recording studio, maybe the air pressure in there, that makes your brain come up with thoughts such as, “Man, if I only had a different name, or perhaps just a letter instead of a name, or maybe, just maybe, a sign instead of a letter or a name! Then I would be able to make music that touched the souls of all the men and women of this land.”

When asked about his name change on the Today Show (Yes, the friggin’ Today show is covering this, lord help us all) he explained the whole thing in a completely logical fashion, “I felt like the 'P' was getting between me and my fans and now we're closer.”

Uh Diddy, there are a lot of things coming between you and your fans (your bodyguards, your security gate, your limo, your piles of cash, your gun-toting entourage, your bling bling, etc. etc.) but I really doubt that the letter “P” is one of those things.

But there are even more reasons…..“During concerts, half the crowd is saying 'P. Diddy' - half the crowd is chanting 'Diddy' - now everybody can just chant 'Diddy.'”

Seriously. This guy is killing me. As if a rap concert is ever going to be a place where you find any sort of order and unison. I guarantee at least 3/4 of his crowd is also chanting quite a few other names such as Punk-Ass Bi-atch and #%&%$@*!!. I might actually enjoy it if he changed his name to one of those.

And then the real reason for his name change comes out, “I even started to get confused myself - and when I'd called someone on the telephone it took me a long time to explain who I was. Too long."

Who the hell is he talking to on the phone that can’t figure out who he is? And do we really think that these “living under a rock in Botswana people” are going to suddenly pull their heads out of their asses because he lost the “P”?

Oh my god, think of all the new business ventures he can start now that he doesn’t waste all that time saying “P”. That’s like a tenth of a second saved every time he says his name. And he seems like the kind of guy who says his own name A LOT, so I imagine he’ll be saving a lot of time. He better be careful though. When P. Diddy has free time it inevitably leads to court dates involving paternity or weapons charges. And then those lead to another name change.

It’s the circle of life really.

Bill Murray Stare

After all my ballyhooeying about movie-hopping last week I went to the movies this weekend and only saw one movie. What a loser I am. But I did have an excuse: I went to a small independent theater that is currently trying to keep the city from tearing it down. Even though it’s been a pillar of the community for like decades. So as my friend said, “Movie-hopping is about sticking it to the man. Not sticking it to the frail, broken senior citizen.”

So despite the fact that there was more than one movie worth seeing my friend and I took the high road and only saw the movie that we actually paid for.

Don’t worry, we immediately got off that road as soon as we left the theater. I don’t like the altitude up there. I’m unaccustomed to it.

The movie we saw was called “Broken Flowers”. It stars Bill Murray and is getting rave reviews. Which is why I feel the need to chip in my two cents. Hell, I’ll even give you an entire quarter.

Now, first of all let me say that I enjoy independent movies. Some people don’t, but I do. Independent dramas are usually trying to be honest to what actually occurs in life. That’s why they are usually so boring. Because life, despite what big-budget Hollywood movies say, is actually not that exciting. But if you are able to keep yourself from slipping into a boredom-induced coma sometimes there are some great subtle thoughts to be found in independent films.

So when I go into an independent movie I’m prepared for a slower pace, and an above average number of long pauses. (Independent movies have low budgets, so they can’t afford to have too much dialogue. It’s cheaper to pay actors to just stare at one another. Or cry. Or drink. But definitely not actually speak.)

And Bill Murray is REALLY embracing independent filmmaking.

I am beginning to think that Bill has some weird contract verbage that does not allow him to speak over a certain amount of lines in a movie. “I mean, I COULD speak in this scene, but then that only leave like two lines of dialogue for the entire third act.” “Fine, fine, just stare at the wall then.” Ever since Bill has started doing independent films (Rushmore, Lost in Translation, Life Aquatic ect.) he has been trying to set a new record for the number of scenes the star of a film can be in without actually speaking. He is kicking the crap out of Charlie Chaplin’s previously held record.

Also, since Bill has decided to become a Serious Actor he has also decided to Stop Using Facial Expressions. Deciding instead to focus all of his efforts on just one facial expression. You know the one. It looks like he has either taken 45 Valium or he knows he ate some bad fish and has resigned himself to the fact that in a short while he is going to be very ill.

But again, I’m all about independent dramas, so I’m willing to go with you on your non-emotional emotional journey. Because I know that it will all make perfect sense in the end. You will bring it all together and I will shout out, “I have witnessed ART here today!!” (And then I’ll movie-hop over to a Sandra Bullock movie, because a girl can only take so much art.)

So did the ending of this movie provide me with all the answers I was waiting for? Well I wouldn’t want to ruin the end for you.

But then again, in order to RUIN the end there actually has to BE an end. And the version I saw had apparently be shipped to the theater without an end. There was just a black screen and an audience full of “What?” “That can’t be…” “No, wait, it’s coming back…” “What?” “Maybe it’ll be after the credits?”

But no.

This was an independent movie.

And independent movies don’t need no stinking dialogue. They don’t need no stinking explosions. And they certainly don’t need no stinking endings.

All I know for sure about the ending is that Bill was probably going to have to get home quick, that bad fish was bound to kick in at any moment. I know I was already starting to feel a little queasy.

Oh Holy Afternoon

Since I have been overly generous in relaying the stories of my drunk friends I thought it only fair to share with you a wonderful tale of my own intoxication. This weekend a friend and I were chatting and we recalled the lovely drunk afternoon we shared a couple years ago. Yes, I know it is not the most current of stories, but I think once you read it you will realize that it is really quite timeless.

So let’s set the scene, shall we? We are at the company Christmas party. It is around 11 a.m. Now, any intelligent person will tell you that either one of those facts should be enough to keep a person from drinking themselves stupid. But as we all know, I don’t really need to drink to be stupid.

Myself and a couple of my friends were a little late to the party so we had to sit at the “leftover” table. You know, the table where all the “leftover” people sit. Cause they aren’t cool enough to be invited to sit at any of the other tables. Each table was set for about 8 people, but our leftover table only ended up having the three of us and two other people. Oh, and two bottles of wine.

Already, we were going to get more wine than the other tables, because there were fewer of us at our table. But our distribution became even more generous when the VP, who was sitting at our table, declined any wine. This, in turn, caused the two newer employees who were sitting at our table to decline wine as well. Because they were still in their kiss-ass phase.

One of my friends who was sitting with me had gotten a new job and was leaving our company in a matter of days. She was well beyond her kiss-ass phase and transitioning nicely into her screw-you phase. So she started to drink. And because I am a loyal and supportive friend (and as we mentioned earlier, not too intelligent) I began to drink with her.

At the time of this party I was working in the accounting department, so I’ll help you out with the math on this one. Two bottles of wine for two girls. And you also have to add in the fact that I drink, literally, about twice a year. And I’d never drank wine before. And I had no real preference between red and white. So I drank them both.

Anyone who has ever been to one of these boring-ass parties will tell you that a good deal of the time is spent by people giving stupid speeches about pointless things like employee spirit and team goals. Whatever. Pass me the wine. Let me tell you, wine makes those speeches a lot more tolerable. I can’t believe I never thought of it before.

After the speeches, during the casual conversation portion of the program, I began to wander the crowd, striking up many a conversation with many a people I can’t remember right now. I can, however, remember a couple nice people offering me a chair and helping to straighten my halo.

Oh, I forgot to mention I was wearing a headband that held a halo above my head. The saddest part about the halo is that I put it on before I was even remotely intoxicated. Which is why I might as well drink, at least then I have an excuse for my ridiculous choices.

The party began to wind down and everyone started heading home. Except me and my wine drinking buddy. As tables emptied we went around and grabbed the unfinished wine bottles off every table. And we drank them. Because we are wholeheartedly against waste of any kind. It’s bad for the environment and stuff. I think.

Eventually the hotel staff had to ask us to leave the banquet room because they had another party they had to set up for, and because everyone else had been gone for over an hour. These people obviously didn’t share in our holiday spirit.

Before we left we gathered our basic necessities: the centerpiece, two bottles of wine and an umbrella. The center piece was an adorable little thing. It was a styrofoam Christmas tree that had 200 or so unwrapped peppermint candies glued to it. It was very Martha Stewart-y. And very poorly designed for rainy weather.

It was pouring outside. Like sideways rain pouring. As we walked back to the office my friend was having a very inebriated battle with her uncooperating umbrella. The wind was randomly flipping the umbrella in and out as my friend continued to try to keep it over us. By this time we were so wet I really didn’t see the point. I was just wondering how hard it is to get peppermint stains out of your clothes.

We got back to the office and had to gather all of our things for the walk home. During our time at the office we collected goodbye balloons, a gift basket full of empty boxes (because the friend thought the boxes were soooooo cute), a bag of oranges (from a co-worker’s tree), and both of our work bags. we added these items to our two bottles of wine, and the centerpiece we were already carrying.

If you will please picture with me now. The two of us stumbling down the busy downtown streets in sideways rain carrying all that crap. Really not attracting that much attention to ourselves at all as I carried a balloon bouquet, oranges and the centerpiece while my friend continued to battle her umbrella while carrying her gift basket and the wine. I loved that she wouldn’t give up on the umbrella, despite the fact that it was now scientifically impossible for us to get any wetter. And you know what happens to gift boxes when they no longer have contents in them? They become VERY light. And they fly away. But they are so cute they must be picked up. Even if it means dropping 3 other things in an effort to retrieve said gift box.

I’m not sure if I’ve ever laughed so hard.

So as we were doing our very slow stumble/go back and pick stuff up/stop to untangle my hair from the melting centerpiece a very nice man pulled up beside us. He was an employee in our office. He was one of the kindest men I’ve ever known. But he was also very religious and all about leading a blessed life and all that. He rolled down his window and said, “Do you girls need a ride home?”

Although we were each three bottles of wine deep we were still able to look at ourselves, then look at this nice, pure man and say, “Oh no, we’re fine! Thanks though! See you Monday!” I would have much rather stumble the rest of the way home than get into this man’s car and try to hold on a conversation that didn’t send me directly to hell. As he drove away I was hoping that the halo I was wearing had distracted him from the red wine mustache on my face.

I really don’t know why I don’t drink more often…

The Rules of Movie-Hopping

Yesterday I wrote about my love of movie-hopping. It was more or less supposed to be a brief essay on my love for the hopping of movies. But now I fear that my love my inspire others to hop as well. And I cannot, in good conscience, send you out into the world without some tips.

So print these out. Study them. Practice hopping from one room of your house to another, without being noticed. Then when you are ready…brave the multiplex.

1. Be Inconspicuous
This rule involves quite a bit of work and a little bit of pre-planning. The key to successful movie-hopping is to go unnoticed as you are going from one theater to the next. So do your best not to stand out. Don’t wear t-shirts that have funny phrases on them or anything too unique. Someone working there may notice the shirt and take even a slight mental note of it. Then when they notice it again 4 hours later they will stop and think, “Didn’t I already see that shirt today?” Bad. Do not make the movie workers think. They do not like this and are unaccustomed to it. And they will throw you out as a result.

Also, if you are a woman and have boobs, don’t wear a tight shirt or a cleavage shirt. The male workers will definitely notice it/them. Nothing ruins a good undercover op like big boobs and teenage movie workers.

Finally, in order to assist your incognito efforts I recommend bringing a jacket, maybe a hat. Then switch the combos up during the day – sometimes wear the jacket, sometimes wear the hat, sometimes wear both – but always wear something. Please.

2. No Eye Contact
A fellow movie-hopper commented on my last blog with this rule. And I too feel that it is very important. Just like anywhere in life eye contact can lead to bad things – like conversation and general politeness. These things are as unnecessary in a movie theater as they are in the real world.

The key to this rule is to not avoid the eye contact by looking like a scared puppy. Don’t hunch your back and look at the ground, because then someone is sure to talk to you. If for no other reason that to point out that you are about to run into a wall.

I have several ways to avoid eye contact. First, I am looking up at the movie names above the theater doors – I’m searching, I’m looking, I’m not making eye contact, oh I found my theater, and now I’m inside the theater. Secondly, I talk to an imaginary friend on the cell phone. We are having a very serious conversation and/or the phone is breaking up, I can’t hear you, I’m going to have to call you back, I’ve just walked into the theater. Thirdly is the standby - I search through the purse for something, anything, I’m looking, I’m searching, I’m in the theater. No unnecessary conversations had.

3. Do Not Hesitate
Movie hopping needs to be a well-oiled machine. And as with all well-oiled machines, hesitation is not an option. Hesitation is more of a moderately-oiled machine trait. When hopping one must never falter. To falter is to diiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee. Or it is to go home without a fully numbed ass. Which is the movie-hopping equivalent of death.

So even if you are not by nature a confident person, it’s time to test out those acting skills. Throw those shoulders back, lift your chin up high and walk the halls like a person who is running slightly late for their show and cannot be bothered with such pointless things like eye-contact or pleasantries. I know you feel guilty, I know you feel wrong, I know your mother thinks you are committing a sin equal to animal torture. But your exterior must portray none of this. Be strong my soldiers. AND. JUST. KEEP. WALKING.

4. Go to the bathroom or visit concessions between movies.
This is a good time filler and a good way to avoid being seen literally walking out of one movie door and into another movie door. Plus the bathroom stall is a great place to change your outfit and check to make sure you’re on schedule. It’s kinda like Superman’s phone booth. Only with automatic flushers.

5. Always start with the new release/blockbuster.
A movie hopper is instantly eliminated from the game if someone is checking tickets in front of your forth movie. You will usually find this horrible sight only on the weekends and only for the new releases or a HUGE blockbuster or an NC17 movie. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

So it is best to plan to see the ticket-checking movie first so that you actually have a valid ticket to show.

“But what do I do if I want to see two new releases or HUGE blockbusters or NC17 movies?” You ask, because you are a sucker for nudity and graphic violence.

To that I say, “Never fear, there are exceptions to every rule… (except the one that insisted you keep your clothes on.)”

6. Go in a little late.
If you are worried about being caught going into a movie wait a little while and go in after the previews have started. Once the theater has gone dark the movie workers close the door and go back to seeing how much free popcorn they can eat. And then you slip in ever so slyly.

Because you are a confident, experienced (yet stealth-like) movie-hopper. Butter, instead of blood, pumps through your veins.



So go students! Go! Embrace the world inside the movie theater! It is an exciting world full of challenges and dreams! Maybe one day I’ll run into one of you as we are both hopping. But of course, we’d literally have to RUN IN to each other, because neither one of us will be making eye contact with anyone.

Movie-Hopping

Okay, so I’m an avid movie watcher. I enjoy spending the day at a movie theater as much as some people enjoy spending a day at an amusement park. They aren’t really that different, if you think about it. There are lines to get into both, they both exist to entertain, and they both require a small loan in order to take any family who can’t be smuggled in a large handbag.

But at a movie theater I don’t get whiplash from poorly designed roller coasters, I don’t have to wait in line for two hours for 13 seconds of permanent skeletal damage, and I don’t have to deal with dehydration from being in the sun for too long or hypothermia following the water ride. I just buy my ticket, grab some popcorn and settle in for a day of movie magic. Sometimes I lose feeling in my ass, but a day of good fun is worth a little ass-numbness.

To me movie-watching is an all day event. Very rarely do I go and see just one movie. And if I only see two I feel like I haven’t really applied myself. Three is the number I usually aim for. I think my personal best was 5 in one day, but I am still young. I have many good days left.

Lest you think that this is some kind of joke, please understand, movie hopping is serious business. It is not for the easily deterred. A true movie-hopper knows that there is a lot of work involved in sitting so long that you actually wake up the next day and are sore from your day of doing absolutely nothing. You can’t just go to the theater and expect to randomly find movies that are starting at exactly the right time. No, no, no. You must do your research. You may even want to involve a spreadsheet.

You have to figure out the running times of all the movies you want to see. Then you have to look at all the start times and coordinate how you can see the most amount of movies in the least amount of time. This is not easy. It could probably be a game show, really. Because it gets increasingly difficult as the movies stack up. Seeing two movies – piece of cake. Seeing three – a little more difficult. Seeing four – you may need a phd in some sort of mathematics. Is all I’m saying. And there is built in tension as well, “Movie A ends at 2:00, and Movie B starts at 2:15” “Ooooooo.” “Movie B ends at 4:05 and Movie C begins at 4:25.” “Ahhhhhhhh.” “Movie C ends at 6:30 and Movie D…..begins at 7:40!” “Oh! I’m sorry! You lost! What do we have for a parting gift?”

And then, after all that planning, you still have to navigate the treacherous waters of the theater.

I remember fondly the olden days when theaters practically invited me to stay for the entire day. But times they have changed. Theaters have gone on the defensive and implemented several obstacles that I must overcome.

First of all these theater have like 485 screens on them, which helps out when looking for my next movie, but it also usually involves more than one hallway. And a ticket-taker standing at the front of each hallway. You see how this can become a problem when I’ve planned to hop to a movie that is taking place in the other hallway? The hopping ends there. Because if I’m on my third movie the only ticket I have to offer is dated sometime last Tuesday. And unlike the before mentioned amusement park, movie theaters don’t like it when you hang around all day on the purchase of one ticket.

Whatever.

Then there is the most frustrating feature of all: the concession stand that resides outside of where the ticket-taker is taking tickets. This means that once you have handed your ticket to the taker you are unable to revisit the concessions ever again. This is no good when I am spending a whole day there. A girl needs food. A girl needs to spend $6 on nachos. Or the girl has not truly experienced the movies. This usually results in me stocking up on food as if a herd of my young is hungrily awaiting my arrival. “You’re going to have to grab the ticket out of my butt pocket, cause I’m too busy trying to balance this popcorn, nachos, sour patch kids, coke and slurpee. Oooh yeah, you’re going to have to take the Bon Bons out of the pocket before you can reach the ticket.”

My last complaint to movie theaters is that there are just too many. The movies are thrown about and I find it next to impossible to find 5 good movies at one theater. So my day is cut short. And my happiness diminished.

Now please don’t be a buzzkill like my mother and proclaim that movie-hopping isn’t really a sport, that it’s really stealing. It is not stealing. I do not hide anything in my pockets in an attempt to leave the premises with them (besides Bon Bons, and I pay for them). And no one is harmed by my actions (except my numb ass). AND I make it a point to spend a stupid amount of money on concessions while I’m camped out at the theater. And we all know that if there is any stealing going on it is happening when the theater charges you $20 for popcorn and a soda. Granted the popcorn tub is the size of large diving pool and the soda could fill that pool, but still. I’m pretty sure they are making a fine amount of money off me spending three meals inside their doors.

Thank god for free refills.

New Toy - VIDEOS!!!

Okay, I don’t really have much to say today. And I don’t really know how to top yesterday’s blog which included a picture of me blowing up a 5 foot penis. I mean, where do you really go from there?

To kids of course.

I was bouncing around the net today and I came across a site that will let you upload videos to your blog.

Oh yes they will.

How exciting is this? So exciting.

For those of you who don’t know me I should tell you that it sometimes seems as though I have a video camera actually surgically attached to my hand. I enjoy a home movie of all life’s moments.

For those of you who do know me, you are probably very worried right now. As I enjoy capturing life’s embarrassing moments as well. Ahhh blackmail.

So anyways, I’m going to try out this video thing and see if it actually works. The only video I have on my computer right now happens to be one that I made of my young cousin. I know, I know, home movies of kids are usually far from entertaining. Even though the parents SWEAR the videos are THE BEST THING EVER. And I really don’t want to fall into that “dude, your kid is NOT cute, STOP wasting film on her” category.

But this kid is cute.

So it was my aunt’s birthday. And she enjoys Elvis. So I made her this video. Actually I made her a much longer video, with changed lyrics and the kid singing, and all that. But I think that a small dose is best for the people who don’t actually love the child. Let me know if you can see it. And please let me know if my love for this kid is blinding me to the fact that this is complete crap.

I’m sure you will love her too. But just in case, I’m going to go scrounge up my video of the 5 foot penis.

Video sharing at JussPress.com

I recommend pushing play, then pushing pause and letting it load to the end. If you don't then it will stop periodically as it's loading. And this piece of art deserve better than to be interrupted.

Peter the Penis

** Warning: The following blog is not appropriate for young audiences. Or easily offended audiences. Or audiences with a maturity level over, say, age 14. Which basically leaves like two people who will enjoy this blog. And those are the two people who actually read this blog, so it all works out perfectly. **

So I mentioned previously that I have a lot of friends getting married lately. And as a result I’ve had a lot of bachalorette parties lately. A commenter on my previous blog noted that I had discussed bachalorette parties without discussing “Peter”. And how that happened, I just do not know. Because Peter is so blog-worthy.

So here is the tale of Peter.

Peter was (and still is) an inflatable penis. He was purchased at a sex shop and taken on a bachelorette party to Tahoe. And boy did he have some fun.

Peter, who was named because “Peter the Penis” sounded catchy, stands 5 feet tall, when fully, uh, blown up. He also has a pouch on the bottom that can be filled with water. After you fill him with about 6 bottles of water he becomes a punching bag and pops right back up every time he’s hit. He has stamina this Peter.

So we blow him up…

(The blowhole is on his side.)

…And we take him out to the club with us. Oh yes we did. And in order to get to the club we had to walk through the casinos. And in order to carry him one of us (me) had to hold his water end and another one of us had to carry his lighter, top end. The water end wasn’t exactly light, as it contained 6 bottles of water. So the easiest way to carry him was to hold him in front of me with two hands. I don’t have a picture of this, but I think you can do the visual yourselves. Every time I saw a kid as we walked through the casino I felt like I should contribute some money to the eventual therapy bills that would result from them seeing me with a five foot penis coming out of my crotch.

So we got to the club and Peter was an absolute HIT! He was the talk of the club, everyone loved him and he was even crowd surfing:

But then our good times came to an end. As the sober one of the group (How boring am I? Always sober. Thank god I hang out with lushes or I would never have any stories to tell.) I was in charge of doing a periodic headcount, to make sure no one had wandered off in a drunken stupor. Upon doing my count I realized that we were a woman down. I started scanning the crowd, trying to locate our misplaced soldier. As I was scanning a girl came up to me and said, “One of your girls is in the bathroom puking bad.” How did she know who my girls were?

Oh because we were all wearing these hats:

We are nothing if not classy.

So I grabbed my inflatable penis and went to check on the puking girl. I was a little confused why this girl was puking, as she’d only had about two drinks. I hadn’t pegged her as a lightweight.

When I get to the bathroom there are several security people surrounding Puking Girl’s stall. I push my way through and take a look at her. She is propped up in the corner of a stall, staring blankly at me. Those were not the eyes of a drunk person, they were they eyes of a drugged person. Take it from the sober driver – there’s a difference.

Mr. I’m A Badass Because I Work Bathroom Security decides to start threatening me and Puking Girl, because apparently he is intimidated by Peter and feels the need to flex a little, “Your friend is acutely intoxicated and we can have her arrested for being drunk in public. In fact we can have you arrested too.”

I look at him, “Dude, calm down.”

Dude says, “I think you should calm down. Your friend is acutely intoxicated and can be taken to the drunk tank until she sobers up. She is acutely intoxicated.”

I kid you not, I swear he learned the word “acutely” just that day.

I look at him again, “She is not acutely intoxicated. She had two drinks.”

“I don’t think that you are qualified to determine someone’s blood alcohol. We can have her arrested. She may have to go to the hospital.”

“Buddy she had two drinks, look at her eyes, someone obviously slipped something in one of her drinks. Now, I don’t know why you are talking to me like I’m an infant, but if you could get a wheelchair for her I’ll pull the car around and pick her up out front. Okay?”

He looks at her glazed over eyes, “Uh, okay.”

“And I’d appreciate it if you stop talking to me like I’m a fool.” I beamed with the confidence of someone who had just put someone in their place. That’ll teach him.

Then I straightened my rhinestone hat, grabbed by 5 foot penis and stormed out of the bathroom, wondering where on earth he got the idea that I was a moron.

Going to So, So Many Chapels

Having a lot of friends is fun.

Until they all start getting married.

And your life becomes a blur of engagement parties, and bridal showers, and bachalorette parties, and weddings.

And you try to remember what your weekends used to be like when every single one didn’t involve the celebration of two peoples’ everlasting love.

Whatever the weekends were like they definitely involved less cake.

Which is the only reason I keep attending all these events.

I enjoy cake.

I’ve developed a system at weddings to ensure that I get more than one piece of cake. What I lack in drinking I make up for in cake consumption. The key is to get up right when they begin handing out cake, go to another table and strike up a conversation. But do not sit down.

The nice cake people will often put a piece of cake in front of every chair at a table, but if you happen to be lingering around, I don’t know, maybe striking up a conversation, then you can say, “May I have a piece of cake?” And the nice cake people could really give a crap who gets cake, so they’ll hand you one.

Then you wrap up your pointless conversation (or don’t. You can always just walk away the second you’ve got the cake. Your work here is done.) and head back to your table, where another beautiful piece of cake awaits your arrival.

Then you have TWO PIECES OF CAKE.

If you are able to identify and befriend the anorexic girls at the wedding, there is a good possibility that you can land THREE PIECES OF CAKE. Scope them out while they go through the buffet line. They’ll get like a spoonful of salad and one piece of broccoli. And saltine crackers. Always saltine crackers.

In addition to cake procurement these various events have also helped me improve my Party Game skills.

Bachalorette parties and Bridal showers always have Party Games. And I always kick a tremendous amount of ass at every one.

I can pin the Macho just right on the Man. I can make a stunning wedding dress out of toilet paper. I can put a condom on a banana with one hand in 5 seconds flat. And I can give some great advice.

Example: “Write down your advice for a happy marriage.” I wrote down, “Stay single.” And, “Hire a cute gardener.” Which seemed like funny answers until I realized that this advice was going to be read out loud to the crowd. A crowd which included people other than people who think I’m funny. Mine was read right before, “Keep Jesus in your heart.”

Hmmm. Yeah, well, how ‘bout Jesus AND the gardener?

Pictures Are Worth A Thousand Words

So I really have nothing to say today. Not even about TV. Can you believe it? You might want to mark your calendars as the first (and most likely last) day that Dawn has fallen silent.

But I wouldn’t want to leave you blog-free on this Friday. That would be a horrible way to send you into your weekend.

I got a digital camera a while back and I’m not quite sure how exactly I functioned without it for all these years. (The 10 undeveloped disposable cameras sitting on my desk might be a little bit of a clue as to what I did without a digital camera) Anyways, I thought I would share some pictures I’ve taken over the last few months. Some of them are related to previous blogs, some of them are related to how entertained I am by digital cameras.

Here they are in no particular order:

First up is the dog on my parents’ porch. It’s a ceramic dog. It’s holding a welcome sign. It’s dressed up like Uncle Sam. My mother enjoys mail order catalogs as much as I enjoy digital cameras.

A few weeks ago I talked about how I never throw anything out. This is proof. My friend bought me this snack food when he was in New York like two years ago. It is a chocolate covered Twinkie, which makes it the perfect food in my opinion. Apparently you can only get these on the east coast, so he picked some up for me. And because you can only get them on the east coast I was saving this one for just the perfect moment, because I didn’t want to waste it. Two years later…You know how they say that Twinkies last forever? Yeah, well, chocolate covered ones do not. Lessons learned every day.

This is the funniest card I’ve ever seen. And truer words have never been written.

Does this seem wrong to anyone else? Not that fact that I’m taking pictures while I’m driving. Or the fact that I am tailgating (while taking pictures, while driving). But the fact that this Driving School offers ONLINE Driver’s Ed? What, is it like a video game?


Ahhhh, Crunk!!! (with three exclamation points). Never have I been so high as when I drank two Crunk!!!’s in one day. I think I still have my nervous twitch. Now I know what the secret ingredient is though – Horny Goat Weed. Is the goat horney? Or the weed? Oh and I was like a cross between Speedy Gonzalez and Richard Simmons after drinking this thing - there is definitely no weed in it.


This is a bachalorette whose liver is being punished because she decided to get married. That’s a shot of tequila. Being chased by a beer. I titled this piece “Best Idea Ever”. It is part of a series which also includes “Puking Your Brains Out” and “Dawn Will Be Your Designated Driver”.

I bet you were worried about Fido getting hot with his patriot hat on in the summer, huh? Don’t trip, he’s all taken care of and is all ready to have some beach blanket fun. If only he could get off that damn porch.

Why I Love My Mom

My mother has been retired (along with my father) for about a year and a half. Although they are retired my parents are actually quite young. (For retired folk) In the olden days people retired basically because they were too old to continue doing any sort of work. Their employers would let them go home because they didn’t want to be held responsible for the discarding of the body after the employee just keeled over.

But nowadays people are retiring in their 50’s and living until their 90’s. Which leaves a loooooong time to sit around and do nothing. Like 40 years worth of time. Like 14,600 days. That’s a lot of cruises and a lot of trips to the craft store. So when my parents decided to retire I was happy for them, but was a worried that they would get bored.

“PAHTAH!” was the answer I got. “I’ve been working for 30 years! I will not be BORED! I’ll LOVE it!”

And they have. They have taken to it quite well, this life of not having to do anything or be anywhere. They’ve been on like 6 cruises, they’ve driven across the country, my mom has taken up quilting, my dad has taken in a homeless big screen TV, and they’ve both been able to rest after putting in 30 years of hard work.

But then again, they worked for the state…so I think they’re all rested up now. My dad’s worn out his recliner, my mom has covered every inch of wall and furniture space with a quilt and they are spending more time together than is recommended by any practicing psychologist.

But they still won’t admit that they are bored. Because to them the opposite of bored is working 40 hours a week. And they’d rather play 453 consecutive games of Spider Solitaire than go back to working.

But every once in awhile the boredom gets out of control. I am their favorite child (which would be true even if I wasn’t their only child) and therefore am the benefactor of my mother’s boredom. She sews my pants, she picks things up at the store that I mention needing, she runs little errands for me while she’s out. Oh, and she compiles detailed analysis of my cell phone usage.

Huh?

I’ve had the same phone number since I was a wee little child and for some reason I’ve just kept my phone on my mom’s phone bill. She gets the bill and I pay her every month. And every month she is appalled at the bill. “This month it was $195, $15 of that was mine. Honey, this is just stupid. It’s not normal to spend that much money on a phone.”

This coming from a woman who has had a voicemail on her phone for 8 months. Because she has no idea how to get to it. We might have slightly different cell phone habits. But God love her, she wants to help me. So today I get an e-mail:

“I did a comparison chart on your Verizon bills since January. You talk an average of 1732 minutes/month and it costs you an average of $118.80/month. There is a plan on Verizon for 2000 minutes per month for $99.99 and $.25/extra minute. Check it out.”

A “comparison chart”? Seriously.

I am both deeply concerned and deeply touched by her breakdown of my cell phone minutes. I’m concerned because obviously she’s slipped into Danger Boredom Zone and I fear she may soon resort to various chemical equations in order to entertain herself. I am also touched by the fact that, in her time of great boredom, she thought to try to help me out. I can name not one other person on the planet who would say, “Geez, I’m bored, maybe I’ll take this time to see I can figure out any way to make Dawn’s life a little better.” Hell I don't even do that when I' m bored. I just talk on the phone instead.

And that’s why we have moms. Cause who else is going to compile our comparison charts?

Holy Hornets Batman

Why someone has not offered my roommate and I a reality show is absolutely beyond me. Not only do we have the whole Odd Couple thing going on (she’s blond, and I’m cynical) we also have the ability to turn pretty much any situation into a scene straight out of a sitcom. Although we claim to be strong independent women, the fact is we are basically just making this whole life thing up as we go along. The brilliant plans we come up with often lead to a successful conclusion, but not before they make a quick detour into friggin’ hilarious-ville.

The process of putting up our Christmas tree involved a hammer, a screw driver, a broom, a sheet, a grown woman hanging from the edge of a window sill, another broom, and much spilled water. Oh and friggin’ Christmas carols playing in the background. Joy to the World.

So The Roommate comes into my room the other night and says, “We have a situation in the bathroom. There are bees.”
“What?”
“There are bees, in the bathroom. They have built a nest on top of the window sill and it is huge and there are tons of them.”
“You’re totally exaggerating.”
“I’m totally not.”

We go investigate the bees and find that they are in fact forming quite a little bee villa right in our bathroom.

“Holy crap! How long have those been there?”
“I don’t know, awhile.”
“Why didn’t you do anything about it?”
“I don’t like bugs.”
“Well, we have to do something about it. Maybe you can knock it down and we’ll get it out the window.”
“I don’t like bugs. Remember that time when I first moved in and there was that green bug and I told you that if you killed it I’d clean it up? And then you used the broom with your shoe on the end of it to kill it?”
(This, by the way, is a brilliant way to kill bugs without having to get near them. Put your shoe on the handle end of the broom and then extend the broom and kill the bug. It’s kinda like a Go Go Gadget Arm. But a little less high-tech.)
“Yes, I remember that.”
“Well, if you kill the bees, I’ll clean them up.”
“That sounds like the fairest plan ever.”
“I don’t like bugs.”

And I don’t like bugs either. So I called my dad to ask him what I should do.

“You should knock it down and then try to kill them.”
“Riiiiiight. We are coexisting peacefully in my home right now. But I fear the bees are mobilizing and the second I mess with them they will be ready to attack.”
“Be careful, they’ll bite the hell out of ya.”

Thanks dad.

So then I call my friend who owns a pest control business.

“Brian! I have BEES IN MY HOUSE.”
“What do they look like?”
“I don’t know, buzzy, bee things. They are IN MY HOUSE.”
“What does their nest look like?”
“It’s like a cone thing.”
“You have hornets in your house.”
“Brian. I don’t care what I have in my house, I just want them out of my house.”

So he sent one of his bug guys down to kill the evil bees/actually hornets. The bug man sprayed the hell out of the bathroom and then closed the door. He said to leave the door closed for an hour or so and then we’d have to go in and clean them up.

And by “we” I mean “The Roommate”.

“Remember last night when you said that if I killed the bugs that you’d clean them up?”
“Oh no.”
“Well, I had the bugs killed, so I think that counts.”
“Oh no. Are they in there?” (points to the bathroom)
“Yep, I think so, I haven’t been in there.”

She goes into the bathroom timidly. She runs out screaming.

“There is one STILL ALIVE on the blinds!! It’s STILL MOVING!! Totally your job to kill it!!”

So I get the handy dandy broom and have a whack at it. This doesn’t so much kill the hornet as it pisses it off. It starts flying all over the place. Causing two grown women to run as if they are being chased by an axe murderer.

“OH MY GOD!! It’s MAD!”
“It’s not mad. Hornets do not have emotions.”
“It knows that we killed its family and destroyed its home. It’s totally pissed at us!”
“It has the brain is the size of a grain of sand, it does not know that we destroyed its house.”
“It knows it’s been working on something for three months and now it’s gone.”
“It’s probably just sick and dying, cause it’s all drugged. Poor thing.”
“Poor thing?! It’s trying to attack us!”
“It’s a hornet. Not a serial killer.”
“Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know, I think it’s in the shower.”
The Roommate grabs the broom from my hand, “I have to find it, cause I’m going to take a shower in the morning and it’s going to attack me.” She enters the bathroom and pokes around, concentrating hard.
I wait in the hallway, “I am going to take a shower before you.”
“You go to bed an hour before I get up to go to work, how are you going to take a shower before me?”
“I take my showers at night.”
Her face lights up.
“But tonight I think I’ll wait and take it when I wake up in the morning.”
Her face falls, “Bitch.”

She goes back to her search. I enter the room (very quietly, I guess) and pull back the shower curtain, thinking the hornet may be tucked in its folds. The Roommate is unaware that I am in the room and thinks that the giant mutant hornet has just pulled back the shower curtain on its way to seek its revenge on her. She screams and runs. Then I in turn scream and run, because I think that something horrible must be happening in order for her to be screaming and running. We both end up in our respective rooms, frantically brushing invisible things off of ourselves.

“What did you see?”
“I didn’t know you were in there, and the curtain freaked me out.”

We both stare at the bathroom as if it holds our destiny of a tragic demise. We stare for quite some time, while sitting within the safe borders of each of our rooms. We eventually muster up the courage (and an extra broom) to enter the room once again. We search forever, all over the bathroom, and find nothing. I think that it finally just died from the poison. But The Roommate does not.

“No, it’s totally still alive. And it’s planning. And one day it’s going to attack us in here.”

Until then I’ll be showering with the broom. Which is fine, because it comes in handy for those hard to reach places.

Karma

There are some things in life that you can change. Like your hair. Or your job. Or the size of your breasts. But there are other things you can’t change. Like your family. Or your talents (or lack thereof). Or the size of, well, other things.

And karma falls into the “can’t be changed” category. Everyone has some sort of karma that haunts them throughout their life. I’m not talking about “eye for an eye” type of karma. You know, like when you tell a lie and then a boulder drops on your head. No, I’m talking about the kind of karma that allows some people to always find a good parking space when they go anywhere. Or in other people the karma is reversed and they couldn’t find a parking spot at a baseball stadium in January (off-season).

I have two major karma issues in my life. The first is bad line karma. If you ever see me in a line anywhere at anytime, stay as far away from that line as possible. It will not be moving anytime soon. Have you ever seen the Truman Show? Where Truman is trying to leave his town and everywhere he goes all of a sudden, from out of nowhere, there are hundreds of cars blocking his path? Well, that’s what I feel like in lines. I get into a grocery line that seems simple enough: two people in front of me with a couple items each. Then all of a sudden The Line Karma kicks in and family members are bringing extra carts full of food, the cash register jams the receipt tape, the credit card machine breaks, “we need a price check on one doughnut.”, or, and this is my favorite – the checkout person decides to go on break right before my turn. “I’m sure one of the other cashiers can help you.”

And we won’t even go into what happens when I get into a line at a toll booth. Cars just losing their will to move once I enter the line.

My second karma issue is tires. Well not so much the tires as the flattening of tires. Sometimes I think I was a shady tire salesman in a previous life, and therefore I am being made to pay my debt through sacrificed tires in this life. I honestly must have had close to 15 flat tires in my life. And I’ve only been driving for like 11 years. It’s insane. I’ve had them when I’ve returned to my car after work. I’ve had them while driving 75 miles an hour in the fast lane in L.A. I’ve had two in one day. I’ve had them and then driven on them full speed for a good 5 miles or so. (I’ve also had some bad rim karma as well.)

This weekend I was struck again. Because that’s what I do, I get flat tires. Some people bake, some people garden, some people play an instrument. I get flat tires. It’s the one thing I really excel at.

So I’m driving home on the freeway from (another friggin’) wedding and I feel and hear a loud BANG under my car. I assume it is a flat tire, but it didn’t really feel like one. It felt like more of an explosion. So what do I do? I turn the radio down and listen, as I keep driving on the freeway. I don’t hear anything, so I keep driving. Maybe I just ran over a box or something. Or a bomb. Who knows. But then the car starts making a weird brrrbbrrmmmrrrmmmmmmrrrmrmmm sound. I see a car next to me and so hope that it is that car making the sound. But that car accelerates past me and the sound remains. Crap.

At this point it is midnight, I’m on the freeway, and I just passed an exit. Great. I’m not pulling over on the freeway. That is how horror movies start. So I’ll keep driving. And driving. And driving. The brrrbbrrmmmrrrmmmmmmrrrmrmmm gets louder and louder and I move my hands to ten and two on the steering wheel to keep the car from blowing up. FINALLY I get to an exit. And of course it is the one freeway exit in America without a gas station right when you get off the freeway. But you know what it does have? A bridge. Which is extremely helpful when you are looking for a shoulder to pull over onto.

As I’m driving on the bridge I look in my side mirror and see that there is now quite a bit of smoke coming from the back of my car. And the noise has now turned into a THUMPRRRTHUMPRRRRTHUMPRRR, with the car bouncing violently with each RRR. Awesome. I see a gas station up ahead, but now the car feels like it has hydraulics out of some sort of rap video. The back of my car is bouncing so high, even Snoop Dogg would be proud. Fo’ shizzle.

So I pull over as soon as I get off the bridge. I’m not sure that this is safe, but I am sure that the combination of bouncing and smoke coming from my car is probably a sign that it might be time to stop. I call my good friends at AAA and tell them where I am. They say, “Are you in a safe place?” I say, “Well as safe as the side of the road at midnight can really be, I guess.” She says, “Someone should be out there within 40 minutes.” She either didn’t get my sarcasm or just didn’t care.

After I hang up the phone I look in my side mirror just in time to see a semi come about one foot from ramming my car up the block to that gas station. (Which would have been nice, cause then I could have gotten some Slim Jims while I waited.) Having seen the large truck brush by me I decided that maybe it would be safer to wait outside of the car. So I climb out the passenger’s side door, grab my purse and go to the sidewalk. I grabbed my purse because I was hoping to bargain with my inevitable attackers by offering them the option of mugging me instead of killing and/or assaulting me. I had like $40 on me, I thought that was a fair trade.

Because I had just come from a wedding I was wearing a dress and REALLY uncomfortable shoes. I couldn’t stand anymore in the shoes so I sat down on a cement half-wall thingy. And then the sprinklers came on. I didn’t care. My feet hurt way too bad to care about how wet my back was getting.

When the AAA guy showed up I started taking some pictures. Because I was bored and had a digital camera. And I wanted the scary tire man to know that I had digital pictures that could be turned into the cops should he decline my $40 and decide to kill and/or assault me.

Everything on this picture looks fine until you notice the white painted line on the road. And you notice that you can see it long after you should be able to see it if there was actually a functioning tire attached to the car.




Yeah, that cone ought to slow the semi down quite a bit.

This is the best angle. When the Tire Guy took the tire off and threw it to the ground (it was still hot from its previous burning) I said, “Do you think they can patch that up?” He said, “Uh, no, not at all.” (You’d think after all the time we spend together that the people at AAA would start to understand my sarcasm.)

I love that this tire is now on the back of my car where my spare tire is supposed to go. How funny must this look to the other drivers? But it probably looks most funny to the Tire Gods who are probably like, “How STUPID is that girl? Driving around with no spare? We lit her last tire on FIRE and she is still tempting us?”

Bring it on Tire Gods. I’m waiting for you over in the Express Lane at the supermarket. I should be there for awhile.

Pine Sol

The Roommate and I decided to hire a housekeeper. Because we do not enjoy doing housework. I enjoy it so little I haven’t done it once in the three years that I’ve lived here. Honestly, except for the time I lived with a girl who was going to give birth IN our home I don’t think I’ve ever participated in house cleaning. (I was so frightened by the concept of someone giving birth in my home that in order to calm my nerves I convinced myself that a CLEAN house would make the whole “birth without any doctors or machines” thing perfectly safe. Who needs trained medical professionals when your windows are spot-free?)

So anyways, my homes have always stayed relatively clean because I’ve always had roommates who enjoyed cleaning. Well, they probably didn’t “enjoy cleaning” so much as they “didn’t enjoy a dirty house”. But either way, they seemed to clean every once in awhile. And so I didn’t worry about it.

It’s not like I’m a slob though. I clean up after myself and make sure that there is never any clutter around the house. But apparently a clean house involves more than just putting everything in its place. There’s like stuff you’re supposed to scrub and vacuum and shine. Who has the energy for all that? Not me. And apparently not The Roommate either.

She hasn’t always been this way though. When she first moved in I noticed she brought an industrial-size container of Pine Sol with her. I kid you friggin’ not, this thing was huge. I can never in my life imagine ever needing that much Pine Sol. Ever. But then again, I’ve cleaned once in 10 years, so cleaning products aren’t really on my shopping list. But still.

Upon further inspection of the Pine Sol I noticed that the huge container was over half empty. Which means she really enjoyed using Pine Sol. And every once in awhile I’d come home and be hit with a wave of Pine Sol after The Roommate had doused the entire house in it.

But apparently she has now lost the energy to throw Pine Sol haphazardly on various portions of the house. So we had to hire a housekeeper. I know you are thinking, “Just get off your lazy butt and clean your house.” And I’m thinking, “Seriously, what are the odds that’s gonna happen?”

So the housekeeper gave us a list of stuff she needed us to buy. You know, soapy-shiney-cleany things. And I thought The Roommate was actually going to weep when Pine Sol was not on the list. “She didn’t even mention Pine Sol.” She seemed to take it as an insult to her cleaning abilities that a professional did not use her cleaner of choice.

So on the housekeeper’s first day I came downstairs and saw all of the various products that had been purchased and right out in front sat the mighty container o’ Pine Sol. As if it were merely making an innocent suggestion.

I decided to take a picture:

I put my Mountain Dew can next to the Pine Sol so that you would be able to see how big the Pine Sol was in comparison. But then I realized that I'd just taken a picture that perfectly symbolizes my roommate and I. She’s Pine Sol and I’m Mountain Dew. Each of us sees absolutely no problem buying our respective products in bulk sizes. Hers probably doesn’t go quite as well with her morning bagel as mine does though…