Costumes

Ah, the holidays. Not the silly ones that involve family and church and presents. But the ones that involve dressing up in a ridiculous fashion and drinking your weight in hard alcohol. Ain’t tradition great? Who needs religious holidays when you can instead celebrate the human need to gather together while wearing silly hats?

This weekend I went to a Halloween party and this picture was taken of me:

I’m sorry that it is blurry. My digital camera does not like any movement from the either the person taking the picture or the person in the picture. Given the fact that this picture was taken at 4 a.m. the odds of either one of us being able to stand in a steady fashion were very slim. So we’ll have to make do with what a digital camera and two intoxicated people can do.

The party started out normally, with everyone in their costumes and what not. But as the night wore on the costumes lost their allure (and their comfortableness) and slowly started being discarded by their wear-ers. But do not fear, the discarded paraphernalia quickly found a home on other party-goers until the whole party looked like we had collaborated to collectively dress as an Acid Trip.

Hence my costume at the end of the evening. Let’s break it down, shall we?

1) This is a Witch’s hat. Or possibly some sort of Fortune Girl thing. I’m not sure.

2) This came from the Slutty Cop. We don’t really know why she had this, unless she was planning on engaging in some morally reprehensible interrogation tactics. I was able to confiscate this item from her during the time in the evening that she was handcuffed. Turns out alcohol plus handcuffs will often result in the hilarious handcuffing of several people. And it will also result in tremendously complicated de-handcuffing efforts which would rival the concentration efforts needed by a team of brain surgeons. If brain surgeons wore mini-skirts. And kept losing their handcuff key.

3) This is where we get a little indecent. These items are part of a very tasteful Wet T-Shirt Contest Contestant. The costume also included a see-through white shirt as well as a man dressed in a skirt and a wig. Apparently his understated outfit went over well with the judges, as the blue sash declares him the winner of the contest.

4) This is my actual costume. It’s half devil/half angel. There are wings, which I gave to the Cowboy, and a half halo/half horn head thing. I do not think it was merely a coincidence that my halo was broken before I even put it on my head. I also do not think it was at all appropriate for the Gynecologist to ask me if the red side of my dress was going to come off before the end of the party.

5,6,7) I have no idea who I stole this from, there are quite a few possibilities. We had the Pregnant Nun (who tragically lost his child around 1 a.m. due to an unfortunate leaking issue); the Pervert Priest who came complete with a fishing pole with Jolly Ranchers on the end (used to bait in small children (and also quite effective at pulling large platters of food off tables when misdirected)); Another Pervert Priest who, thanks to a strategically placed inflatable balloon thing was uh, “excited” quite a bit; and then there was the Catholic School Girl who I thought was Britney Spears circa Hit Me Baby One More Time. But turns out I was wrong, she was just a Catholic School girl.

Another girl actually was Britney, circa My Hubby Doesn’t Have A Dime. She too lost her baby by the end of the night. It was not a good evening for fetuses. The most tragic of the baby fatalities had to be when Katie Holmes lost her baby when the crazy Scientologists snatched it from her womb and put it in the Coors Light box in the corner. (To which someone yelled, “Nobody puts baby in the corner!”) This baby abduction left Katie scarred and frightened. But most of all it left her looking like a girl whose entire costume consisted of a homemade button that said "I Heart Tom".

So then, that’s my costume in a nutshell. A rather large nut, actually. I’m taking the ten-year old cousin trick o’ treating and promised her I’d dress up with her. How do you think Child Protective Services would feel about me wearing this costume while I wander the streets? The good news is my breasts double quite nicely as pillows, so if I get arrested at least I’ll be able to nap while in the slammer.

Just Say No

I just went surfing the internet for a story to tell you about, something you really need to know. And what did I find? “Kate Moss Out of Rehab”. Because apparently this is newsworthy. Well, her checking out of rehab isn’t what was newsworthy, it was what led her to the rehab that sparked the interest of people. And by “people” I mean “complete morons who need to remove their heads from their asses”. Kate Moss is a model. Someone released a picture of Kate Moss snorting a line of cocaine. And havoc ensued. People (morons) were in an uproar because the woman was doing drugs. Am I missing something? Someone please explain it to me, would you? This woman’s job is to stand while people take her picture. Occasionally she has to alter between a happy face and a sexy face, but other than that she has no real job requirements besides merely being alive. Honestly, who cares if she is snorting anthrax, as long as she is at least able to be propped up long enough to snap a photo. I mean really.

Am I the only person who thinks it’s more than a bit bizarre that people seem to be really shocked that a model is snorting cocaine? The woman weighs 35 pounds, she had to have some help on that diet. And I hate to be the one to break it to Suburban America but people do drugs in this country. LOTS of them. Probably even more than they would do if they were actually legal. That whole “War on Drugs” thing? Basically just made up so that some cool TV shows and movies could be made about it. Drugs are everywhere. And not just on the corners of shady neighborhoods and up the noses of anorexic models either. Within about 2 hours I could probably have pretty much any drug I could ever want. And I don’t even do drugs, which I know you don’t believe, because I too only weight 35 pounds.

But my point, and I really have quite a few, is 1) Models do drugs 2) Get over it 3) Just Say No 4) But if you feel like saying yes, I might be able to point you in the right direction.

Twinkie, Part Two

It’s 1:45 a.m., I’ve been working since the last time it was a.m. hours and I am still not done. So I don’t have time to blog. But I do have time to eat Twinkies. And I have time to share with you an e-mail I received today in response to my Twinkie blog:

“ This weekend I was at Bed, Bath and Beyond, returning items from our registry and purchasing those we didn’t receive, not that this information is really crucial to why I’m emailing, but you do need to know where I was shopping. So, I’m walking down the aisle and what do I see…..you got it…..a homemade Twinkie machine. Can you believe it? No longer do you have to spend the ridiculous time in the grocery store waiting in lines to only come home with a case of hostess Twinkies, but you could instead make them from the comfort of your own home. Now I must confess I didn’t spend any time researching the whole item, only because two other customers were wooing over it and at some point I thought they may have been your relatives wanting to purchase yet another quirky gift for you, and I didn’t want to be gone too long as I had a severely hung-over husband at home whom I told I was simply running to the store to get him Gatorade and greasy Jimboy’s tacos. So here’s what I’m going to do for you, my dear friend Dawn…the next time I’m shopping, I’ll do more research on this unbelievable item and if it’s as good as the two women who were gawking over it seem to have made it, you may have this item mysteriously appear under your Christmas tree in December. It would be a perfect addition to your collection of tuna helper, mountain dew and bags o salad. What a combo?

Good luck with your Malaria. ”

Then when one of my 85 jobs today took me to the workplace of this dear friend she handed me this picture:

How much fun is this? So much fun. Here is the description of the product:

Hostess Twinkies® Brand Bake Set
Now you can make your favorite treat at home with this fun Twinkies® baking kit. Easily bake up some fun with this complete kit that creates Twinkie shaped mini cakes. Go traditional or stir things up by creating your own original cake and filling combination. Set includes hi-temp spatula, non-stick baking pan for eight Twinkies, ICING INJECTOR, Twinkies container and a bonus recipe booklet. Baking pan is dishwasher safe. Not suitable for children under the age of 6.

I wonder if there is any way to just purchase the icing injector. I imagine I would be just fine with only that part of the package. Cause the rest of it sounds like I might have to bake or at the very least turn something up to a “hi-temp”, and that doesn’t sound like fun. That sounds like cooking. And the whole point of the Twinkie is that I don’t cook, I just eat Twinkies. If I were to take up cooking one would hope it would be in an attempt to create something that didn’t involve an icing injector. But then again, if one knew me at all they probably wouldn’t have any hopes when it comes to my cooking.

On a side, but extremely startling note: when I was searching the internet for the above picture I came across an alarming headline:

“Future iffy for Twinkie maker”

HOLY CRAP! Apparently the Twinkie guys filed bankruptcy cause they have too many union people working for them (if I could somehow become part of the Icing Injector’s Union I would quite possibly just keel over and die, for my life would have reached its pinnacle). Also the Twinkie guys have “been hurt by the popularity of diet plans like Atkins and South Beach, which have recently cut into its sales of white bread and snack cakes.” Yeah. Cause up until Atkins everyone thought mass Twinkie consumption was a great idea. Uh huh.

So now that I see that the future of my snack cakes is in jeopardy I know that I must go down to Bed, Bath and Beyond and pick up the Twinkie Maker tomorrow. (I’m thinking the Twinkie Maker must fall in the “Beyond” category, and I’m thinking they might be a little too all-inclusive in the “Beyond” category when “Icing Injector” and a Twinkie dressed as a cowboy are included)

With any luck the purchase will not only insure that I am never without a Twinkie, it will also help me practice for the inevitable testing process that will occur when I apply to be part of the Icing Injector’s Union.

Health Food

Sometimes the world is a bad place. Sometimes there are wars and famines and floods. Sometimes, before you go on a “vacation” you have to choose between getting deathly ill from a malaria pill or risking just catching the malaria. Sometimes you have to work on a political campaign in which plotting and getting away with the murder of every single person working on the campaign seems like it would take far less effort than getting every single one of those people to agree on anything.

But sometimes the world is a pretty great place too. Because sometimes you write a blog about how all you ever buy at the grocery store are Bags of Salad, Mountain Dew and Twinkies. And then sometimes, because of the world being beautiful and pure and equipped with its very own mail delivery service, you receive a care package in which someone decides to cross one item off your grocery list:

Twinkies make all the rest of the crap seem almost bearable. Probably because I am on a sugar high after eating 3 of them.

Can I tell you how much I love Twinkies? So very much. They are all spongy and golden and creamy. And they can apparently (according to the box) look smashing in cowboy boots. Cause nothing says good ol’ country livin’ like a Twinkie…

As I eat my next Twinkie I am reminded of a time in elementary school in which some health expert/food guy came to our classroom and asked us all about the food we eat. He had us take our lunches out and describe how many food groups we had represented in our midday meal. I said I had all four. He said he only spotted three. I said he was wrong. I pointed to my turkey sandwich, there’s the bread and meat. I pointed to my apple, there’s the fruit. I pointed to my Twinkie, there’s the dairy. And I was being serious (my sarcasm towards complete strangers didn’t kick in for a few more years). This health expert/food guy was quite appalled that I thought “creamy filling” constituted a significant contribution to my daily milk requirement. So appalled that he quoted me in the article he was writing for the newspaper. And that, my dear readers, was the first and last newsworthy thing I have ever said in my life.

Although, since I haven’t been to the grocery store in a month I may attract the local media with my attempt to survive on only Twinkies and Mountain Dew for the next two weeks. At four Twinkies a day I’m definitely going to need another care package to help keep me nourished.

Morons

I don’t have anything to say today that is of any interest. Oh wait, I do have one thing. I recently met a man named Barth. As in B A R T H. As in why would anyone ever go by that name? Ever? I’m assuming that his name is Bartholomew, which in itself is horrible and scarring. But why on earth, with like 12 letters to play with would you shorten your name down to Barth? I know that not everyone can have a name as beautiful and poetic as Dawn, but come on, do you have to go with a name in which you are never sure if people are saying your name or referring to the act of humans regurgitating already eaten food? Really. Barth.

And speaking of morons, I have been warned that not only is my “vacation” location (Honduras) a malaria-ridden, no monkey-petting country, but it has also been finding itself along the path of some hurricanes lately. Man do I know how to pick a vacation destination. Major risk of life-threatening illness – check. No drinkable water – check. Possible ride inside a hurricane as it flies overhead, picking up you and the shelter you are building – check, check.

Does it say anything about my current work situation that I am still looking forward to going? Let’s just say Mother Nature ain’t got nothin’ on a group of political people 15 days before an election. And she sure doesn’t have nearly as much hot air blowing around.

Fun with Disabilities

It turns out that some of the people in my family are quite concerned about my ability to awake from my slumber. Because of my hearing impairment it is impossible for me to hear an alarm clock in the morning. And in the 10 odd years that I have had to wake myself, without the assistance of a parent, I have significantly overslept only one time. And to be honest, that one time I didn’t really want to get up for my appointment anyways, so my subconscious didn’t bother waking me up.

But that one time was enough to send my mother into a panic, “How are you going to wake up in time for your early flight in a couple of weeks?”

I stared at her blankly, “Because I have never caught an early flight in my life? I’ve never woken up for anything early? Do you think I was just getting lucky all those other times?”

Apparently she did. Because the next time I spoke to her she said she had bought me a “present”. It was so exciting she said that she wasn’t going to tell me what it was, I’d have to get it the next time I came over. The big present for this 20-something/happenin’ bachelorette?


A vibrating alarm clock for hearing impaired people. I am so lame I don’t even know how I can possibly go on. You wanna know the saddest part of this story? The picture above isn’t the one my mom bought me. Before I could get to my mom’s house I went over to my aunt’s house where my cousin said, “You have a present!” Then she handed me the vibrating alarm clock.

It isn’t everyday that you receive such a wonderful gift. Unless you are me. Then it’s pretty much every day.

Two Costumes

Have you taken a kid to get a costume lately? Have you as a result realized that Halloween is no longer a holiday in which kids get dressed up in adorable outfits and go trick o’ treating? Did you know that Halloween is now about adults trying to win the “Sluttiest Costume” award at their Halloween party? Seriously. No more cute Annie costumes. Annie’s a slut now. You know how red-heads are.

I took my cousin to get a Halloween costume tonight. She wanted to be a devil. This seemed like it would be an easy enough request. But no. Unless I wanted to introduce the ten year old to street walking (and I ain’t talking door to door) my options were quite limited. They did have quite a variety of devil costumes though; the slutty devil in a skin-tight, full-body plastic number, the slutty devil in a mini skirt, the slutty devil in a ripped dress and of course the slutty half devil/half angel, for the religious folk.

Unable to find a merely mischievous devil and uninterested in any other costume we began piecing together something “devil-y”. As we wandered the aisles she said, “Think red, think red.” Instead I thought to venture over to the more interesting costumes. And there I found my New Favorite Costume:


Thinking I had ditched the kid, I took my camera out and took a picture. As the camera flashed I heard her read, “Blow me.” And then look at me for an explanation on why I thought it was funny. I looked at her, “Tissues. You know, boogers. Funny.” She rolled her eyes, “You’re weird.” I pointed her back towards the devil costumes, “Maybe the slutty devil wouldn’t be so slutty on a short kid, that dress might actually be normal size on you.”

Best role model ever.


Previously I told you about the ceramic goose that had been abducted from my aunt’s porch. Although the goose is no longer, the dream of dressing small things in ridiculous clothes still lives on in the heart of my family. How convenient that the goose’s clothes fit the dog perfectly. Unfortunately the goose didn’t have a devil costume either (slutty or otherwise), so the dog is going trick or treating in another festive outfit.


Happy Easter everyone.

Two Instances in Which I Am Mistaken For Someone Who Cares

First Instance:
I was at a pub the other night with two friends. (engaging in my kind of Happy Hour: French Fries and a Coke, I do know how to tear it up on a Friday night) The two friends get up to go get some more of their kind of Happy Hour: Alcohol, while I man the table. As I sit there, running my finger along the empty french fry plate and then licking my finger, minding my own Happy Hour business, up walks a man that I worked with a few years ago.

I didn’t immediately recognize him, as it’s been a few years and the time we worked together didn’t affect me in any significant way. But it didn’t take long for me to realize who he was. Mostly because he came up, stuck out his hand and said, “Dawn, I used to work with you, do you remember me? I’m Jim Dandy (name changed to protect someone I’m gonna be kinda mean to in a second).”

I looked at him and after a moment I remembered who he was. In that moment he started to look to the ground, to the sky, to the other people in the bar, to his hands – any place but at me. And then he stammered quite a bit and let out a sigh as well as quite a bit of flop sweat.

“Yes, I do remember you Jim. Been a long time. How are you doing?” Jim had worked in the same department as I for about three months about three years ago. He never really struck me as the confident type, and always made me quite nervous just because he was so nervous all the time. Apparently his nervousness wasn’t unfounded, because he was fired rather quickly from our department.

A termination that seems to have impacted him quite a bit, “Well, I, I just, you know, wanted to come over here, and well, see, the thing, I wanted, just for the sake of, you know, and closure. You know.”
“Closure.”
“Yes, closure. I just wanted to tell you, say that I am, you know, I’m doing okay. Quite well, actually. Very very well.”
“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Cause I was, you know, things, sometimes things don’t work out, and I just wanted you to know that I got a job, a great job, a really great job, and everything worked out. Even though I was let go, you know.”
“Well, that’s fantastic, things always work out as they’re supposed to.”
“I’ve gotten several promotions.”
“Outstanding.”
“I don’t know why, you know, why it didn’t work out, the Boss just didn’t, we had different personalities, and it was just, whew, it was what it was and now I’m GREAT!”
“It seems like you’ve really moved on.”

Excuse me, but why is this man approaching me and my french fry plate to tell me that he has a job? This man and I, we didn’t share any long talks during his time in my department. We didn’t become fast friends. In fact the only real thing that I remember about this man is that he was sitting at my table during the company Christmas Party and he was so nervous about the whole “interacting with human-beings” thing that he didn’t drink any wine. That, therefore, left more wine with which I could drink myself into a stupor. Which led me to puking my brains out before the sun even set. And looking back on it, if he wasn’t so nervous he would have drank some of that wine and saved me from having to puke out my lower intestine while watching Oprah. What a jerk.

Second Instance:
You know those letters people send every Christmas updating you on their family and all the wonderful things all their lovely off-spring are doing? You know how annoying those things are? Now imagine if you had to endure them not only at Christmas, but EVERY month. Ah, the wonders of e-mail. It costs people no money at all to send a bulk e-mail to everyone they know describing every detail of their life.

Seriously. Who honestly thinks that anyone gives a flying fark what they are doing? You know how you know if I give a flying fark? I’ll call ya, maybe I’ll drop you a line saying something like, “How are you doing?” And even then, let’s be honest, I’m not really expecting a detailed answer. I’m expecting a “Fine, and you?” and then I’m prepared to give a, “Great.” and then we can immediately commence any sort of gossip we may have heard about other people. This is how people communicate. Please, let’s stop the abundance of personal information flowing through the internet. And if we aren’t going to stop it, let’s at least make an attempt to hide how many people you are sending this “very special” update to. Somehow the very special personal information doesn’t seem special or personal when it is sent to 50 people.

So then.

I received an e-mail from a friend yesterday. And update on her life. Because, at some point I think I made the mistake of asking, “How are you doing?” and that got me added onto the “Gives a Fark” list of people to get monthly updates.

So you think I’m blowing this out of proportion, that perhaps I’m just a cynic who has no appreciation for good old fashioned correspondence. Yeah. This girl wrote 15,500 words in her “little update”. I’m serious. There were headings. There were subheadings. There were footnote-y things in which she gave definitions of some of the things she was talking about.

15,500 words.


Someone invite Jim Dandy over for a dinner party. I’m gonna need some wine to get through the whole thing.



**And yes, I understand the irony of writing a long ass blog on the internet about people assuming that anyone gives a fark about what they have to say in their long ass letters that they send via the internet. I don’t think that the fact that I’m no better than the people I’m bitching about should negate my right to continue my bitching. This is America. If I can’t shoot bombs from my glass house then the terrorists have won.**

Purple Country

I went to get my shots today for my “vacation” to Honduras in a few weeks. I am not able to type much because there are so many holes in my arms right now from various preventative vaccinations.

But I do want to share with you a very helpful piece of literature I was handed by my Personal Travel Expert Lady. This was about 40 minutes into her spiel of all the things that could kill me on my “vacation”.

She hands me this map:

“This map shows the areas where you are at risk for malaria. Where is it you are traveling exactly?”
“Does it really matter? The ENTIRE map is purple. The ENTIRE map is a risk. You might even get malaria by touching it.”
“Well, as you can see, there are some areas, the areas with the white dots, that are safe.”
“How can that be? Are those areas in a biodome or something? Can people with malaria not go in and out of those dots?”
“Well, you don’t catch malaria from a person, you catch it from mosquitoes.”
“And being as though mosquitoes are flying insects there is no way they are going to make their way into those dots?”
“I’ve heard of them coming into the city in people’s pockets, yes, so that is a possibility.”
“Stow-away mosquitoes? I was thinking they may, uh, FLY in.”
“I suppose they could do that too. Here is the name of a good bug spray.”
“I’m going to be outside saving the world for like 8 hours a day.”
“Here is the name of a good bug lotion. It’s time released. You’re gonna want to cover yourself with this. And you can actually wash your clothes in the spray.”
"Great. Can I bathe in it as well?"

This is an actual conversation. And it’s in regards to ONE of the roughly 800 billion pieces of paper that we reviewed which went into GREAT detail about not petting monkeys and how water that is “uncomfortably hot to touch may be safe for drinking”.

It all combined to make just about the worst travel brochure I’ve ever seen. Honestly, if I can’t pet the monkeys what the hell is even the point of going?

Another Month, Another Outfit

It’s October, the month of dressing up. Or if you are the ceramic dog on my mother’s front porch, it’s October, just another month.

This month the dog is getting into the spirit of the holiday with quite a little vampire costume. Complete with fangs and everything. And some sort of toupe? Did Dracula wear a toupe? I’m not sure. But I’m almost certain he wore pants, did he not? Seems as though Fido is taking Dracula into the new millennium, pushing the envelope and what not.

Every time I see Fido I am reminded of another inanimate animal in the family. My aunt used to have a ceramic goose that my cousin would dress up every month (yes, the aunt that is my mom’s sister. lord help me if this need to cloth ceramic animals is hereditary.) When she first got the thing I thought she was insane. Not only because she dressing poultry but because she actually thought that no one was going to steal said poultry.

“You live in a college town, everyone can see your porch from the sidewalk. Do you really think the goose is going to make it through an entire weekend of drunk college kids wandering by?”
“Who would steal a ceramic goose?”
“Uh, the before mentioned drunk college kids. And it’s not JUST a goose. It’s a goose wearing a parka. That is entertaining. Even if you aren’t drunk.”
“But why would they steal it?”
“BECAUSE THEY ARE DRUNK. AND COLLEGE KIDS. Are you not listening? Drunk college kids have the tendency to literally KILL themselves when they are drinking. That’s how bright they are. I once stole a For Sale sign off one yard and put it on another yard in a different neighborhood, making an entirely new house for sale.”
“Because you were drunk?”
“Actually, no, I don’t even think I was drunk. But I was in college. And therefore stupid.”
“Would you have stolen my goose?”
“I probably would have. But I would have given it a great home. In my room next to the Neighborhood Watch sign I stole.”
“What is it with you and signs?”
“Well, the Neighborhood Watch sign was just for the sake of irony. That particular neighborhood wasn’t watching so well, as it turns out.”

Despite my warnings my aunt put the goose on her front porch, all dressed and ready to go. Within a week the goose was gone, another victim of underage drinking.

Thank god my mom doesn’t live near any bars. I don’t think our family could survive another tragic loss of any more porch paraphernalia. Godspeed Mr(s). Goose, godspeed.


Other Fido outfits:
"fall"
summer outfits

Questionable Vacation Choices

I am starting to realize that in less than a month I’m going to be on vacation. When I think about this I start to get a little excited. I can’t remember the last time I went on vacation. A real, leave my house, take a rolling suitcase, stay in a hotel for a period of over three days vacation. As I’m thinking about it, I think my last vacation must have been when I went to Hawaii two years ago. I went there to run a marathon, and stayed for a week after the big event. (A majority of that time was spent looking for my kneecap, which fell off at mile 13)

As I think about that vacation, and I think about my upcoming vacation, I think that maybe I might be unable to take a normal vacation. One that doesn’t involve possible hospital stays.

In a couple of weeks my vacation will take me to the fine country of Honduras where I will build houses for 10 days with Habitat for Humanity. Do you see how I might want to revisit the definition of “vacation”? I doubt “manual labor” is often included when describing “vacation”.

This weekend I realized that I will be leaving soon and thought that perhaps I should do the normal “getting ready to go on a vacation” things. You know, like going and buying some new clothes and stuff. And then I remembered that I’ll probably be trashing every piece of clothing I take. Which cuts down on the desire to buy anything new for the destruction. My mother reminded me of some of the things I can get in preparation for the trip:

“You should find some old shoes, I bet they are going to get muddy.”
“I probably need a hat too.”
“Like a cap? Yes, you should get one to hold your hair back while you work. Oh, oh, you should buy one of those hats that has a brim all the way around, a straw hat. So you don’t get burned on your neck.”
“That ought to be cute.”
“You can borrow my old suitcase if you want, so you don’t mess up your nice one.”
“I don’t think the suitcase is going to be out in the elements. We’ll actually be staying indoors. I think.”
“And don’t forget to get your shots this week. You don’t want to catch monkey pox while you’re there.”
“That would put a damper on things.”

Then I started laughing. Because who on earth goes on VACATION and has to bring only old clothes, a Hepatitis A and B shot, old shoes and a straw hat? All I can think of is a really grungy version of that Carnival Cruise commercial Kathy Lee Gifford did in the 90’s sometime. She’s dancing all around, “If they could see us now, out on a fun ship cruise, eating fancy food and doing what we choose!” I could finish it (because I can’t remember one insy tinsy bit of American History, but I can sing the entire Kathy Lee commercial from a decade ago), but you get the point. She’s advertising these fun vacations and smiling and looking all pampered and relaxed.

The commercial for my vacation would include me in my straw hat, digging a ditch and covered in a full body mosquito net to avoid malaria. “If they could see me now, diggin’ a big fat hole, wearing a ugly hat and feeling sweaty and sore!”

I might even throw in some dancing, to really sell it.

I’m Here to Inform

My boss went to pick up my latest piece of printed beauty the other day and found an ever-so-helpful piece of literature that had been printed and offered up by our Print Guy. For the record, I did not want to go with this Print Guy, because he annoyed me by constantly calling and offering his printing services. And once you annoy me, you move out of my “Make an Effort to Deal With” category and into my “Tell Them I Passed Away When They Call” category. But apparently my boss is a little more patient than I and took over talking to the annoying man once I faked my death to avoid his calls.

Knowing how fond I was of this man she handed me this helpful piece of literature with a grin and, “Our Print Guy wanted you to have this.”


The dude seriously printed these up and is handing them out to his customers.


I’m thinking that is why he has had to resort to repeated calling to try to get new customers. But since this blog is all about informing and educating (see: Yesterday’s Noodle Story) I thought I’d offer you, my dear readers, some tips on finding your way to happiness. Just in case you didn’t realize that your way to happiness was to be found via a print shop in Northern California.


This tip was to be found under the “Be of good appearance” rule. This seems to be encouraging nudity, doesn’t it? As long as you scrub up before you strip down, you’ll be happy. Obviously this is not a guide on the way to happiness for the people around you.


Nude and competent. Are there people who STRIVE to be incompetent and could actually be talked out of their incompetence by the mere suggestion that perhaps they would be happier if they weren't so dumb? I think that incompetence is like craziness. The incompetent don’t know they are incompetent, do they? Which makes them very happy, and the people around them not so happy.


FINALLY, a rule I can get behind. Nothing worse than incompetent companions, wanting to stop every five minutes at the AM/PM, when you are trying to move along on your road to happiness. (although many may argue that the road to happiness runs right through an AM/PM)


What a buzzkill. I think this should read “Don’t GET CAUGHT doing anything illegal”. That’s when the unhappiness tends to set in.


If you do something and wonder if it’s illegal, go to your library and look it up. Just ask the librarian, “Uh, my, uh, friend was wondering where the reference section for “robbing a string of mini-marts” can be found.” Then, once you do your research, run like hell, cause you are now “laid open to an attack by the state”. That doesn’t sound fun at all.


Wow, deep stuff. But it seems like I’ve heard this somewhere before…maybe my last print shop?


Oh, yeah. That’s helpful. This is an actual footnote for the Golden Rule, just in case you blacked out your 5th thru 25th year on earth and needed to be educated.


Sure, this is an easy one for the annoying Print Guy.


I’m officially weirded out now.


Ain’t nobody gonna wanna get undecent with you if your teeth ain’t right. And by the way, let me know how that whole “suggest to others that they preserve their teeth” thing goes.


At all?


Oh, so as long as I murder only complete strangers I’m all good on the happiness front. Whew!


Uh, Crazy Out of Control Metephor Alert!!

Wow. That was helpful, was it not? I can’t wait to see what my Sign Guy will have at his shop to help me lead a better life. I do so hope all my vendors are looking out for my happiness.

And are you wondering who is behind such a riveting piece of literature?

Well, hop on a couch and call me KooKoo for Cocoa Puffs, if it ain’t L. Ron Hubbard himself. Now you see how Katie Holmes got lured in huh? Ya’ll keep your teeth clean and someday you too may get to artificially impregnate a former teen heartthrob. Dream big kids.

Nothing But Noodles

I can’t really think of anything to write about today. And it’s 2 a.m. and I need to go to bed, so I went online, trying to find something to talk about. Because the internet is nothing if not the perfect place to find random-ass things to talk about.

And there, listed as a “Top Story” was this headline: “World's Oldest Noodles Found in China”. It was right below headlines about the Pakistan earthquake and the New Orleans police scandal, and ABOVE a headline about the Supreme Court nominee. And it probably says something about me that I totally ignored any of those other, actually newsworthy pieces of news to investigate this intriguing (and very “top story-y”) tale of ancient pasta.

Turns out some people (aka: people who really need to find a more rewarding hobby than trying to find old noodles) found some really old noodles in an overturned bowl at some archeological site in China. And this is apparently very exciting to someone, somewhere. Because there is nothing else going on in the world to concentrate on, at all. Plenty of time for Phd-educated individuals to be digging for noodles. So then.

This noodle discovery is throwing Italy for a loop because, uh, they are ITALY for God’s sake, they ARE pasta. That would be like someone digging in Russia and finding an ancient mullet on the skeleton of a man embracing his cousin – Arkansas would be PISSED.

Despite Italy’s desire to maintain their noodle superiority the digger people said, "This is the earliest empirical evidence of noodles ever found. Archaeological evidence suggests that even though wheat was present in northwestern China 4,500 to 5,000 years ago, it was not commonly cultivated until much later,"

Seriously people. Are we SERIOUSLY devoting time to this? Who friggin’ CARES about what was going on with wheat 5,000 years ago? I really think our obsession with carbohydrates has gone too far this time.

A picture, courtesy of whatever website I stole it from:

Do you think it’s sad that ancient civilizations are producing more food in the present day than I am? I’m gonna go start digging in my backyard. Maybe I’ll find something from 200 B.C. that I can heat up for lunch tomorrow.

The Kids Are Trying to Get My Blood

Dude. The people at the blood bank are ruthless. They will stop at nothing to get my blood. As apparently it is very special blood. Blood that will most likely save entire tribes of men and women with every drop.

That is how much they want my blood.

That’s got to be it. Why else would the Blood People call me as often as they do asking for my blood? They must call me twice a week saying they “need” my blood. I’m like, yeah, well, I’m pretty sure I “need” it too. So get off my back. Or my veins, as it were.

It turns out I have a rare kind of blood. If people with my kind of blood are given another kind of blood they will explode and die. Or something. However, people without my kind of blood can be given my kind of blood and it won’t harm them. Therefore my kind of blood is in high demand, because it can be used for everyone, without risk of explosion.

So the Blood People have been calling me off and on for awhile, asking for my blood. And it’s not that I have anything against giving my blood, I’m just a little scared. Not of needles or anything like that. It’s just that the last time I gave blood I got severely anemic a day or two later. I was all jacked up. I have no idea if it had anything to do with the giving of blood, but I associated it with the blood-giving and therefore I now associate giving blood with being all jacked up. Which is too bad, because I used to associate it with getting a free doughnut. And I enjoy doughnuts. So I gave a lot of blood.

But the Blood People don’t understand that I don’t enjoy being anemic, they only understand that they need my blood. And they will not rest until they get it. The messages on my phone have escalated from, “Dawn this is Bloodsource, and we were wondering if we could schedule you for a donation.” (nice, not pushy) to “Dawn this is Bloodsource, we really need your blood type this next week and were wondering if we could schedule you for a donation.” (sensing a little bit of guilt being thrown my way) to “Dawn this is Bloodsource, your blood type is needed for pediatric medicine and we are in great need of a donation.” (What the?!) Why do you have to bring the KIDS into it? So what if I’m afraid of being ill for a few days. The kids NEED my blood. Or they are going to die. Geez.

THEN, oh, it gets better, THEN I get a postcard in the mail. I kid you friggin’ not there is a picture of an adorable, but a little peaked, kid right there on the front of the postcard. And it’s asking me for my kind donation to help pediatric medicine. Those bastards. How dare they try to guilt me back with the picture of a sick kid. Have they no shame?

And have they no pictures of a doughnut? That might be enough to lure me back…

Have Seen it All

Tonight I helped my young cousin carve her pumpkin. It was cute and peaceful and a holiday tradition that we’ve shared the past few years. Oh it was quite a moment. I even took a picture:



Looks like normal good times with the kid, right? Reminds you of when you were a kid, carving pumpkins and getting into the spirit of Halloween and what not.

Except when we were kids I just don’t quite remember our pumpkins being made out of styrofoam. Do you?

Yeah. Today marks the day that I have officially seen it all. A styrofoam pumpkin complete with three little carving knives and a light to put inside when you are done carving.

I’m really torn on this one. Part of me thinks that it’s atrocious that Halloween has been so commercialized that we cannot even be bothered to go experience the joy of a pumpkin patch anymore. We as a society have forgotten the small, innocent things that made the holiday great: Carving into a new pumpkin, gutting it with our bare hands and turning it into a piece of artwork for all the neighborhood to see. It was tradition. It was a staple of the holiday. It was American.

But then again, it was also really, really messy. And more often than not my “artwork” quickly became more “abstract” as it was thrown in the street by rebellious teenagers. I suppose the holiday could survive without pumpkin guts strewn on the neighbors’ cars. And speaking of the holiday, I just remembered that Halloween has always been commercialized. Unlike other holidays Halloween doesn’t even try to pretend like it exists for any reason other than to get us to spend money and eat too many sweets. Halloween doesn’t bother with any of those silly “spending time with family” or “go to church” obligations like other holidays. It’s all about “you have to buy these little boxes of Junior Mints” and “put on a wig and drink a lot of alcohol for no real reason beyond the fact that everyone else is doing it”.

Come to think of it I think Halloween would be proud that someone finally thought to cut out the pumpkin patch and put the styrofoam pumpkins right next to the Junior Mints. This will save loads of time in not only purchasing, but also carving and clean-up. Bringing the holiday one step closer to requiring absolutely no effort whatsoever. Now, if only I could get the trick o’ treaters to bring the candy to ME, I’d be all set.

Here is a look inside the mighty pumpkin. Notice the texturing of the walls. Cause if you’re buying a styrofoam pumpkin it had BETTER look real to the naked eye. How disappointed are the neighborhood kids going to be when they throw this pumpkin and it just bounces down the street?

Receipt

Here is a picture of a receipt I received at the store the other night:


The first reason for posting it is to prove that I do in fact only shop for Mountain Dew and Bags o’ Salad. As you can see by this receipt I purchased 6 Bags o’ Salad, one 12 pack of Mountain Dew and well, Twinkies. What can I say. I’ve got a weakness for the Twinkies. And I can’t tell you how cute they looked all perched up there, atop the pile o’ salad. Standing firm in their commitment to clogging my arteries and widening my waistline, despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered by salad paraphernalia.

The other reason for showing you this receipt is to see if anyone else has noticed that our grocery receipts are now being categorized for our post-purchasing wrap up party we all have once we get home. I know whenever I get home from shopping I always like to take a look at my receipt and really examine what it was that I bought. And I know that I used to have to categorize my groceries by hand, back in the day. But no more! Now my groceries are categorized for me! God this is exciting stuff.

Not nearly as exciting as the fact that Hostess Twinkies are actually categorized as “Baked Goods”. Yeah. Guess that means there is no “Lard Ass” category.

Movie-Hopping, With a Really Long Hop

You all know how I love me some movie-hopping. But recently I haven’t been hopping like I’m accustomed to. Ever since I started writing movie reviews and going to see sneak previews of movies I haven’t really been hopping. Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m reformed or anything. That’s crazy talk. It’s just that there aren’t really that many movies out to begin with, and when I get to see two or three during the week there just aren’t many left to hop to on the weekends. And no, I haven’t thought of hopping after my free sneak previews. Well, obviously I’ve thought about it, or else I wouldn’t have even thought to mention it in this very paragraph. But it seems wrong, even for a morality-vacant person such as myself, to movie-hop after I got into a theater for free. Yet I’m fine with paying for one movie (even at matinee prices) and staying to watch 5. Morality is such a blurry little line. And I think it can be found somewhere around the concession stand.

This week I did my new, slightly altered movie-hopping. I saw two movies in two nights. Kinda like hopping. On like the moon or somewhere with no gravity to bring you down quickly.

I saw ‘Elizabethtown’ and ‘In Her Shoes’. One made me think I was high. The other made me think I would look stunning if only I had Cameron Diaz’s ass.

Let’s start with the high one, shall we? ‘Elizabethtown’ is directed by Cameron Crowe. Cameron Crowe directed ‘Almost Famous’, which is one of my favorite movies of all time. So I'm always hope that he’s gonna dazzle me again. But he’s starting to lose his luster. First he broke my spirit with his pointless movie ‘Vanilla Sky’ (which my friend renamed ‘Vanilla Why’) and now comes another sign that excessive exposure to Tom Cruise will make a person crazy. Cruise was in Crowe’s ‘Jerry Maguire’ and ‘Vanilla Why’ and he even produced ‘Elizabethtown’. And while Cruise is all “anti-happy pills” he is clearly not anti-whatever the hell Cameron Crowe has been smoking the past three years.

I don’t really know where to start with ‘Elizabethtown’ other than to tell you that you shouldn’t bother starting it at all. The movie centers around Orlando Bloom, who is returning to his recently deceased father’s hometown to retrieve his father’s body. Or something. Cause he doesn’t actually end up retrieving it, which confuses me. But confusion was sorta a regular state during this movie. The film wants to be ‘Garden State’, with the whole “my parent died, now I will find my true self and a new girlfriend” thing. But it just wasn’t happening.

I heard that this movie screened at the Toronto Film Fest a few weeks ago and was met with horrible reviews. Crowe said that the movie wasn’t done and he still had some editing to do. Apparently he edited out scenes that explained what the hell was going on with his characters, because none of the remaining scenes explained it for me. I looked over to my friend at one point and said, “Am I high, or is the director high? Because I think we both need to be in order for this movie to work at all.”

And now on to Cameron Diaz’s ass. Which is contractually guaranteed to be shown in every movie she makes. Hell, if my ass looked like that I’d get it some screen time too. Cameron’s ass was featured prominently in ‘In Her Shoes’, a new chick flick coming out this weekend. I really liked this movie, because I am one of the chicks for which the flick was made.

The movie was based on the book of the same name and I wasn’t a huge fan of the book when I read it. It was a bit thin for a book, in that it didn’t pack the details and story depth that great books have. But now that I think about it, that makes it a great book to translate to film. Film is nothing if not the art form for lack of details and story depth. The author of the book, Jennifer Weiner, actually wrote a much better novel called ‘Good in Bed’ but that won’t ever be made into a movie, because it didn’t have any scenes that could possibly involve Cameron Diaz’s ass. And I’m actually serious.

Weiner herself is a big woman and all of her books include at least one overweight character. That character in ‘In Her Shoes’ is played by Toni Collette. Who must be tipping those scales at a hefty 150 pounds. Gotta love Hollywood.

‘In Her Shoes’ is about two polar opposite sisters who have a big ol’ spat and separate long enough for them both to find their true selves. Shirley MacLaine plays the sisters’ grandmother and a key figure in that whole “finding themselves” thing. The movie is sweet and sad and laugh out loud funny. And it has a half-naked Cameron Diaz in it quite a bit (that ought to help the fellas who have been drug to the chick flick.)

Although I read the book and knew exactly what was going to happen, I still enjoyed ‘In Her Shoes’. Why do I think that even if I had read ‘Elizabethfrown: The Novel’ I still would not have had any idea what was going on in that movie? Cameron, back slowly away from Tom Cruise and join us all over here in “Movies That Don’t Suck Land”. It’s fun here. Cameron Diaz will be stopping by any second with no pants on.

Closed Captioning

So. I’m trying ever so hard to come up with things to blog about everyday. This is not easy when you are working 8745 jobs. Because, “Man, did that yellow come out BRIGHT on that brochure!” is just not that entertaining (especially considering we printed 18,000 of them). And frankly that yellow is about as colorful as things are getting in the Land O’ Graphic Design that I call my life. Let’s just say I’m not getting out much.

But I am still procrastinating with vigor. Which is why I still have fun things to tell you about TV. Cause the TV is like one foot from my computer and it literally calls out to me, begging to be turned on, so that it can share all its wonder with me. And who am I to ignore my TV? I mean, I am PAYING for cable, and it would be just wasteful to not actually watch it on a regular basis. No one likes waste. (or really BRIGHT yellow on a brochure, by the way)

As I’ve mentioned a million times before, I don’t hear so well. Even though my ears have little microphones in them they still sometimes have trouble deciphering all the noise that is coming into them. So, I keep closed captioning on my TV at all times, and the whole television world is like one big foreign, subtitled film for me. Except without the nudity. Which is a shame.

I use the closed captioning as a crutch basically. Generally, with the help of the little microphones, I can hear what is being said, but it is nice to be able to glance down at the closed captioning just to make sure. But sometimes I think that the people typing the closed captioning don’t really understand that not only completely deaf people are using the captions. Because sometimes they don’t so much write exactly what is being said. Usually it’s not that big of a deal, if it’s off, it’s still pretty close. Sometimes in live TV it’s fun to read the misspellings and misinterpretations that come across the screen, because the person is having to type so quickly to keep up with the live show. Some misinterpretations are so bad that I wonder if the closed captioning typers might actually have slight hearing problems themselves. Which would be poetic. In a way.

Last night I was watching my beloved Gilmore Girls (which should probably be watched with closed captioning by everyone, because they talk so damn fast that it’s nearly impossible for your brain to take it all in without the help of visual aides) and Lorelai is pondering some great mystery while her TV plays in the background. I can hear the person on the TV and they are talking about interest rates or something of the sort. But the closed captioning reads:

“Chuck, you heard what those guys had to say, how do you weigh in?-- The only thing, given what has happened the last two months, that might surprise me is if a spacecraft landed in front of the state capitol in Sacramento, and an alien got out and asked for a driver’s license.”

Huh? That wasn’t even CLOSE to what they were saying. Can the closed captioning people just do that? Make up entirely different words? Isn’t that against some sort of copyright law or something? What if the reporter talking about interest rates on the TV holds hidden meaning and importance in the lives of my Gilmores? It could happen.

And is anyone else freaked out that this show takes place in some made up town on the east coast but the TV person just HAPPENED to be talking about the city where I live? And talking about the state capitol that is mere blocks from my house? And talking about ALIENS! Dude, the aliens should really know better than to try to communicate with me while I’m watching Gg. As soon as I get back to my work I’d be more than happy to chat. In fact, I could really use an abduction right about now.

A Conversation with My Landlord

“Dawn, this is Maaargaret.”
“Hello Margaret, how are you?”
“Well, I am calling to tell you that we are putting your house up for sale.”
“Oh, that’s not good. Will I have to move out?”
“Probably not, whoever buys it will probably want to keep tenants.”
“Why are you putting it up for sale?”
“Well, I’m 80 years old. And nobody likes landlords.”
“Really.”
“And it’s hard finding good tenants, you know.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“I mean, no one has good credit.”
Me, with the worst credit ever says: “I know, we hate people with bad credit.”
“And they don’t have jobs.”
“Yes, people with bad credit very rarely have jobs.”
“And they are alcoholics.”
“Yes, I’m sure bad credit and alcoholism are related.”
“I don’t want alcoholics living in my houses.”
“I understand.”
“But I can’t ask if they are alcoholics.”
“I could see how that might be frowned upon.”
“Or drug addicts.”
“Uh huh.”
“But I can look at their credit.”
“Which helps you figure out the rest.”
“Yes.”
“So when are you selling the house?”
“Well, we haven’t even listed it yet, but I wanted you to know, because we might be having people come by to look at it. Would that be okay? We’d give you advanced warning.”
“Sure that’s fine. Just let me know, so that I can clean up my meth lab before they come over.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just a little poor credit humor.”
“Well, there was one lady who said we could look at her whole house except her bathroom.”
“Well, that’s where the alcoholics store all their liquor, usually.”
“Right, I didn’t know that.”
“Stick with me, I’ll teacha.”

Magnets

My parents just got back from a two week vacation. They are retired so they tend to go on a lot of vacations. They need a holiday from all that not working. It can take a lot out of a person, you know. When they returned from their journey they handed me my traditional gift bag filled with souvenirs from the lands to which they had traveled. Given the fact that I am their only child and they were gone for two whole weeks you’d probably assume that the gift bag would be pretty big, right? Wrong.

Why?

Because I’m a genius.

My parents started testing out this whole traveling thing a few years before they retired. They went on so many cruises they would often get “solid ground sick” instead of “sea sick”. And if you know anything about cruises you know that they stop at a lot of ports. And if you know anything about my parents you know that they felt the need to buy me a gift (or eight) at every port. And if you know anything about me you know that it is nearly impossible for me to throw away any gift I am ever given, for fear that decades down the road the gift will magically hold tremendous sentimental value. And if you know anything about the gifts available at ports you know that I was reeeeeaaaallly reaching to think that I was EVER going to find sentimental value in a fluorescent green tank top with a lizard on it.

So I realized something must be done. Because fluorescent green is just not my color. I tried telling my parents, “Really, it’s okay, you don’t have to bring me anything back.” But that didn’t work, because they realized that I was telling them this because I didn’t really like the stuff they were bringing back. So on their next trip they went out of their way to find me gifts that they thought I would like. And they ended up lugging a 10 pound chess set that had been hand-carved out of stone all the way home from some faraway coastal land. And then I felt bad imagining them having to carry the extra weight just because I had an aversion to tank tops.

And then the genius kicked in. And this is where you might want to take some notes. I decided to start collecting magnets. And by “collecting magnets” I mean, “have others collect them for me”. I notified my parents, and any other traveling friend or family member, that I was collecting magnets. And if they were traveling a magnet would be the BEST gift EVER to purchase for me. Because, you know, I’m a collector and all.

Seriously, this was brilliant. It’s really a win for every side, the traveler and the home-y. The traveler doesn’t have to fret over what to purchase their best friend/daughter/family member/co-worker, they just have to wander their ass into a gift shop at some point in their trip (and yes, airports count) and buy me a magnet. And I, the collector, no longer have to figure out what to do with the random t-shirts and chess sets that my parents accumulate while traveling the open sea.

I’m telling you, everyone should do it. It doesn’t have to be magnets, you can say you are collecting anything really. But magnets are the easiest thing, if only because of their presence in the before-mentioned airports. (There’s nothing better than picking up a friend from the airport after they have traveled to Europe and the only gift they have for you is a magnet that says “Dallas” on it. Better late than never on the souvenir thought, is what I say.)

The only real problem with this plan of mine is that very soon I am going to have to either buy an additional refrigerator and put it in the dining room or I’m going to have to completely remodel my kitchen to accommodate my need for three visible sides of my fridge.

That would be a small price to pay to insure I never again have to look fake-excited about the color fluorescent green.

Some of my parents' travels...

The Search for Sport

Damn you Oprah Winfrey! Damn you and your new video wall that shows inspirational videos played to life-affirming musical accompaniment!

For some reason unknown to me or anyone else I have once again started watching the Oprah Winfrey Show. It’s been well over a decade since I last watched the Chosen One on a regular basis, but somehow I’ve been lured back in. Maybe it’s because it’s her 20th year. Maybe it’s because she has a new set. Maybe it’s because I was hoping that in the past decade she had stopped being the only Black woman on the planet with absolutely no rhythm. (No such luck)

Whatever the reason, I am officially hooked on everyone’s favorite billionaire. What I love most about the Oprah show is the fact that you never have any idea what you are gonna get. I mean, when you tune into Maury Povich you know that you are either going to get abnormally large babies or paternity tests. If you tune into Ellen you know that she’s going to be dancing and trying to make inoffensive jokes. But when you tune into Oprah you can either get Kelly Clarkson talking about snack cakes or a woman who threw herself out of a car after being raped by an escaped criminal. It’s really hard to emotionally prepare yourself for Oprah’s show.

Take for instance one of her shows last week that started with an interview with Melissa Etheridge. I’m like, oh a good old fashioned Celebrity Overcoming Life-Threatening Illness While Learning the Meaning of Life Interview. But noooo that interview was only ten minutes of the show. And there were several other Overcoming/Meaning of Life interviews left to come.

Next up was the story of a guy who had been born without arms or legs below his elbows or knees. And yet this kid had become one of the best wrestlers at his college. Then there was the story of a man who lost his leg in an motorcycle accident years ago but with the help of a prosthetic went on to compete in marathons and triathlons. THEN he was hit by a van and left paralyzed from the chest down. But he did vigorous rehabilitation and was now able to walk a little. And then comes the story of a young man from Africa who had been born with a deformed right leg in a country where parents are encouraged to kill their disabled children. In defiance of his countries views and in honor of his mother’s memory this one-legged man rode his bike hundreds of miles across his country. With only one leg peddling.

And then came the before mentioned inspirational videos and music.

And then I was done.

Because there I sat, well lets be honest, there I lay on my bed watching Oprah, hoping that I could catch my roommate right when she got home and convince her to bring me a soda from downstairs. So that I wouldn’t have to walk down the stairs, and back up again. Yet, here is this kid on Oprah’s show WITHOUT LEGS climbing up and down his stairs with no complaints. While inspirational music plays.

And it’s at that moment that I realized that it is time to get off my butt. Because, I mean really, this is ridiculous. There is really no reason why I’m as lazy as I am. I’m in decent shape (compared to people in bad shape), I’m relatively young (compared to old people) and I’ve got rhythm (compared to Oprah). So why is it that I can’t manage to move myself farther than my refrigerator (only after I’ve exhausted all options of someone else moving to the refrigerator for me)?

These people on Oprah have one leg/no legs/paralysis and they are more physically active than me. Which isn’t saying much for them, but it is saying a lot for me. So it’s time to make a change, be the best version of me, embrace my inner warrior. And all that crap.

It’s time to start moving.

But where do I start moving? Where do I go to get my heart rate above that of a hibernating snail? I know that the obvious answer is the gym. But that is obviously not going to work. I’m not too big on moving just for the sake of moving. And sweating just for the sake of being seen by other people who are sweating. Whenever I have attempted to become part of the gym population I have started with excitement and dedication and promises. And then about ten minutes in to my first jog on the treadmill I’ve lost interest in the whole thing and ended up at the Jamba Juice down the block instead. (Smoothies are good for you!)

What I need is motivation. Yes, yes, my Oprah Winfrey Inspiration Trifecta will give me some initial motivation. But let’s be honest, unless one of those guys is coming after me wielding his prosthetic leg they are probably not going to motivate me into movement for very long. Because there is a Jamba Juice right down the street.

So then, I need to find a sport. Because sports play on the one thing that I like even more than being lazy. And that one thing is winning. Somehow when I am playing sports my need to destroy my competition drowns out my need for breathing, water or any endurance whatsoever. It is that psychotic competitive nature that is my only hope at maintaining any sort of regular exercise. Look, I know it ain’t exactly Zen, but you gotta work with what you got.

Today marks the first day in my “Search for Sport”. (Cue inspirational music and slow motion video) On this search I will find the sport or sports that will lead me to my ultimate physical fitness. Or it will at least lead me up and down my stairs without a mandatory rest on step #10. Or maybe it will lead me to watch Maury instead of Oprah. The only thing Maury ever inspires me to do is get a paternity test.