Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. So it seems like as good a time as any to make fun of him, right? Right.

My dad owns a big screen TV that is bigger than most European countries. It is high definition, bright color, flat screen, enormous, and quite a beautiful thing. And what does he watch on this miracle of visual technology? The Weather Channel. He loves him some Weather Channel. “Look it has our current conditions running across the bottom.” “Dad, our current conditions are right out the window, you have 245 channels, why don’t you watch something other than this?” “I do. Look, there are other weather channels too.” The man has issues. Could someone please explain to me the point of The Weather Channel? I just don’t get it. Unless there is a hurricane coming my way I am okay to get my weather by just walking out my door. It’s always a 100 percent accurate that way too.

Now, I know The Weather Channel has other things on it besides just the current conditions and the lady standing in front of the map with green blotches traveling across the U.S. They have shows and documentaries about the exciting weather that happens and the exciting weather that could happen and all that. But Dad has no interest in those shows, he is map man. Give him a digital rendering of any U.S. state and maybe some animated clouds with rain drops and he is entertained for hours. Nothing says the digital age like a big screen TV broadcasting a map in high-def.

When Dad has had enough of the smiley suns he can often be seen surfing over to another edge-of-your-seat-with-excitement channel - Outdoor Life. On this channel you will find many a man dressed in much camouflage hunched in many a remote locations looking to kill something, anything. This too is riveting TV. I think even the Outdoor Life people realized that their sports are boring because this weekend I witnessed their attempt to jazz up fishing for a television audience.

People. I am sarcastic, I have been known to exaggerate for the sake of amusement. But please know that I am being completely serious in the following description of this show. It is a bass fishing show. In an arena. Oh yeah. These fisherman guys go out and catch some fish and then pick their biggest 6 to weigh together in an attempt to get a higher combined weight than any of the other fisher guys. It seems like a pretty simple concept, right? Fish, pick, weigh. But no. Why just fish, pick and weigh when you can fish, pick, pull your boat into an arena full of screaming fans and then weigh?

These guys literally come into huge stadium (presumably located somewhere in the south) holding fish above their heads as if it were, I don’t know, the Dancing with the Stars trophy, or something. Then these fans go CRAZY as these guys pull their (still alive) fish out of the cooler and weigh them. That’s it. And these fans are going CRAZY. Well, one might argue that paying to watch someone weigh fish might mean that you are no longer GOING crazy so much as you’ve already arrived. But who am I to insult people who are most likely NRA members?

So then, there you have my father’s Sunday line-up of television programing. Yet another thing my dad and I seem to hold different opinions on. The two of us are different in so many ways that sometimes it seems bizarre that we are of the same blood. And then he yells from the other room, “Come quick Annie! The referee just got tackled by a linebacker. He went flying at least 5 feet in the air, you gotta see this!” And then I realize both of our blood loves to laugh. Preferably at someone who is falling down. Very hard. It’s hereditary, what can I do?

And the name Annie? It’s a nickname. That only my father calls me. We are not quite sure where it came from, although the general thought is it might have something to do with my middle name, which is Annette. But, really, I don’t think anyone knows why he calls me that and why I only turn my head when I hear him say it. It’s just one of those things.



The little boy on the left? That would be me. The full head of brown hair on the right? Considerably thinner and greyer as a result of my doings from then to now. Hmmm. Maybe the calming, meditative effect of The Weather Channel actually makes sense after you realize he’s had to deal with me for 28 years… Happy Birthday Dad. May the weather be forecasted correctly and the fish be aplenty and aheavy.

Lack of Rhythm, Lack of Life

It is not natural how much I enjoy “Dancing with the Stars”. It really isn’t. But I’ve accepted my idiocy and just moved on. Do you know that tonight I was literally SCREAMING at the TV when Tall Blond Chick got kicked off before Jerry “Has Anyone Seen My Rhythm” Rice? Screaming. And they are competing for a trophy with a disco ball on it. That’s the big prize. You’d think they were competing for a new lung the way I’m emotionally involved with this show.

Thank the lord in heaven Jerry Rice didn’t win, or I honestly think that the people walking outside my window would have been in danger of my TV falling upon their heads. Can anyone please tell me how on earth this man made it to the final two? Seriously. Somehow I doubt that a lot of Niner fans are watching “Dancing with the Stars”. Not exactly the target demographic for a show that single-handedly keeps the sequins business going. So who else could possibly be voting for this man? I don’t care if he’s cute or if he’s trying really hard. HE CAN’T DANCE. IT’S A DANCING SHOW. What else is there to say?

There is actually quite a lot to say about that particular point though. Why on earth did “Dancing with the Stars” decide to cast two Black guys that can’t dance? Now I know it’s stereotypical to assume that Black guys can dance, but on the whole it seems to be a pretty safe stereotype. Even if they can’t bust out major choreography they usually at least have rhythm. In my experiencing dancing with men I will say that the Black men I’ve danced with tend to be a lot better than other guys. This is not saying a whole hell of a lot, as most other guys think humping your leg is a form of ballroom dancing. But still. Jerry Rice and Master P, the other Black guy on the show, both looked like an arthritic 90 year-old woman out on the dance floor.

Now, Jerry has a little bit of an excuse. He’s a big guy and he’s an athlete. His career has involved running really fast and giving high-fives. But Master P is really a disappointment. He is one of the founders of hip hop/rap music. MUSIC. As in BEAT and RHYTHM. The guy is a music performer and producer. How exactly does one spend that much time in a recording studio and not pick up any sense of rhythm? But he managed to do it. It was literally painful to watch him dance, if you could even call it that. I felt so bad for his partner, the cute little thing who had Joey McIntire as a partner last time. She was probably so pissed they didn’t book Jordan Knight for this season.

I have actual emotions about “Dancing with the Stars”. I was actually angry tonight when Tall Blond Chick was eliminated tonight. This may be indicative of my need for an actual life. It’ll have to wait to after Idol is over though.

***********

And oh my god, on a totally pointless note, when I went on here to post my blog I saw a "Blog of Note" link and it was MC Hammer's Blog (http://mchammer.blogspot.com/). How random is that? Well, actually not that random, cause he'd be great on Dancing with the Stars. The man can dance. And anyone who could pull off those puffy pants like he did could rock the hell out of some sequins.

Boob Overload

Oy.

The Sacramento leg of Stripperpalooza is complete.(Please look for us soon in Portland and Spokane.)

I’m exhausted. Herding strippers is not easy work. Just so you know. The main problem today was that we had 20 girls to shoot compared to the 12 we had yesterday. Yesterday we shot for 13 hours. Please do the math and you will see that herding strippers is not only hard work, it is also long work. The other problem today stemmed from the fact that very few of these girls actually have any interest in showing up before noon (another thing to add to the “Things Dawn Has in Common With Strippers” List (right below boobs that defy gravity and private parts piercings)). So then, the a.m. hours went well and we had everyone moving along quite well. This had quite a bit to do with the fact that only half the girls scheduled for the morning actually showed up in the morning. The rest think that schedules are like clothes, who needs ‘em. Well, it turns out I need them both, cause I’m anal and I get cold easily.

Apparently the strip club managers have little interest in schedules either, “I just got a call from April, Liz, and Mona, they will be in this afternoon.” Smashing. “This afternoon” is a great time frame. Thanks so much, I’ll pencil them right in between “When they were supposed to be here” and “Next Tuesday, when we are finally going to get out of here.”

I had an index card with each girl’s name written on one side and the pictures they had taken on the other side. I kept the cards with me until the girls finished the photos they needed. At one point this evening I had 12 index cards in my hand. We had one photographer. I’ll let you do the math on that one as well.

While shuffling through these cards I walked up to one of the guys helping out on the shoot. I said, “Too many girls.” He looked at me in horror, “Never too many girls, don’t say things like that. Don’t even put thoughts like that out into the universe.” This was the same guy that was guessing every girl’s sign based on their personalities. He guessed my sign and said he thought I was a Virgo, cause they are organized and anal and bossy. I said “No, I’m an Aquarius, I’m creative and funny and smart.” He said, “Uhhhh, no, are you sure you don’t have some Virgo somewhere in your sign?”

This is what happens when I am compared to 32 naked women, I become rigid and bossy and anal in comparison. I didn’t have time to take it too personally though, my psychic friend was soon distracted from our conversation by the naked woman standing next to us asking, “Which one of these outfits looks good?” To which he replied, “Yes.” I bet he didn’t think she was a Virgo.

Stipperpalooza Day 1

It is 9:32 and I am exhausted. I don’t know that I’ve been exhausted at 9:32 in like forever. Even after spending 8 hours digging ditches in Honduras I was less exhausted. Strippers are more work than building a house, as it turns out.

First of all I had to get up at 7 a.m. No bueno. Getting up at 7 a.m.? Not fun. Not being able to fall asleep until my regular bedtime of 4 a.m.? Even less fun. Digging of ditches? Last time I got up at 7 a.m. And that was to go save the world, so I was at least a little inspired. Today I was climbing out of bed to go provide the world with more photography of breastsisists. A little less inspirational. Or so I thought at the time.

You really can’t help but be inspired by women who show up and spend the remainder of their time lounging with no shirt on. The first one who did this took me by surprise, as it was only 8 a.m. and I’d barely woken up and there were two very perky breasts staring back at me (and yes, they do stare, kinda like Mona Lisa’s eyes, they follow you wherever you go (especially if you tip well)). Then as the day wore on I found myself carrying on normal everyday conversations with topless women and not even really noticing that they had no shirt on. Turns out they lose their shock factor after 10 a.m.

I was seriously impressed with these women’s lack of modesty. I have trouble taking my clothes off to take a shower. That’s how much I hate being naked. And these women are just walking around topless as if it’s an every day occurrence (this might have something to do with the fact that it actually IS an every day occurrence for them...).

I met quite a few nice women today (and their breasts). Say what you want about stripping as a profession but damn if these women aren’t making an assload of money and having fun and putting themselves through school and raising kids (and getting disowned (one girl had a “crazy Portuguese father who had steam blowing out his ears” when he found out his daughter was stripping) (I too have a crazy Portuguese father, so I understand the visual)).

Tomorrow I will take on even more strippers and their breastsisists. Some had been hesitant to come to the shoot because of the whole “photos and video for the internet” thing. But once they saw that we were actually taking some classy photos (the word “classy” is very relative) they all wanted to come tomorrow and participate. That means even more boobs tomorrow. Going by my last post and its recommendation for the key to happiness I should be happy for like 20-30 years after this shoot. Hell, if I could just sleep until at least 10 a.m. on Friday I’ll have found all the happiness I need.

FYI

You my loyal readers deserve to be happy. And I’m not one to hold out on you. So here is the answer you’ve been looking for:


I know, I know. I thought happiness would at least cost me a 20 spot. But no. $10 and you are all set. Turn off Oprah, put down the self-help books, stop going to church. Just go get a table dance.

You're welcome.

Tomorrow marks Day 1 of Stripperpalooza. Try to control your excitement please.

Today my preparations for Stripperpalooza took me to a variety of places including a plastic store, a feed store, and a costume store. Things I learned:

1. There are entire stores dedicated solely to plastic.
2. Some of those pieces of plastic can stop bullets.
3. Big ass pieces of plastic are not cheap.
4. You can buy baby chicks individually.
5. Baby chicks are very cute.
6. You probably shouldn’t buy a baby chick if you don’t live on a farm, no matter how cute they are.
7. I have a allergic, rash-like reaction to straw.
8. There are lot of different kinds of hats at costume stores.
9. There are also “adult rooms” at costume stores.
10. There are a lot more man-part-shaped things in the adult section than woman-part-shaped things.
11. Buying a cowboy hat and a feather boa at a costume shop will incite slightly weird glances.
12. My roommate isn’t too smart sometimes:

“Lexxxi with three X’s just called me to schedule her shoot.”
“Lexxxi?”
“With three X’s”
“Is that because she’s X-tra special?”
“Uh, perhaps. It might also be because she is X-rated.”
“Oh dear. I didn’t even think of that.”
“I’m glad someone in this house is still pure.”

My Friggin’ House

I’m happy to report that I have recovered from the illness which debilitated me through the majority of last week. Thank you for your support during that difficult time, it was a bit touch and go there at some moments. But it turns out that there is not much that a gallon of Nyquil and 84 straight hours of sleep can’t cure. Netflix also helps the process. You watch a movie, put it in your mailbox and when you wake up from your medicine coma there is already a new one waiting to watch. It’s a miracle really.

I think I’ve figured out at least part of the reason for my extended illness. My friggin’ house is trying to kill me. Kinda like a horror movie, only instead of slamming doors and sending ghosts my house is just trying to freeze me to death. You know what I am looking for in my next house? Insulation. The rest is just details. If I could please live in a house that is able to maintain temperatures greater than that of the outdoors during the winter I would be ever so happy. I’m a simple girl.

It cannot be normal for a home to be as cold as our home, it really can’t. And it also can’t be normal for both my roommate and I to wear three layers of clothes to bed as well as sleep under four blankets/down comforters and yet still have an electricity bill which hovers around $200 a month in the winter. What the? For $200 a month I should be sitting here naked and not shivering even at all. (I actually might have to start resorting to such exhibitionism to help offset my electricity costs. (Don’t forget I’ve got an in with the stripper businesses in town.))

It all makes really no sense at all. We never have our heater on, because it is completely useless when it comes to warming the house. Yet we are still paying out the wazoo for electricity (and might have to resort to showing our wazoo’s to help pay the bill). One reason for this may be the space heaters that each of us have in our room. I think they might be taking up quite a bit of electricity. Why do I think that? Well, every time we both have our space heaters on and one of us turns on a hair dryer the entire upstairs’ electricity goes out. Then one of us has to hike downstairs, outside and around the house to the circuit breaker thingy. The other one opens an upstairs window and listens for, “I don’t know, I turned a bunch of switches off and on, did that work? Ooops, that was the neighbor’s house, okay now check.”

You know how Old Victorian houses look so cute and quaint and spacious and fun? Well they are. But all those things fall under the “Victorian” part of the title. Falling under the “Old” part you will find leaks and questionable basements and high bills and oh my god I can’t feel my nose.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

No Me Gusta Enfermo

I have nothing to talk about today, because I have done nothing today besides try not to die. Apparently I was successful in this attempt. Again, I’m a very high goal-setter.

I do not enjoy being sick. It is not fun. Not even the sleeping part. Usually I am a huge fan of the sleeping, but somehow like everything else in life, once I am actually FORCED to sleep I do not really WANT to sleep. Yet today included rotating between my computer and my bed. And in both places I was pretty much asleep. I tried to do work during my more lucid states, but I’m sure I will wake up from my Nyquil haze and realize that the stuff I did today was more “abstract” and less “corporate”. It could be the beginning of a whole new era for me. All the great artists have some sort of chemical dependency, right? Mine will just be decongestant.

I have to go back to sleep now, as it’s been a whole two hours since I’ve napped and I must stay on schedule. I’ll go take some more Nyquil and pop a coughdrop so I don’t have another coughing fit like the one earlier that nearly brought my lungs outside my body.

Oh, fun sidenote on coughdrops When I was in Honduras I caught a cold similar to the one I have now (sidenote to the sidenote: Manual labor plus head colds equal no bueno) and I needed some cough drops so that I could continue to do little things like breathe and swallow through my throat. But no one in the group had brought any coughdrops on the trip. Had I had some sort of digestive problem I would have had a whole spread of medications at my disposal, as everyone had anticipated stomach problems and had brought every intestine medication known to man. No one had thought we might catch a cold though, great planners we were.

While out at the work site I asked our bus driver if he could take me into town to get some coughdrops, cause my throat was on fire. His English was okay, but he wasn’t quite understanding what I meant by coughdrops. He took me to the store and went to the candy aisle. I said no, I needed medicine for my throat, coughdrops weren’t candy. I was frustrated but also a little horrified that this man thought that I had him drive me into town just for candy. We went from store to store, not finding any coughdrops in the medicine section. Then he wandered down another candy aisle while I stood shaking my head, mumbling, “No es sugar, es medicino.” Then the driver pulled a box off the shelf and handed it to me, “Is candy.”

And guess what? Is candy. Cough drops are candy in Honduras. Once I thought about it it made a little sense. There isn’t really any medicine in them, right? They are just menthol candies there. Why anyone would want to snack on a menthol candy is beyond my tastebuds, but I find Sour Patch Kids appetizing so I’m probably not the best one to judge someone else’s tastes.

So there you have it. Basically when I’m sick I am able to continue working outside doing manual labor for 8 hours a day yet today I could barely manage to walk down my stairs to get some more chicken noodle soup. Hmmm. I will fully ponder that after I pop some candy and take another nap.

Boob News

That Nyquil I guzzled the other night? Not so much working. My brain? Replaced with a huge amount of flem. The part of my brain the knows how to spell “phlem”? Very ill and doesn’t care about the little red squiggly line that says I don’t know how to spell. Right now I’d be happy to just know how to breathe through my nose. I like to keep my dreams reachable.

So today was interesting.

We are coming up on the Stripper-palooza I mentioned earlier. It’s all very exciting. I went to the strip club today to work out the details with my photographer and videographer and the club owner. And can someone please explain the lure of strip clubs? I get that men like boobs, this is not a new concept. In fact I’d say that boobs are in the top 3 things that men love in this world. What I’m having trouble with is why on earth one would want to be that close to the thing you love most, and not actually be able to touch it. Does this seem like some sort of sick self-torture to anyone else? Wouldn’t that be kinda like going on a diet and then putting a huge-ass cake in front of your face (or on your lap) and then just having to look at it longingly, but not actually touch it? Who would PAY to put themselves through that torture? My boss said today that he thought maybe some of the men might be the kind of guys who would never have a shot with hot girls, so that’s why they go to the strip clubs, so they can be near them. But I think that’s even worse. What if I’ve never seen a cake up close and then all of a sudden it’s placed in my lap and I can’t really do anything about it? I am worried about the health of these poor men, this can’t be good for their hearts. Or several other parts really.

Later in the day I spent a couple hours calling all the strippers to schedule them for the shoot. How many other people spend their days calling 30 strippers? I have chosen an interesting career.

And coincidently I’ve also chosen an interesting place to work. Today I was at the an office where I do graphic design. I was asked to burn some files onto a disc for a client. When I went to put the files onto the disc drive I saw that there was already a folder waiting to be burned. The folder was titled “Me”. I have a folder titled “Me” on my computer, and it’s mostly just personal files. I wondered why this was somehow getting ready to be burned to a disc. I opened the file, to see what was in it. Guess what, it wasn’t me. It was someone else.

A girl in the office has a “special friend” in Iraq. She wanted to send him a “special gift”. She wanted to send him movies and letters. I told her to send him playing cards with naked women on them, I said he would be the hit of the middle east. Another lady in the office advised the girl to send him Playboy. (Weird thing is, this particular office has nothing to do with the other stripper gig I’m working on. Apparently I just run in boob-friendly circles.)

So anyways, this girl had taken our advice of sending provocative photos. Only she had decided to send provocative photos of herself. And she had decided to save them in a file titled “Me” and to tried to burn that file onto a disc using my computer. This is all fine and dandy, but a girl needs a warning when she is going to open up a folder and see many a “friendly” picture of her co-worker.

It was an interesting day.

Beep and the City

Have you all seen episodes of "Sex and the City" on regular TV? Does this seem weird to anyone else? It’s on every night at 11:30 and my Tivo records it for me because it knows that I like the show. And really it’s one of my favorite shows and I miss it so. But it’s not quite the same on regular TV. I mean the TITLE of the show has the word SEX in it. So I’m thinking right off the bat you are losing at least half the show when you jump onto PG TV. Well, I guess not all the sex stuff is lost, just the good stuff.

And poor Samantha. She’s left with pretty much nothing after you take out the sex scenes and the f-word. What is Samantha without sex scenes and the f-word really? She’s just that chick from the movie "Mannequin". (How much did I LOVE that movie? A dude falls in love with a mannequin? That won some Academy Awards, right? It took me a good two seasons of Sex and the City to stop singing "Put your hand in my hand, whatever it takes is what I’m gonna dooooo!" every time Kim Cattrall walked into a scene.)

Tonight I was watching an episode and I was looking forward to a funny scene in the middle of the episode (Yeah, I’ve seen every episode enough times to know every scene that’s coming up. What do you want from me? HBO has a tendency to repeat their shows a few (million) times, so sue me for watching the show every time it was on.) In this episode Charlotte’s storyline involves her new Jewish lawyer husband guy moving in and leaving his tea bags all over the house. This leads to a great scene in which Charlotte tells the girls that she and her beau have a tea bag situation. Samantha thinks she is talking about a different kind of tea bag situation and the ensuing dialogue is hilarious. At least it was hilarious on HBO. On regular TV it’s:

"I have a tea bag situation"
"Oh, breathe through your nose."
"What?! No!"
End scene.

Several things happened between the second and third line in the original episode. But on regular TV we are only left with a shocked expression on Charlotte’s face and Carrie shaking her head, unable to eat her flan. It’s tragic really, this cleaning up of television. What’s next, is Sponge Bob going to have to wear more than just his square pants? It’s a slippery slope people. Is all I’m saying.

Early Morning Fun

I’m not feeling well this evening, so this dispatch will be short. I am trying very hard to come down with the flu and I will soon take a handful of Nyquil gelcaps and try to drug my body out of its slip into illness. Wish me luck.

My illness has been made all the worse because I was forced to rise at 8 a.m. this morning. Good god that is early. My body did not enjoy it even one little bit. Although it was quite something to see how much stuff can get done before noon. A miracle really. Who knew?

The reason for my early morning rising was my house/condo/box shopping. My parents and I were scheduled to meet with a real estate agent to look at a friend’s condo. He had an offer in that he needed to accept or decline by this evening so I was going to see if I wanted to make an offer. My parents were going to make sure I didn’t buy a house on a whim. I’ve been known to make rash decisions. Usually my rash decisions result in a high Best Buy bill. This decision could result in no Best Buy bills for quite some time. So the parents came along to supervise the obliteration of my income, should I choose to pull the trigger.

It turned out that I didn’t really like the possible rash decision, so instead the three of us hijacked our real estate agent and had her show us all around town. It was all quite exciting. Houses everywhere. It might have been even more exciting if I could actually afford any of them. Well I could afford some of them:

Me: “I found some cute houses in X part of town.”
Mom: “A lady at work lived there and her house got firebombed.”
Me: “Aren’t you a buzzkill.”

My Stream of Consciousness Leads Nowhere

I really have nothing much to say today. I spent all weekend looking at houses and condos and realizing that the odds of me eating AND paying a mortgage are very slim. But then again, I could use a diet. Not only would I be a homeowner, but I would be damn skinny. Which I think is even better than equity, if you ask me.

In other news I think that I’ve officially lost my mind. Officially. And I went ahead and made a written note of it, because it’s important to note such milestones.

I will explain. I always have a piece of paper near my work computer. It starts out blank and then it slowly becomes the destination for every stream of conscious thought I have or note I need to take or message I need to write down. The writing goes every which way and is sometimes quite a maze of information that even I barely understand. I often write in code. It’s unfortunate that I don’t know the code, because that would prove to be much more efficient that my normal method of staring at the paper trying to figure out what the hell I meant by “Weekend Wedn 14". I’m sure I was solving some sort of world issue there, but I can’t quite remember what it was. My notes are usually on a piece of 8 ½ x 11 paper that I fold in half and put next to my computer. Sometimes, as in the following example, it is an envelope I’ve received in the mail.

Yesterday, while on my computer, I looked down at my scratch paper and saw this:

I will decipher for you people who do not know the code, or my handwriting. It says:
Duck & Duck
Monkey
Monkey who knew my name

Yeah. So I’ve obviously lost it. Not only do I have no idea what that is code for, I have no recollection of even writing it. What could it possibly be?

1. A slightly disturbing children’s book. I’m all about ducks, those are pretty harmless. And on the whole monkey are cool, despite their tendency to throw poo. But a monkey who knew my name? That’s kinda freaky. Especially if he shares his info with the ducks.

2. A Super Bowl commercial. You never know.

3. A rap song. Have you ever seen “8 Mile”? Eminem writes on his hand, on paper, on the bathroom wall, wherever the inspiration hits him. When he loses himself in the moment he needs to write down his wicked flow. I’ve always felt a kinship with Eminem, we’ve come in and out of contact on the rap battle circuit, you know. So maybe I’m finally ready to drop some bombs on Eminem with my own “Monkey Who Knew My Name” beat. And three lines is about standard for a successful song, so I think I’m good to go. I’ll get Mariah to sing backup and I’ll be all set.

4. Enough to put me in a padded room. The handwriting looks like it was written in a hurry. Was I rushing to jot down what I’d seen before I snapped out of my delusional state? Monkeys who knew your name can’t be a good a sign of mental stability. At least the ducks were there to comfort me.


I’m going to bed, cause it seems as though I need some rest. I will keep you updated on any further notes involving animals. And please be on the lookout for any knowledgeable monkeys. They may be traveling with ducks.

House vs. Drug Habit

So I’m thinking about buying a house. Or a condo. Or a box of some sort. My price range is more box than house, let’s be honest. It’s all quite depressing. In an effort to depress myself even more I decided to stop searching online for California houses and turned my search to out of state houses. Just to get a good laugh at how ridiculous California house prices are. I think I’m going to move to Minnesota. Besides the cold and the snow and the loneliness Minnesota seems like a great fit for me.

Do you know that in Minnesota I can buy a 2 bedroom/.75 bath house on 7 acres for only $84 grand? Sweet Mary, that’s cheap. Although I’m wondering what exactly 3/4 of a bathroom looks like. I’m not sure how exactly the bathroom is divided up into 4 parts, each one of which can be left out at the homebuilder’s discretion. Let’s see, there’s a toilet, a bathtub, a shower and uh, maybe a sink? Or a toilet paper holder? I don’t know. But what I do know is that for $84 grand I could afford to add the missing .25 of the bathroom. I might go crazy and add a whole ‘nother .5 to the bathroom. That’s how we do it in CA.

I am trying my hardest to be a grown up and invest in my future and all that crap. I know that putting out money now will result in greater financial opportunities in the future but the future seems so, I don’t know, far off. And right now seems so right here. And man could I have a lot of fun right now for the amount of money I’m going to have to put out on a mortgage every month. I could travel, I could buy a car, I could develop a significant drug habit. All of these things would give me a more immediate result from my money than writing a check every month to live in a home that is 3 times smaller than the place I am renting, but cost me 3 times as much. I don’t like that math and I feel like I’m going to need the drug habit to help me fully accept it. But nooo, I won’t be able to afford the drug habit. And that’s a scary thought.

I seem to be at the age where I feel the urge to make adult, long-term decisions, yet I’m not quite to the age where the thought of making adult, long-term decisions doesn’t completely freak me out. But then again, I have a feeling I’ll be well into my 90's before I move past those freak outs. And imagine what housing prices will be like then. I mean Minnesota alone could skyrocket to over a $100 grand by that point. That’s a scary thought.

Stripper Name

I tend to be kinda random, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. One of the fun things about being me? You never really know what is going to happen. Most of this has to do with my work. The work itself can be kinda random and then the flexibility lends the rest of my life to randomness as well. One of the fun things about knowing me? You never have any idea what’s going to come after “So guess what I’m doing?”

So guess what I’m doing?

I’m working with a guy who run a small ad agency. And he needed some help producing some web content for a few websites he’s putting together for one of his clients. Given the contacts I have I knew I could produce the job for him at a relatively small budget. So we are moving forward with the project. What’s so random about that, you may ask. Well his clients happen to own four strip clubs. Uh yeah. So then. My job is to organize 64 strippers for a photo and video shoot. That’s the random part. And no it’s not porn, so don’t start thinking that I’m getting lured into a bad Lifetime movie (or a good one, depending on your point of view). A strip club probably doesn’t want to put porn on their website, as that would hardly encourage men to LEAVE the house and go to the strip club.

Do you know how you know that you’re random? Call up your mother and tell her you are organizing 64 strippers and listen to her barely bat an eye, “Let me know if you need any help, I’m retired you know, I have a lot of free time.”

Today I got the contact list for my strippers. How I love this contact list. On the list there are three columns. One column says “Stage Name”, one says “Real Name”, and one says “Phone”. How many of you have ever received a fax with 32 strippers’ names while at work? I’m telling ya, you just never know what’s gonna happen. We will now review some of my favorite “Stage Names” because they entertain me so.

Jane - Come on, this girl isn’t even trying.
Mona - Nice.
Aspen - Make up your own joke.
Faith - I’m glad to see the religious right represented.
Joey - For the Dawson’s Creek fans.
Elektra - For the Jennifer Garner fans.
Gia - For the drug addicted lesbian death by AIDS fans.

and my personal favorite...

Lexxxi - The three X’s ain’t a typo kids.

Did I ever tell you guys my stripper name? I can’t remember, so I’ll tell you again. It is Sonee Rain. When pronounced correctly Sonee rhymes with “someday”. I wouldn’t want you messing up my stripper name. Where did I get this stripper name? From the accounting department, of course. Back when I worked in an accounting department I grew impatient with the fact that everyone in the building had a nameplate except for me. Tired of waiting for my nameplate to show up I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to the receptionist’s desk and found her stash of old nameplates that were made with separate letters, unlike the newer ones that are etched into a metal plate. I took all the letters of long-departed employees and began trying to make a nameplate that fit my sparkling personality. I settled on Sonee Rain. I thought it had a nice ring to it. Almost poetic, with just a hint of porn star thrown in. I put it up on my cubicle and chuckled as it confused the people passing my desk.


I received my real nameplate a couple weeks later. Nothing like a good stripper name to get things moving in corporate America.

Not So Super

Did ya’ll watch the Super Bowl? I caught some of it between shoveling bean dip and Chex Mix in my mouth. Unfortunately some of the some that I caught was some of the halftime show. Can someone please explain the Rolling Stones to me? They are like 183 years old. What are they doing on the Super Bowl? And why are they singing “Satisfaction”? Come on. I just looked it up and that song was recorded in 1965. As in more than 40 years ago. And yet it’s the centerpiece of a halftime show in 2006? I don’t get it. I’m all for nostalgia, but I don’t know that the biggest day in contact sports and beer commercials is the place for it. Maybe it’s just me.

And how on EARTH did Mick Jagger become a sex symbol? Is there anything sexy about him? No, there is not. The man weighs like 125 pounds, his face seems to be falling off his head and he slithers around to no apparent beat whatsoever. Musicians who don’t have rhythm absolutely astound me. You’d think they’d pick it up along the way somehow, even if by accident. If you have your own personal drummer it’s almost impossible not to hear a beat at least a couple of times in the course of 40 years. But no, someone told this 65 year old man that rubbing on himself and running around in circles was sexy. And so he’s just gonna continue doing it.

And speaking of doing it, doesn’t this guy have like 84 kids with 14 different supermodels? How on earth are regular guys supposed to compete when this horrendous looking man is bagging supermodels? It’s just not fair.

And speaking of not fair, did ya’ll see the actual game part of the Super Bowl? Wow. Do you have to have ANY experience reffing football before they let you officiate the Super Bowl, or is the gig just filled on a first come, first served basis? Wow. I was distracted by 387 different snack foods and I could still see that those refs were making horrible calls. By my count Seattle should have won that game by at least 3. But maybe the refs were so distracted by Mick Jagger's hip thrusts that they couldn’t be bothered to concentrate on the game.

It’s understandable really. I mean it’s too bad that the Seahawks lost the Super Bowl, but Mick bagging supermodels for 40 years was still the biggest upset of the day.

Random Pictures

This weekend I went to a poker party and a Superbowl party. And now I am officially ill from the amount of chips and dip I’ve eaten in the course of 48 hours. The carb-overload leaves me little in the way of creative thought, so instead of writing the insightful commentary you have come to expect from this blog I will just post some insightful pictures:

Sad:

This picture is the saddest W2 you will EVER see in your life. It is for a whopping $5.77. Man, good thing they sent me this, I wouldn’t want to forget to claim this large sum of money on my taxes. I’d be audited for sure if this $5.77 went unclaimed. I better start thinking up some write-offs to offset this crippling tax hit.

This W2 is from a class action suit against a restaurant I worked at years ago. You might remember me writing about it before. More accurately you might remember me bitching about it before. I got $5.77 and my other friends who worked at the restaurant got like $500 each. Which they bragged about endlessly. And then they got another round of checks for another couple hundred dollars. And yet I was left with only $5.77. This is all a load of horse crap, if you ask me. I thought I was over my jealousy in regards to this issue, but the second I got this damn W2 I was once again bitching about the blatant prejudice which existed in the money distribution. I haven’t quite figured out how I was discriminated against, but I’m sure I was. And I’m sure I can get enough people to join me in my class action suit against the class action suit. I will not rest until my voice is heard! Or until they just send me some more cash.


Sadder:




Is it weird that I actually feel bad for this dog on my mother’s porch? I mean come on. Look at the poor thing. Made to wear silly hearts around its face. It’s degrading really.

But not a degrading as this…

Saddest:

This is another photo taken at my mother’s house. I did not move these two souvenirs next to each other. This is how they are arranged all the time. And all the time I think it’s ridiculously inappropriate. My mother says that they are next to each other because she got both while on a trip to Italy. I say that it’s just wrong to have Pinocchio, with his long-ass nose protruding from his body, standing next to a statue of a naked man. I’ve covered up David’s private parts in this picture for two reasons:

1) This is a family friendly blog.
2) It can’t be good for David’s self-esteem that he is forced to stand next to a being whose NOSE is bigger than his PENIS. The only way this could be more humiliating for David is if my mother decided to hang the "Be Mine" heart on his man parts.

Nothing, But a Picture

I have nothing to say today. I know, mark it on the calendars.

But I did come across this picture from my trip back east. I found it amusing and possibly you will as well.


Exactly how dangerous is this cord? That it needs SIX warning stickers on it? I didn't take a picture of what the cord was attached to, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't the weapon of mass destruction that its SIX warning stickers make it out to be. I mean really. You are plugging it into the wall. How complicated can that possibly get? Can you see the amount of writing on some of those stickers? I wonder if they are describing the plugging or the very dangerous unplugging of the item. Cause the unplugging is the tricky part, that's where things can go really off-course. Thank god there are instructions.

The best part about seeing something with ridiculous instructions - there is usually a legal reason the instructions and warnings are there. Which means that at some point in the history of this pluggable item at least six people did something moronic with the item. They plugged it into their ear. They stood in a pool while it was plugged in. They (gasp!) pulled the cord out by the cord, nearly destroying all of electricity in the process.

And so now this pluggable item is weighed down with six warnings because six morons couldn't operate a plug (but they had no problem getting ahold of a personal injury lawyer).

And that's all I have to say about that.

I Have Issues

We have a problem. The problem is the time. The time right now is 4:00 a.m. and I’m not even remotely tired. This is not normal. And I don’t think it’s healthy. I don’t know why it wouldn’t be healthy exactly, but it seems less than nutritious.

Here is the main reason behind the problem: I don’t have to be at work at any particular time. Quite a bit of my work I just do from home, and the rest I do from an office. But that office does not restrict me with silly things like requiring me to be present in the A.M. hours. They know I am an artist. An artist! You cannot tell the creativity to just happen! You must wait for it to happen. And you must wait until at least after noon. Look, I don’t make the rules, I just follow the art. It’s all very bohemian.

So then. Since I don’t have to be up at any particular time I can rise whenever I feel like. And I very rarely feel like it before the double digit morning hours. It’s better for everyone that way. The single digit morning hours and I do not mesh well, to say the least. But funny thing is, I don’t have any problem with the dark single digit morning hours. I’m all about them. I’m a huge fan really. I tend to shift my day so that it will include these great dark A.M. hours. Cause I feel as though no one else really makes an effort to enjoy all that they have to offer. And they offer so, so much. Best of their offerings? Silence. These hours silence phones and e-mails with a skill usually only seen when traveling to third world countries, or places with no wifi. So by shifting my day a little I’m able to work a normal work day, but not when anyone else is actually working. And therefore I actually am allowed to get actual work done, instead of just listening to people talk about how much work needs to get done. It’s a miracle. Why no one else has thought up this working in the middle of night thing, I have no idea. I’m a trailblazer. Well, I guess if we’re going to be honest then we’d really have to give credit to all the crank addicts, the people who really founded this movement of wide eyedness at 4 a.m. They are my MLK.

So basically I end up staying up until 4 or 5 or 6 o’clock in the morning and then I don’t get out of bed until 11 or 12. This leaves me with an average of 6 hours of sleep a night. But I’m not tired. Yet, if I went to bed at midnight and got up at 6 a.m.? I’d be curled up in a ball by noon. Someone please explain the logic to me, cause I don’t get it. Clearly I am a vampire. Which explains why I own so much black and look so ageless.

I really don’t know what to do about this issue of mine, this inability to maintain a normal sleeping pattern. I guess as far as issues go, this one isn’t that bad. I mean, there isn’t even a drug commercial for it yet, so it can’t be that bad. I could just imagine the commercial. Some woman hunched over her computer in a dark room, digital clock piercing the night to reveal that it’s actually early morning. Then the calming voice would say, “Are you maintaining the sleeping patterns of crank addicts? Then Lovethesun® is just for you.” Right then a burst of sun will throw open the drapes, showering our poor night owl in light. Then she will hug the paper boy and the doughnut maker (although with the arrival of Krispy Kremes you don’t have to rise early to enjoy a good doughnut) and the scrambled eggs. Next she’ll run through a field of sunflowers towards the eager embrace of Katie Couric and Al Roker (Matt Lauer will be somewhere in the world, waiting to reveal where he is). Then of course the voice-over will warn that Lovethesun® is not for everyone, women who are pregnant, want to be pregnant, could someday become pregnant or have ever talked to someone who was pregnant should not take Lovethesun®, because everyone knows that mornings are even worse when you are trying to herd children towards a school bus, or any bus that will take them away for 6 hours.

I think this may be just the drug for me. If only someone would invent it. Until then, maybe I can just catch Katie and Al before I go to bed…

A Conversation With The Roommate

"Dawn, it smells like something died downstairs."
"I know, I think it’s your coffee creamer that you said I tipped over in the fridge the other day."
"I don’t think it’s that, it smells like death."
"No, it smells like coffee creamer."
"I don’t think so."
"I’m going to clean it up."
"Right."
"I am. Right now."
"Alright, I’m going to bed."
"What should I use? You don’t have any Pine Sol left do you?"
"I do have a little. The three gallon bottle I bought has a little tiny bit left."
"Okay, I’ll use that."
I go downstairs, grab the three gallon bottle of Pine Sol. I realize I’ve never used Pine Sol in my life.
"Hey! How do I use Pine Sol?"
"Oh Daaaaaawwwwn. Let me show you how to use cleaning supplies."
"Just tell me, I can do it."
She hands me the cleaning supplies and a towel. And grabs some herself. Then she starts to clean. She is on a mission. Everything about the kitchen is dirty. It must be cleaned. Right now. She was just going to bed 30 seconds ago, and now she is mopping. With vigor.
"This floor is just bothering me. You know, when things are dirty I just feel out of control."
"Oh, me too."
"You didn’t unpack your suitcase from New York for a week and a half, it just slowly unpacked itself across your room."
"Whatever."
"Do you notice when things are dirty? Do they bother you?"
"I have never touched Pine Sol, ever. I obviously do not notice if things need cleaning. Clutter is the only thing I care about. And our house is clean on the surface, no messes anywhere. So I’m good."
"You’re cleaning right now."
"I’m cleaning right now because it smelled like death in here. I have one remaining sense that actually functions, and it’s smell. If something smells, I’m cleaning it. Or at least I’m pouring a better smell on it."
"This mop sucks."
"I’m sorry, I’ve never bought a mop, I didn’t know what to buy."
"I am baffled that you even bought this one, how did you know we needed one? Have you ever even mopped at all in this house?"
"No, but I did hear you bitching the last time you mopped, going on and on about needing a new mop."
"Well, we need another new one, the new one sucks."
She is drying the floor now. She has a towel on the floor and is scooting it along the tile by standing on it and using her two feet to move it.
"I thought you were going to bed."
"I know, the cleaning sucked me in. You know how sometimes you start cleaning and then can’t stop?"
"No, I do not know that at all."
"I really have to go to bed too, cause I’m gonna get up at 4."
"Why the hell are you getting up at 4?"
"I have to go to the gym. I haven’t been going to the gym enough and if I don’t work out enough my whole body starts to feel out of whack, ya know?"

I stop scrubbing the coffee creamer off the inside of the fridge and look at my tall, blond roommate who is vigorously scooching across the floor on a towel so that she can finish and go to bed and get up before dawn to go workout. I am growing tired of this cleaning crap after four minutes, I will probably still be awake when she gets up to go workout and scrubbing this stupid refrigerator is the most exercise I’ve had in 3 months.


"You know, we are so much alike, it’s spooky really."
"It’s like looking in a mirror, huh?"
"Exactly."