Short Post Today

Quickly, a few things from the Blackberry:

1. New Project Runway season starts tonight.
2. They took Ricky Martin out of the Puerto Rico tv spots. I don't want to go there now.
3. I stole a roll of toilet paper from work because I don't have time to go to the store before my Rocky Horror gig tonight.

Is this really an issue?

Must be "sweeps" month-- tonight on the news, "Sex in Utah Parks." Sex in Utah parks apparently occurs more than I'd ever noticed in my day, though right now in my life I'm still pretty sure I could fasten a grilled cheese sandwich to my crotch and walk past the homeless shelter without anyone getting hot for me. According to several articles, not even the prospect of police arrest deters these sexual deviants, forcing them to leave the security of the park bench and head to public restrooms within the same areas. So I'll be curious to see what impact this news story might have on such a thing.

Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but hasn't there always been sex in the park? I mean, figuratively speaking, for those popular kids in high school. Isn't that the basic premise of "parking" when horny teens want to get it on without their parents knowing? Of course, I never did this while in school because apparently headgear, glasses and band camp are not turn-ons to boys who wanted to engage in this sort of extra-curricular activity.

And have we defined parks? Is this all-inclusive? Water parks? National parks? Who hasn't gotten it on at Zion? What if you get it on while listening to Linkin Park? Does that count? If this is a problem, why is preserving open space the hip trend right now? Wouldn't we want less open space if it just perpetuates getting it on?

I guess I never realized this could be such hot topic news inspiration. Never mind there's an unresolved war in the Middle East or that MySpace bullying is causing 13-year-olds to hang themselves in their closets, there's "Sex in Utah Parks!" 

Nostalgia

It's that time of year-- where families find a way to get along, and everyone reminisces about the good memories in life. We give thanks, we drink a few, but mostly, we're together. This year feels even harder than last year; last year I was numb, this year, I'm raw.

Either way, I still like reminiscing about the good memories and looking through the piles upon piles of pictures I've somehow inherited from my grandmother. While putting together a Christmas present for my brother and his fiancee tonight (I feel fairly safe in saying that since neither of them read this blog), I ran across this photo of my grandparents and my dad walking through the streets of Seattle. This was snapped in the very early 50s, and I'm not sure who took it since both grandparents are in the shot.

On the back of the photo, my grandmother wrote:

"A sorry looking lot! Steve didn't know Kenneth was along, Steve and I left him on the corner to go to the Post Office and we were gong to the store. He said he was hurrying to catch up with us. Looks to me like he's talking to himself."

To which my grandfather added:

"Yes! And it looks to me like Marcile has been talking to herself for quite some time. HA. I call it the 'goon squad'-- except for Steven."

Now I know where I picked up my smartass side which only gets diminished when defending my daddy.

Workin' out

Despite immense soreness from a very long dance rehearsal yesterday, I made it to the gym today. I walked in, did some lifting, and as I went to the ab bench thing (the official, technical term, I'm sure) I saw something so horrifying, so off-putting, I almost couldn't do the two hundred crunches I needed to round out my day.

I saw some guy's junk. Right there, three ab benches away from me. Some random guy's junk, just out there for the world to gaze upon. It was bad enough that his shorts were shorter than something out of Studio 54 circa 1978, but as he was doing his ab crunches, his legs were bent and splayed open like a sweaty crab.

I did my crunches, trying to shake the disgusting image that had just been seared into my retinas, but I couldn't. Even after another hour of cardio, I couldn't stop thinking, "But I saw his juunnk." How could he not know this? What would possess him to neglect wearing a pair of tightie-whities under his John Stockton shorts? More importantly, why did I have to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Now is the time I step up on the soapbox: If there is nothing else this blog will influence, I hope that it might change the mind of even one person when choosing gym clothes. I hope that they might realize that nobody wants to see their sweaty junk-- nobody wants it to unexpectedly become part of their Sunday afternoon workout. 

aargh

It's pacific time somewhere, I didn't bail out on NaBloPoMo. I also did not just order fast food.

It really, really is...

My boss found this for me the other day, and I still laugh every time I read it.

Pucker up, buttercup!

I don't know how to get into this anecdote delicately, so I'll just spit it out (which is a great pun if I had already gotten into this story): According to the Associated Press, earlier this week a Seattle woman was accused of biting off her boyfriend's lip, spitting it out and later resisting arrest. Reading further into the story, we learn that the two were actually kissing in bed when she bit off the bottom lip and spit it to the floor. When the police showed up, they found the man sitting on the porch, bleeding, and found the lip in the bedroom upstairs, covered in cat hair. The lip could not be reattached, and the woman was later charged with domestic violence assault.

Like the Riddler in Batman, I've got "too many questions." Here's the thing, the story says the two were kissing in bed when things got interesting. 

Yeah, the lady obviously got all hot, but why wouldn't she feel awful when she bit off the lip? How could someone even get hot enough to bite off a lip? Apparently I've been with the wrong men because I've never bitten a lip all that hard, much less bite the damn thing all the way off.

What was the woman doing from the time the lip became a Carl's Jr. Six Dollar Burger and the police showed up? 

Why would she resist arrest?

If the two were in bed together, they obviously liked each other even just a little bit, why would the guy press charges?

Where was the cat in all of this?

Can they make prosthetic lips?

What if this guy is a trumpet player, can he claim worker's comp?

If the guy played clarinet and can't play anymore, is this actually a blessing in disguise?

I read stories like these and try to put myself in the situation, and in this one I simply can't. So, I Google things. I learned if you're ever in San Diego, you can check out "Lips: The Ultimate in Drag Dining." The immensely popular drag eatery features 14-foot martini glasses as decor, a very upscale and partially organic menu and more catty bitches in fishnets than a high school drill team.

I leave this post with but one thought, if you're lucky to get some tonight, be careful! And if you're not, please wrap any detached parts in ice.

It's so simple!

Wow! I had no idea it would be so easy to meet a man. Here I thought that being single meant putting myself out there, trying to meet and connect with somebody. But no! It's as simple as a random email from some source called "StillSingle" sending me an email telling me to click the link "for a free match-- FREE!" A spam email, no less! How did it know? How am I so lucky to meet the man of my dreams just by clicking the link? Amazing.

I hate spam, it always makes me feel so violated-- and I'm talking about the unsolicited email, not the stuff Monty Python sings about. That would just be gross, being violated by a meat-like substance.

In honor of SPAM, the meat-like substance, here are some little-known nutritional facts that made me actually gag and then head straight to the gym:

Ingredients

• Chopped port shoulder meat with ham meat added
  
• Salt (for binding, flavor and firmness-- firmness?)
  
• Water (to help in mixing)
  
• Sugar (for flavor)
  
• Sodium Nitrite (for color and as a preservative)
  

Calories per serving are 170, and there are theoretically six servings per can. Assuming you could choke down an entire can of this catfood-like crap, you'd consume a whopping 1,020 calories, or more than half the healthy daily-allotted calories of the average person. 

Or, only 200 calories short of your daily-allotted calories if you're me. 

Make it so...

My dream is finally coming true, if only I lived near Burbank! A casting call was issued for people to play cadets in the new Star Trek movie. Here's the catch, the potential cadets need either be "ultra plain-looking" or "ultra perfect-looking." I can't decide in which category I'd fit, because some days I look in the mirror and go, "Ugh, I'm strange looking," but too weird for either "plain" or "perfect." Besides, what defines "ultra plain-" or "ultra perfect-looking?" What if somebody's "sorta' plain-ish?" What tips the scales and makes them less ultra-plain than a really ultra-plain person? A limp? What if they had a limp? Or does that just throw them over the edge to "super-coo coo-looking?" Am I over-thinking this?

Since I can't decide in which category I fit, and since that categorization seems to change for me from day to day, maybe I fit one of these other criteria:

• Long neck
  
• Extremely large head (Compared to what?)
  
• Wide-set eyes or close-set eyes
  
• Large forehead (Paging Tyra Banks, Miss Banks to your transporter, please.) 
  
• Short upper lip (Just what is a short upper lip?)
  
• Over- or under-sized ears and/or nose
  
• Facial deformities
  
• Pure, wholesome looks (I think I'm in!)
  
• Emaciated
  
• Regally poised and postured
  

So if you're interested in auditioning, take your freaky-assed, skinny, stick-up-the-keester, short-lipped self to Deep Space Nine! And while you're in Burbank, wave a big hello to the SoCal writers on strike for dealing with many of the real freaks in the industry.

What will they think of next?

Since I'm sitting here on the couch doped up on cold medicine today, I thought I'd catch up on some very important reading. When that didn't work out, I found an invention that at first I thought fit into the "Are you serious, people actually spend money on that" category. 

The invention? "Batter Blaster." The purpose? Aerosol pancake batter said to make no-mix, perfectly round pancakes every single time, at the drop of a pan. (Or easier teddy bear shapes. I've heard of someone who can make a dinosaur, but actually spotting something like that would be like finding Yeti.)

I have to admit that at first, I was extremely turned off by the name "Batter Blaster." Without getting too detailed, let's just say I have... um... textural issues and thought there is no way I would ever actually spend money on something called "Batter Blaster."

Upon further, very in-depth, research, I learned this product is all organic and is only 70 calories per serving. Now, one pancake is considered one serving, however this is lower in calories than your everyday Bisquick just like mom used to make. (Unless you have my mother, in which case you would've grown up eating Fruity Pebbles and/or Crunch Berries for your formative years, causing you to have a sick neurosis against all foods well into your adulthood.)

As I see it, there are only two downsides to "Batter Blaster" at this time. 1.) You can not treat "Batter Blaster" like it was E-Z cheese or Redi-Whip and shoot the contents of the can straight down your throat. You actually have to cook "Batter Blaster." 2.) You can't buy "Batter Blaster" in Utah. Now I'm thinking it will get here soon, we did just get a Cheesecake Factory and Urban Outfitters is on its way. I'm hoping when Whole Foods rears its ugly head along the Wasatch Front, aerosol batter won't be far behind.

I don't even like pancakes and I want to eat them all the time after hearing about "Batter Blaster." Because now that aerosol pancake batter is in the pop culture mainstream, how did I ever live without it?

Figuring it out

This will be an extremely short post today, as I've been in agony over sore muscles from dance yesterday and it's giving me creative block. 

I'm also using quite a bit of energy right now trying to figure out how to become independently wealthy. Apparently a big bag of money to pay your bills just doesn't show up at the doorstep no matter how hard you wish it.

p.s. King Tut? Wasn't hot. Isn't hot now. CNN, can't you drop it?

The birthday party

This afternoon I went to a birthday party for my friend's one-year-old. As I walked in, carrying my gift of a plush Nemo clownfish, I took a deep breath while realizing I would be the only single person there-- certainly one of the only people without a child. Inevitably, I always end up feeling like one of the witches of Eastwick whenever I go to these things. (This includes bridal showers, baby showers and, of course, weddings) Though I did immediately warm up to the tasty fall beverage of Captain Morgan and apple cider, I was definitely uncomfortable.

I was also uncomfortable heading to Toys 'R' Us earlier today when I went to find said Nemo plush, and I felt like a fraud just going to a toystore. (It didn't help that I was feeling slightly fuzzy from last night's barhopping with Urban Princess and kept my oversized Gucci sunglasses on my face for the duration of the shopping trip. I thought maybe I'd look a little Jackie O, but I just looked like I felt slightly fuzzy from last night's barhopping with Urban Princess.)

Walking through the aisles deciding on the little Nemo doll, I couldn't help but wonder if the idea of him was created just to make adults feel better. I mean, here you have a clownfish with a gimpy flipper, but he still manages to do some amazing things. Sure that's great, and adults can then tell their kids, "Even if you have shortcomings, you can do some amazing things." In reality, kids are just freaking mean. Somehow the message is lost when they're sitting in elementary school and they're making fun of the kids that are different than the others-- in reality, Nemo still has a gimpy flipper. It seems parents go to sleep feeling better that since they've shown a Disney DVD, their kid has some Ghandi-like sense of acceptance of mankind.

This party was the same way. The kid was actually forced to go all mud wrestler on his cake, when it just looked like he wanted a nap-- to make the adults feel better. I mean, this kid doesn't have a gimpy flipper or anything, but he was totally overwhelmed by all the staring and the performance anxiety of having fun at his birthday. He's one, he's got his whole life to cry over performance anxiety. 

Now I don't have kids, and there's probably a reason why I haven't even wanted any in my life thus far. I give my friends, all my friends, kudos for even attempting to train their offspring. I have a mother I still can't train, and she's over 60. I don't understand what they're going through, or what changes go through their heads when they all of the sudden have this little person for whom they're responsible. I'm constantly amazed at what they do, and I'm pretty sure there's a reason why I don't seem to be programmed to procreate. 

I'm also pretty sure I'm the Susan Sarandon witch of the group. At least I am now with this hair.

Attack of log limb

Last night, I had the pleasure of heading to bed shortly after Grey's Anatomy and ended up sacking out past my 5:45 gym alarm clear until 7:15. I was tired, and the sleep was needed, but something horrible woke me up about 4:00 this morning.

Out of a dead sleep, I woke up because I felt a very heavy, foreign arm pressing into my chest. My first thought was that someone had broken into my apartment and I was about to get killed for my fortune. (And by "fortune," I mean a few collectors'-edition Barbie dolls and a bunch of scented lotion from Bath and Body Works.) Once I realized there was someone touching me, I let out this blood curdling scream and grabbed the arm, throwing it off of me, and jumping out of bed ready to put my ninja skills to good use.

But the intruder's arm hit my side with a tingly thump. It turns out it was me. And I had a scorching case of log limb.

I read some tips on Lifehacker.com which gives 10 ways to sleep better, and I'm pretty sure that since I had the log limb, I'm sleeping too well. But for what it's worth, you can click here.

And know that if you're ever going to break into my house, I am fully prepared to kick your ass-- awake or asleep. Sweet dreams!

NaBloPoMo... going to commit

Since I have neither the time nor the patience to commit to NaNoWriMo this month, I won't be writing a novel. However, I need to commit to something creative right now since we have fewer Rocky Horror performances. Hence, a full straight month of blog posts for all to read.

And by "all," I mean "less than ten" readers of this blog. Still, my posts have been semi-regular, at best, and I'd like to see if I can maintain some consistency.

I figure it will all go to hell by Thanksgiving anyway.

There's always next November to start the "Great American Novel."

Four Way

What did you think this post was about, you dirty, dirty reader?

I'm talking four way stops and there aren't enough people in this city who know how to actually use them. I woke up this morning in a bad mood, and I ended the day in a bad mood. Somewhere in the middle I began to wonder exactly how people in Salt Lake actually got their driver's licenses because surely they never passed their tests.

Here's a reminder about laws in Salt Lake (and I'm sure many places all around North America-- even quite possibly Canada) involving four-way stops:

When two cars come to a four way stop at the same time, the rule is to yield to the car on the right. The car on the right should go first, then the car on the left and the order proceeds clockwise. Don't pull up at the same time as me and if you're to my right impatiently stare then wave me through like you're doing me a favor. 

You're not doing me a favor. You're pissing me off, and if I wanted to get really technical, you're breaking the law.

Two separate people at two separate intersections did this to me this morning on the way to work. We pulled up at the same time, in fact, I was even a bit behind, and each time the person on my right sat there (one of whom on their cell phone) and waited for me to go. Being such a stickler about four way stop laws, I glared at them, waiting for them to pull their heads out of their asses and go. These people, I'm sure trying to be nice citizens, waved me through once again. Not a favor. In fact, if I went and they wanted to, they could ram me and any witness would say that it was I that drove out of turn.

Maybe I shouldn't care so much, maybe I should give up this nagging sense of responsibility and drive with wild abandonment. Of course, I would then be the one to cause the accident and that would piss me off as well. I'm going to the gym, and I'm not coming back until I get out of my funk; and it's a hell of a funk today. Look for me at Gold's if you don't see me by Thanksgiving.

p.s. While changing for the gym, I just noticed something. Even though I was wearing boyshort-like Victoria's Secret underwear, I have been rocking VPL all day. I haven't had this since middle school when my mom bought me bulk packs of Garfield panties from Mervyn's.

Torture, just like in "Saw"

Since I had to leave work a bit early and run a work-related errand, I thought I should also stop and get my nails fixed. I mean, my nails were keeping me from realizing my full work potential, and I really felt that my typing time could be increased by fixing this problem still during the work day. (and we wonder why I do PR... spin me right 'round.) I've had sparkly-tipped nails for the better part of the year and I was tired of it all. I wanted my nails short, I wanted my nails black, I wanted it done today. (You know, just in case I felt like taking up rock climbing tomorrow.) After making one illegal U-turn and nearly accidentally running over a guy I dated awhile ago, I found a nail shop that looked only marginally freaky. It was called "Happy Nails," and I figured, "What could be so wrong with that?"

I was able to get right in without an appointment to have the fake nails removed and a manicure on the real nails, and was instructed to sit with my hands in bowls of straight acetone. I sat, and I sat, and I sat...

Then the skin started peeling off my fingers, leaving the fake fingernails totally intact. I thought, "Is this my test? Now am I supposed to dig a key out of a guy's colon to get out of here?" To no avail, I had to sit there and endure the stinging sensation while I watched a small Asian woman with a razor blade scrape foot-heel skin off an 80-year-old lady. It was sensory overload.

After nearly an hour, the nail lady grabbed my hands and started chipping off gooey blobs of acrylic with what is officially known as a "nail nipper." (YES it's actually called that. That wasn't a very clever pun referring to the nationality of the owners. Though that would be extremely clever, but very very wrong. So wrong I'm giggling just a little bit.) This was another pain like I've never felt before-- especially when she hit nail bed and drew blood.

The phone rang.

The Asian woman answered, "Hello, Happy Nai..." 

"AAAAHOOOOWWWWWWWWWCCCCHHH!" I screamed. Happy Nails, my ass. SAD NAILS! I was sitting in SAD NAILS. Not Happy Nails. 

Remember in the movie Saw when that guy is crawling through the cage of glass shards? Child's play. Back into the acetone for my hands, this time bleeding into the bowls as I sat there trying not to beat the crap out of the old pedicure lady secretly laughing at my pain. "We almost done here?" I attempted. More chipping, more drilling, and finally success with shiny black fingernails.

Beauty is pain; but after 90-minutes of sheer hell, I emerged from Happy Nails, well, happy about my nails. Not that I'd like to do it again anytime soon, maybe just an experience a little better than being locked in a timed head-trap poised to spring my face in two. 

But just a little. Happy Halloween.

Hopelessly obsessed

I'm having an attack of various obsessions right now...

Right now, I'm loving the new Apple Leopard. It took awhile to install, but then it's been fantastic. It should be, the world waited long enough for it.

I'm almost ashamed to admit I am as hooked on Gossip Girl as I am Grey's Anatomy, and I'm slowly steering away from reality TV-- until Project Runway starts again next month.

So what if I regularly crave Apple Cinnamon Chex Mix? I have enough willpower to not down the entire bag in one sitting.

I'm like that little kid who confided in Dead Bruce Willis; I see cute guys everywhere, it's like my Sixth Sense for horny women: the Albertson's meat counters at now two different stores, the guy who plays Dan on Gossip Girl, McDreamy, and various men from my past.

Back to school?

I had a wicked bad reaction to yesterday's flu shot and after going to the gym last night, thought I was going to die. Even my skin hurt. After sitting in the Jeep for I don't know how long, I finally made it inside and up to bed.

Sometime around 3 this morning, I had the craziest dream. Not being one to remember my dreams very often, I was taken a little aback by the fact it was so vivid. I dreamed that something had been messed up with my high school transcript and they needed to send me back to high school to complete a few courses they decided I needed to take. I went back, even with a new bookbag, as a 31-year-old back in high school, full of anxiety, not ready to face the day. After searching high and low for the office to pick up my transcript to look at it, I finally settled in for a coffee and a smoke in the school's "fireplace lounge." Mind you, Brighton High never looked so good, and certainly never had a fireplace lounge, but in my dream, it was pretty groovy. I ended up sitting next to a guy sporting sort of Flock of Seagulls meets The Cure meets Gleaming the Cube kind of blonde hairdo and after I remarked to him that I thought he was cute, I woke up.

I must have been sick.

Congraduations (yes, that's meant to be a pun, not a misspelling)

My "niece," pictured above, just graduated obedience school tonight. I'm so proud, and can't wait to go back to Boston to have her lick my face again, as she's one of the few tolerable dogs in the world.

Dodging a bullet

A little while ago, I had the unfortunate pleasure of engaging in a mild flirtation with a guy nearly a decade younger than me. He was cute, and when he wasn't around other people he was even charming. But since he was but a wee lad, he 1.) neglected to mention his girlfriend with whom he "hooked up" and 2.) texted me late at night whenever he had been drinking. Good thing I was a bigger man and called him on the fact that he should treat his girlfriends a bit better.

Here's the most recent string of messaging:
(Poor punctuation and grammar on his part retained to maintain the integrity of the piece.)

Boy: Yay for thirsty thursdays

Me: Do you seriously think your girlfriend would appreciate you texting some random, hot woman? (That would be me.)

(Long pause where I brushed my teeth, washed my face and learned Portuguese.)

Boy: You think youre pretty got huh? (I think he meant "hot." I hope he meant "hot" because I don't remember the last time I "got huh?" Huh?)

Me: I'm not bad. There are worse, though I've got a great ass.

Boy: I dont know if i am cut out for girlfriends.

Me: You think? p.s. GO RED SOX!

Boy: F**K the red sox

Me: You have such a way with words...

Thus proving the old adage, "Real women don't date Yankees fans." Or frat boys. Or those who think they're frat boys.