Sugar shame?

Today, Urban Princess and I went to a much-need laughter therapy lunch at Noodles and Company where the man bringing out our lunch was extremely nice to us. Sure, we're a couple of hot saucy trollops, so why shouldn't he be kind? As we were finishing our lunches, he came over and gave us each massive cinnamon sugar cookies and told us to have a great day. His gesture made me smile, and though I wasn't going to chow the cookie, I put it in my purse to take back to work for my boss.

I forgot the cookie was in my purse.

Later this evening, I went to the gym for much-needed Forest Gump run. You know those runs? You just keep running and running... Anyway, as I was digging through my purse to find my iPod, the cookie came flying out and landed in plain sight on the locker room bench. Women changing all around me saw this workout contraband and stifled horrified gasps. It's true, I looked like a shame eater stashing post-run treats, and in my embarrassment quickly threw the cookie back in my bag like a seventh grade boy hiding porn from his parents.

When I got home from the gym, I threw the cookie away, never to let it surprise me again.

In other news, the SciFi Channel's Tin Man miniseries sucks, even if it does star Alan Cumming. Also, Speed Racer is being made into a live action movie starring Matthew Fox and I'm hoping that doesn't suck too.

Invisibility cloak

For the second time in the last two weeks, and the third time in my life, someone just hit me with their car. When I say "someone just hit me," I'm talking about "my leg" and not my car. I'm wondering if I'm invisible, which is difficult because 1.) I'm tall so I clear the average vehicle's bumper and 2.) my coat is made of day-glo hot pink faux fur. Don't you think if you looked in your rear view mirror, or God forbid actually turned around, and saw a big fuchsia muppet wearing glasses you'd take a second to hit the brakes?

Sometimes I wonder how people make it through the day. If they're not on the fast-track to committing vehicular manslaughter in a parking lot, they're generally just out to pick a fight. Prior to this incident, a woman yelled at me for having exactly 19 items in the "express" lane designated for 20 items or less. Last time I checked, 19 items are less than 20, but this still seemed to be a point of contention.

The woman in front of me loudly commented to the check-out lady, "I can't believe these people who get into this faster lane and have more than 20 items! They're sooooooo rude," as she glanced back to me. "I'm sure they go around wasting everybody's time all the time. They might as well have fifty items!!"

"I have 19," I told her. "Do you have something else that's bothering you today? Do you need a hug?" She gave me a dirty look as she stuffed her receipt in her purse. She turned to walk off in a brisk huff, but was again thwarted when her purse strap caught on the edge of the check-out counter and pulled her over backwards. My only fault was that I laughed as she tried to catch her balance.

Later as I got hit by a car in the parking lot, I thought it might have been this lady exacting her revenge on my positive attitude and ability to correctly count to 19. But it wasn't.

I finally got to my Jeep and was loading up my purchases when a stranger walked up to try and sell me a bag of tamales. First off, I don't like tamales so I would never get them anyway, but I do actually appreciate people who are out to make an honest buck. Still, here's a little word of advice: If you're going to peddle your dirty bag of tamales to strangers in a parking lot, you might not want to hit up folks leaving the grocery store. Chances are, if they wanted tamales, they'd grab a few pre-packaged, sanitary tamales from the freezer section. I believe these are the same tamale-buying people who feel opposed to contracting Legionnaires' disease or bacterial meningitis or scurvy or whatever you get from eating parking lot tamales.

I also believe I'd like to just stay home for the rest of the month.

Things I don't need

I have this ability to make myself believe I really need things I don't really need. I've gotten better about this, but sometimes I have to exercise extreme amounts of willpower to talk myself out of purchases. Last night, I wanted this bag but opted out. I still think of it fondly today.

Instead, last night I got new pillows for my bed. Sleeping pillows, that are too puffy and I didn't sleep a wink.

I'm taking them back, and am still considering the bag.

I can sleep on this bag, right?

Stupid DSL

I had an amazing post all ready to write, but my DSL decided to go on the fritz tonight. So, I'll have to write it tomorrow. 

I hate that.

Separated at birth?

I used to really like Tim Gunn the first seasons of Project Runway, but since he's taken on Tim Gunn's Guide to Style, he's starting to sound a lot like Stuart Smalley. I was particularly taken aback by the latest promo on Bravo when he's introducing a woman to Top Chef's Padma Lakshmi because they both have heinous, bubbling arm scars.

Tim says, "See Padma? You both have a scar..." Just the way he says it is so... well, Stuart.

I was waiting for him to say, "You're good enough. You're smart enough. And doggoneit, people like you." Tim Gunn should just stick to "making it work" because it works better for him.

Grammar police

After making the unfortunate mistake of watching a rerun of "The Real Housewives of Orange County" tonight, I came away with but one simple request: If you're going on television, please use proper grammar and/or vocabulary words. Well thought-out sentences might also be nice.

Here are things that made me cringe after just one episode:

• "I needed to excape from things..." (Second biggest grammatical pet peeve on the list just after people who say "expecially.")
  
• "I don't really know the 'pacifics' of what happened." (I think she meant to say, "I don't know the specifics of what happened.")
  
• "I have had some trouble with the Hummer. What can I say? It's a Hummer."
  
• "She's doing good."
  
• "We're going to the ranch... if you wanna' come out to the ranch, we'll leave the clicker." (I still don't know what a "clicker" is. Garage door opener, perhaps? Remote control? Small chicken?)
  
• "I started taking 'rill' estate classes..." (Pronunciation is our friend, too.)
• "We're sisters, but we don't fight... I don't think we've ever foughten."

These are the same people who complain that moving into a $1.9 million home after living in a $3.5 million home is "downsizing" and an example of falling on unsuccessful "hard times." I should have known better than to continue watching.

On food...

I have the palate of a six-year-old. I'll put it that simply. If I could get away with eating only grilled cheese sandwiches, Fruity Pebbles and french toast without getting very very large, I'd do it. Lately, the only foods that sound good are Lean Cuisine dinners. Sure, they're teeny-tiny and they don't fill you up, but it's better than overeating. Throw into the mix that I don't eat red  meat, and only occasionally eat chicken, and they make it easier to eat something rather than coming home from work and foraging from a can of dry Stove-Top Stuffing mix.

Since I had to cut my workout short today (since I'm apparently Pavlov's workout dog and can't continue on a treadmill if my music ends with a dead iPod battery) I thought I'd come home and have a little Lean Cuisine action to curb my hunger. I hate grocery shopping. I like to get in, get food and get out. I'm not one of those who will stand there and discuss the subtle nuances of margarine. I also don't like to stand there with the freezer section door open, like many who try to become expert-level in that activity. Here are the best, and worst Lean Cuisine dinners to save you some time when you're at the grocery store. 

The good:

Asian-Style Pot Stickers, 4 grams of fat, 260 calories- Currently my top favorite. These taste the least like "healthy" tv dinners and I really like the texture. But be warned: these require you put them in the microwave for eight minutes at half-power. I put one in for nine minutes at full power one time on accident, and I got Asian-Style Roof Shingles. Also, be warned these are tricky to find in the grocery store. In fact, I've only ever found them at Wal-Mart, and that means you have to go to Wal-Mart.

Butternut Squash Ravioli, 9 grams of fat, 350 calories- More fat than I'd like, but these taste pretty good. I was once turned onto real butternut squash ravioli at a local restaurant that quit making it when they changed up their menu years ago, and this is in the same neighborhood. I won't say it's comparable because microwave dinners are crap, but if it's all you've got time for, this dinner is a good one. Be again warned: If you microwave this at work for lunch, your co-workers will say it smells like barf.

Chicken Fried Rice bowl, 6 grams of fat, 280 calories- This is another "fake Asian" dinner, but it isn't so bad. The bowls seem a little bigger than the skimpy dinners so you feel like you're eating more. There were bits of unidentifiable substance that I later assumed were "eggs."

The Bad:

Salmon with Basil, 6 grams of fat, 220 calories- I got this because I like the calorie count. I tried it and a little part of me died. Not only is not fresh salmon fishy and gross, but not fresh microwaved salmon is like dining at Satan's buffet. I once heard this dinner was used as a torture device in the Middle East, but it was too cruel so they had to ship it off for pathetic public consumption in the United States.

Grilled Chicken Primavera, 5 grams of fat, 220 calories- This was so unfulfilling and horrible tasting I wanted my money back and actually considered writing to Lean Cuisine to let them know I was sending them a flaming bag of poop in retaliation. In fact, I figured that eating the inner wall of my grandmother's coffin might taste better than Lean Cuisine's grilled chicken primavera, but that might have more calories so I decided against it.

Because my mom rarely cooked (thank god) while growing up, I've eaten a lot of microwavable meals, and in all, these dinners are actually pretty decent for you if you can get past the taste of most. They have salt in them to make them taste better, but still only about 20%-30% of the daily value of sodium, so they're not bad. They're decidedly better than anything made from the Smart Ones line, as I once had the misfortune of eating their chicken alfredo pizza and landed in the hospital for two days with salmonella.

On my list of New Year's resolutions? Finally learn to freaking cook real food and try new things! 

The muppet is gone

When I first moved into where I live, now dubbed "Greg Brady Paradise," I went on a shopping spree to get as much faux fur or shag covered anything I could possibly find. After hitting some kind of warehouse sale, I found an enormous hot pink flokati body pillow which I used as a seat cushion for my 1970s retro love nook/fireplace lounge which is a major component to the kitschey-ness of where I live. Who doesn't love pink shag when you're living in a 1970s wood paneled oasis? Until today. Today I learned pink shag anything is a fantastic idea, unless you find out you've got a major Box Elder bug infestation for three months out of the year. If that's the case, you find out there are bug bodies embedded in the shag, too far for even a vacuum to suck. 

After finally getting a new dryer today, I went on a massive, house-wide cleaning and vacuuming kick. First stop, the love nook. After this summer's bug invasion, I was putting off the vacuuming of the six-million insect corpses that had collected in piles within said love nook. But today was the day. Into the nook for some major cleaning, and as I hoisted the fur body pillow off the built-in naugahyde banquette, it sounded like a rain stick. There were so many bugs that had crawled into the lining of the pillow and died that it actually made noise.

Much screaming and shouting of several four-letter words ensued, and I decided I had to part with the pink shag pillow. I couldn't have it in my house just knowing it was tainted with icky. I said a few kind words to honor the pink shag, and then I lovingly carried it outside, trying not to touch it too much because it was just disgusting.

As I lifted the hot pink fur maraca into the dumpster, I was hit by a wave of sadness. Nothing hot pink and furry should face such a horrible fate. I'll miss you hot pink furry shag body pillow, you held a special place in my heart and in my retro love nook, and I hope you have a better future than I could give you-- stuffed full of dead bug carcasses.

Before it's midnight...

I saw some guy driving today and he was brushing his teeth. While driving.

Seriously, haven't we taken multitasking too far?

Direct Marketing?

It's that time of year where companies inundate us with their catalogs, with the hopes we'll spend our hard-earned money with them. I'm okay with getting the giant Victoria's Secret holiday panty catalog, because I'm sure I'll wear the cover's hot pink "naughty Santa" outfit everywhere I go from now until the end of the year. I'm even okay with the occasional Harry and David catalog since I did order Moose Crunch from them several years ago. But I draw the line when I get a catalog to something that just does not apply to me. Not. Even. Remotely.

I don't know how I end up on some of the mailing lists I'm on, but in this era of getting and staying "green," I wish some companies would just save their money. Here are just a few of the catalogs I've received in the last week:

The Catholic Company- I knew I shouldn't have ordered that statue of St. Joseph when my mom was trying to sell the house last Winter. We're not Catholic. We've never been Catholic. But my mom really needed something to help get the house sold and if something as simple as burying St. Joe upside-down in the backyard gives a little inspiration, I was willing to give it a shot. Now The Catholic Company won't leave me alone. Maybe that's the penance I must pay for not being a follower in the first place.

Plow and Hearth- Products for the home, garden and hearth, which sound very nice if you have a home, garden and/or hearth. I live in an apartment, I don't have a yard and my fireplace is encased in wood paneling, circa 1972.

Cabela's Fly Fishing Catalog- Last time I checked, I don't like hiking, I don't like camping and I certainly don't like fly fishing. Even the people for whom I might buy gifts that like hiking and camping are too busy drinking at the end of a trek to fly fish. I've never stepped inside Cabela's, and have heard their famed "mountain of dead things" within the store is a little creepy. 

The Alzheimer's Store- Complete with products to help promote independence and memory, along with helping out pesky incontinence, The Alzheimer's Store is the perfect place to order gifts that are new every time you look at them (presumably because you've forgotten you've received them in the first place?). For the life of me, I can not figure out why I would get this catalog in the mail.

Having worked in a past life at a direct marketing advertising agency, even I am schooled enough in the trade to know that you should research your mailing list. If the profiles do not fit what you're selling, then you lose money by marketing to them. The practice of marketing is not rocket science. This holiday season I have but one request for the many companies trying to make a buck: Save your money plus save a couple of trees in the process by sparing me unnecessary junk. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

As the Irish say, "May you always have a clean shirt, a clear conscience and enough coins in your pocket to buy a pint!"

Trials of the teeny-tiny Nano

I love going to the gym because I always witness messed up things. I don't even have to make up something like "my ex-boyfriend was working out next to me and he's so dumb" kinds of stories because I always witness messed up things that are always comedy gold. Just last night at the gym, I witnessed an event that makes me wonder if smaller tech-toys are necessarily better.

Technology is funky. I didn't think it was possible for iPods to get tinier, but they have. I remember last November when I got my new Shuffle, I bet some folks at a party to swallow it-- just because they could. It seemed that small! I also never thought I'd see the day when my 3rd generation 10Gb iPod was considered a clunky, antiquated brick. But now it is.

Last night I was on the elliptical trainer at the gym when this couple who was making out right in front of me decided to actually get their tongues out of each others' mouths and get their asses on the nearby row of treadmills. After walking for maybe 30 seconds, the makeout girl jumps off the treadmill and starts frantically searching around for something. I noticed her headphone cord just dangling there without an electronic device, and I figured she must have flipped it out of her pocket and it was probably somewhere around her makeout, err, workout space.

After poking around for a few minutes in all the nearby equipment, the couple decided to take some action and grab the ever-helpful "gonna sign you up for a gym membership" guys. He waddled over to the treadmill, lifted it up to have a look-see underneath, then set it back down. Thorough assessment.

The membership guy left to go and get the parking lot greeter guy while the couple started kissing again and I thought to myself, "Wow, I've been watching this for twenty minutes now!" After a few more minutes, parking lot greeter guy waddled over to the treadmill, lifted it up to have a look-see underneath, then set it back down. Thorough assessment. He left to get a screwdriver while the couple, you guessed it, started kissing again.

It was at this point that the look of disgust crept over my face as I stared at the kissing couple with contempt. I hate public displays of affection anyway, sweaty public displays of affection are just wrong-- me sweaty, them sweaty, the guy next to me sweaty, whatever-- it's all wrong. Though nearly 40 minutes had passed and my workout was almost finished, there was no way I was going to miss the outcome to this twisted tale of teeny technology (nor the great alliteration). Parking lot greeter returned and had to completely disassemble the treadmill. He took the entire front portion off, plus he had to lift up the belt to look inside where, lo and behold, sat the makeout girl's Nano.

Makeout girl had made the one in a million shot to successfully sink her iPod puck right into that itty bitty slot in the front of the treadmill where the belt goes in. Amazing. Some hockey players should be so lucky. There's no way it could ever happen again. Of course, the celebratory couple kissed, then decided they'd be better off taking their workout home and they left. Thank goodness they did, I had been going at "plaid speed" on my elliptical for nearly an hour and thought I was going to have a heart attack trying to run and not laugh at the whole weird scene.

I'll say it again: Technology. Funky. Sometimes makes me wish for a mammoth brick "Zach phone" like on Saved by the Bell.

Chilling

I find this picture totally chilling and I'm afraid it's going to haunt my dreams. I am afraid if I go to a park it is going to leap out from behind a tree and hack through my Achilles tendon with a serrated knife.

As much as I think Hello Kitty is fantastic and love the bread my Hello Kitty toaster toasts, I am afraid this version is going to kill me in my sleep.

It's scarier than the dream I had Sunday night when a scary guy with a weedwacker chasing a scooter-riding midget started weedwacking my feet while I was trying to drive a topless Jeep down a hill.

What would a dream analyst say about that?

Little beauties

I hurried home for lunch today for about 40 minutes to eat a Lean Cuisine and numb my brain with a little daytime television. When I turned on the TV to find last night's decision to watch VH1, I found one of the most disturbing shows I've seen in a long time: Little Beauties-- Ultimate Kiddie Queen Showdown. Of course, I couldn't take my eyes off the train wreck of a show, I had to watch it until I finally went back to work.

This show lets viewers delve into the seedy underbelly of child beauty pageants, and actually made me a little sick to my stomach. These little girls are six-years-old, yet their stagemothers are hell-bent on hairspraying them straight into painted adulthood. I don't have kids, but judging from the looks of many of these little girls, they'd probably rather be playing with Barbie than acting like her on stage.

Not only do many of these little girls sport dyed hair, and faces spackled with troweled-on makeup, but since some are losing their baby teeth, they also rock fake teeth retainers called "flippers" which give them that Colgate grin. A phony little smile costs the parents a pretty penny too, as they willingly shell out $200-$300 to temporarily fill in any gaps.

The costs don't stop there, a wardrobe can cost thousands of dollars while each individual pageant charges a hefty fee just for putting a tap shoe on the stage. (Many girls attend five to ten pageants a year.) Don't forget the essential spray-on tan and pageant coach to get the extra edge over the rest of the competition. (One article I later read quotes a woman revealing "I know people who have spent so much on pageants, they lost their trailers.") Are the judges looking for natural beauty or the biggest bank account to build a beauty?

I won't even discuss the swimsuit competition. Swimsuit competition!? These girls are six-years-old, do these pageants really build their confidence or do they set them on an early fast-track to lifelong disappointment? 

Far be it for me to speak out against something a little girl would genuinely aspire to do, I started dancing at three-years-old and still haven't stopped, but how can these girls be encouraged to display the same behaviors that often get grown women ridiculed? Clearly I've been mulling this over in my head for the better part of the afternoon and have come to the conclusion these pageants aren't glittery, they're gruesome.

Sorry!

Just a quick post...

For those of you who had a link to your blog on my site, I accidentally deleted the list and didn't realize it until just now. I had the brilliant idea over the weekend to change up the template, and when I realized the template I liked was all in Spanish, I tried changing things back and really screwed up the works.

Anyhow, I have fixed things and your link is there again, and I hope you didn't think I didn't like you (or your blog) anymore.

I'm spiritually challenged...

For some odd reason, tonight I was compelled to drag myself off the couch and head to Jazz Vespers. One problem, it was at a Unitarian church, and I think I'm scared of churches. Never being religious, I wasn't sure what I was getting myself into, but I went anyway. If nothing else, I was finally pulling myself together for the day.

After driving around for ten minutes in search of a parking spot, rockstar parking opened up right in front of the building. Since it's Sunday and since I was headed to a church, I figured, "This is a sign!"

Notsomuch. I opened the heavy white door to the beautiful building and walked inside to find a seat. I grabbed a program, looked at it for a couple of minutes, looked at the congregation sitting inside, turned around and left. Seriously, I was there for maybe two minutes before I got back into my car and drove away.

I'm not quite sure what my hangups were. I don't know if I felt consumed by the awkward uncertainty of being in a holy place or if I knew I'd get upset if I listened to jazz music this weekend; it might've even been a little bit of guilt for getting together with friends last night and drinking a bottle of wine while playing with an ouija board.

Then I figured out I was probably just hungry so I went for crappy Chinese food. Apparently my sense of enlightenment tonight was found through cashew chicken and Tsingtao.

Oh thank heaven...

Tonight I had to stop by the old 7-11 to pick up some cheapie beer to take to a girl friend's porch party and of course, I got carded.

The attendant said to me, "1970s? You don't look that old!" Which I took sort of as a compliment (since my birthday is soon and I've felt a teensy bit sorry for myself this weekend), but just said, "Yep, it's a fun bet at parties." He said, "Well, you can drink a little, but just don't smoke one of those," as he pointed to one of the little fake silk roses next to the register. You know, the fake roses that are sold inside the little clear plastic tube with a cork in the top?

I said, "I shouldn't smoke fake silk roses?"

"No," he said, "the plastic tube." I gave him an odd look and said, "I don't think I'll be smoking a plastic tube anytime soon."

Then he got annoyed by my apparent naivety. "Are you serious? You mean, you don't know that people smoke crack out of those?"

"I won't be smoking any of that either," I said as I walked out of the store.

I find this conversation odd on many levels. 1) That my getting carded for beer and not looking "that old" would lead to the topic of crack smoking. 2) That he was so shocked that not everyone in the world was aware crack smokers use fake silk rose tubes as a crack pipe. 3) That he somehow must've thought I was a crack smoker to crack the crack joke in the first place.

It's amazing what you can randomly learn on a Saturday afternoon in Salt Lake City. Oh thank heaven for 7-11.

Nostalgia, part deux

As I was scanning pictures earlier this week, I ran across this picture of my mom and I at Thanksgiving at my grandparents' house. This picture is particularly funny to me since she and I are both obvious divas-- looking fabulous, with cocktails. Since it's about that time of year, I thought I'd continue to reminisce a bit about how happy the holidays were.

When I was younger, we used to head over to my dad's parents house with the whole family, for turkey and libations. My grandmother used to pull out the gold flatware and metallic plates, while my grandpa was master turkey-carver. It was one Thanksgiving where I found out I didn't like ham, and that the gooey glaze on top made me throw up. After that, I was allowed Capt'n Crunch with crunchberries for most holidays. I still don't like ham.

Beyond that, everything else has changed. The family has changed, the spirit has changed. This year will be spent working and then my mom and I will head out for Chinese food and a movie. We did that last year, and the new James Bond movie gave us a couple of hours of uninterrupted diversion. Last year was a rough Thanksgiving, but Daniel Craig in a Speedo is extremely helpful in dulling emotions. The Chinese food provided sufficient departure from any turkey-related memories.

It's healthier to live in the now and create new memories, because nothing will take us back to those times at grandma's house. In a weird way, this picture predicted the future-- it's still my mom and I; looking fabulous, with cocktails, obvious divas. Old habits die hard.

I have to disagree

Today it was revealed that Matt Damon is People Magazine's sexiest man alive for 2007. The headline to this post reveals my opinion, I disagree. While Matt Damon is moderately sexy, I don't think he is the sexiest man in 2007, there are sexier. Sure, he's gotten better since Good Will Hunting (even though the Boston accent is always a plus), but I'm a firm believer that the Ben Affleck of that era is far sexier.

I think Matt Damon is the poor man's Leonardo DiCaprio. There, I said it.

Others on the list include:

Patrick Dempsey- I wholeheartedly agree, though after watching the recent E! True Hollywood Story on him, he was kind of a butthole early on in his career. He's mellowed, and I think that's made him even McDreamier.

Ryan Reynolds- I actually walked out of Van Wilder, not a high point in his career. Though his strong points include dumping Alanis Morrissette and the fact that he's 6'2".

Brad Pitt- I'm over Brad Pitt being on this list. There needs to become a point where these men no longer make the list. Also, he always looks dirty-- even when he's supposedly cleaned up. He also looks like he smells bad.

James Mcavoy- A Scottish nobody who speaks too highly of Kiera Knightly after performing a love scene in a movie. Turn on- Scottish accent. Turn off- Smells of haggis.

Johnny Depp- See the above commentary on Brad Pitt and smelling bad. Though Johnny Depp is a bit more palatable since he's extremely quirky and eccentric. And he was Edward Scissorhands. I also still have dreams of 21 Jump Street.

Dave Annable- I have no idea who this guy is. I don't watch Brothers and Sisters, but in his publicity shot for this story he's depicted rolling around with a giant, smelly dog.

Will Smith- I have always liked him, but don't we think he finally has enough money for ear-pinning surgery? I mean, if they'd needed extra lift for the spaceship in Independence Day, he could've flapped those suckers and taken flight.

Javier Bardem- Hot. Smoking hot. I will sit through Love in the Time of Cholera at least twice to gaze upon his loveliness.

Shemar Moore- Who? Hot though.

Ben Affleck- You couldn't name Matt Damon the Sexiest Man Alive without including the man joined at his hip, now could you? I have already mentioned I think Ben Affleck is extremely hot, only diminished slightly by the fact he was engaged to J-Lo. (Remember Bennifer 1.0?)

Adrian Grenier- I'm torn on this. He's like a two-face in that sometimes he looks really great, and other times he kind of has that "I don't change my t-shirt, jeans or wash my hair" look. For personal reasons, I refuse to watch Entourage but that isn't his fault-- it's Jeremy Piven's. He's Satan's minion.

Will Yun Lee- Again, I say, "Who?"

Justin Timberlake- Hot. In fact, I never really thought so until recently, but he's growing out of his weirdness. Plus, he can dance and that's a trait I constantly search for in men. Sure he dated Britney, but that was when she was cute too.

And from the online list I'm wondering where are Daniel Craig, Alex O'Loughlin and Eric Dane? I'd better see something else in the print edition or I'm going to be very disappointed.

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.

Major appliance repair made simple...

For the last two months, my dryer has been threatening complete and total death. Sometimes it smells like burning, sometimes it sounds like grinding, most times it works for two minutes then shuts off.

Since I can't justify spending money I simply don't have right now, I decided to try a little major appliance repair the other night, thus proving bad things happen when I decide to emulate something I'd see on the TLC network. First, I researched my particular type of dryer, and after locating an online "manual" (and by "manual" I mean poor, worthless illustration) decided that was all I needed to guide my way through Screwdriverland.

That, and after a few glasses of wine, it was time to try my handiwork.

I got out my toolbox (yes, my daddy once got me a toolbox. Contrary to popular belief, it's NOT one of those "I'm trying to be so hard to be cute" pink toolboxes.) and after digging through old Sam Adams caps and thumbtacks, found a Phillips. Or flathead. Or something. Funny that you can have something so perfectly orchestrated in your head and when you're sitting there in front of a surly dryer, nothing makes much sense. I unscrewed a few things, and I got scared and screwed them back in. Yay. I know how to unscrew and screw things back in. I just wish something would unscrew me from all of this.

Finally, I let the dryer have it. Two years of bitterness and frustration and pent-up sorrow came out through my feet into the bottom of the dryer. First a few timid kicks, and then full-out Billy Blanks tae-bo, followed by a string of expletives rivaled by shore-leave.

"F**K cancer that kills our loved ones!"
"F**K the Cleveland Indians!"
"F**K that girl in elementary school who used my Crayola markers and dulled all the tips and put the colors out of order!"
You know, all the really important stuff to get upset about and kick the shit out of a clothes dryer...

Lo and behold, the dryer worked. It started, and it stayed on for a full drying cycle. Sure, it's not a permanent fix, but for a temporary solution, who says violence doesn't solve anything?

Sigh...

Why do we always want what we can't have?

I want to eat a pizza without feeling guilty.

I want to see the Red Sox in the World Series from Fenway this year.

I want to stop feeling like I should be doing something bigger.

I want to have skinny thighs that haven't been bulked up through nearly three decades of dance.

I want to open bills I get in the mail without anxiety.

And yep, I want to have someone say words as eloquently to me as McDreamy did to Meredith tonight.

Utah's Catholic Connection

The headline for this incident really caught my eye. It read "Former Salt Lake City Bishop Niederauer apologizes for serving communion to activists in drag." I don't know if I'm tired or if the headline could've been better written, but my brain thought the former Utah bishop had dressed in drag himself and got in trouble for serving communion while dressed as such.

After reading the article twice, I realized it was the activists who were dressed in drag as nuns. I can't speak to religion, however, I believe an activist's message is discredited whenever they have to cause a scene. I'm all for free speech, I'm just not for tacky-- actions or lipstick.

It sucks at S'bux

Quickly, while I let my brain take a minute to process all the writing I've done today, I have to mention I'm increasingly irritated with Starbucks.

Not only do they have more money than God, baby Jesus, and Michael Eisner, but now they've really overstepped their bounds. I'm talking about anonymity-- mine to be exact. I don't like giving my name with each order so they can call it out when it's ready. I don't like it when strangers use my name. It goes back to all those old, elementary school "Stranger Danger" videos they'd show in health.

What's more, why is it necessary for Starbucks to ask for my name when I'm in the drive-up? They can only get to one order at a time, there's only room for one vehicle at the window, it's not like they're going to call it out. This is about as well thought-out as having braille on the driver's side ATM.

I want to give Starbucks a fake name. I want them to shout out "Amanda Huggenkiss! I've got coffee for Amanda Huggenkiss!" It will never happen. My fake name wouldn't match the name I've got on my debit card, and then I'd go to jail for credit fraud or something. All because Starbucks wants to mess with the system. One more reason to patronize locally-owned coffee shops-- the people who call out your name are friends.

Thoughts on technology

Technology is supposed to make our lives easier; microwaves make dinner faster, cell phones put us in touch with the world anytime, and I dare say a college Mass Comm Law paper would’ve been much better without tackling an old-school card catalog.

Though life is probably much simpler than it was even when my parents were my age, technology is making it tougher to date in 2007. While we used to go out and meet people face-to-face, it is now entirely possible in this age to sit behind the screen and date the Macbook. It also makes it easy to check up on old flames, to Google potential dates, to profile a real-life person with their online profiles. Today, technology is making me wonder, “Can we know too much?” Is ignorance bliss? Is it better to risk meeting an axe-murder in a bar?

A little less than a decade ago, I met someone who is a very cute, fairly prominent photographer in the area. He took pictures for a short-lived fashion magazine, and one night he just showed up at a party I was throwing. I had invited the neighbors, they had invited their friends and before I knew it, I was manning the blender for 50 of my favorite friends and the strangers they had brought with them.

Eventually, it became too much dating the cute photographer because of my own insecurities. To me, I wasn’t skinny enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, and I absolutely believed I could never compare to the models he saw each day through his lens. And in my very mature way (hey, I was in my early-twenties, after all) I eventually quit speaking to him. Since then, I’ve come to terms with myself-- my body, my looks, my entire being, and even though he moved to another city, I have actually gone out with the cute photographer on a few occasions whenever he happens to be in town.

Very recently, he called me to come and “hang out” “sometime soon” during a photo shoot in another city, which sounds like it could be a nice change of pace. And since I find myself continually in need of a change of pace, and continually turned on by very cute photographers, I have recently given more thought to the idea. I have given so much thought to this person from my past that I even gave into a little “crush-Googling,” where I quickly became aware of something:

Technology is a dirty bitch. I discovered a program for a 2006 charity event where there was a listing for a “Mrs. and Mrs. [very cute photographer].” Now here’s the dilemma:
Was this two women who happen to share his same name?
Was this a type-O and he’s married?
Was this a totally different couple, even though his name has a fairly uncommon spelling?
Was I a stalker for even Googling this in the first place?

So many questions that now I can’t possibly call him without sounding like a freak. Do I just blurt out, “Um, so, are you married, or what?”

I think that technology brings out the best in humanity as a whole, but the worst in each of us as individuals because it’s taken away a lot of honest interaction. Rather than pick up the phone and talk, we would rather email the co-worker sitting two cubicles away. Eventually, this makes us very content to keep our personal relationships behind the keyboard...

Or become emotionally confused while forever wondering, “What if?”

Don't dream it... be it.

So, here's my costume for Rocky Horror in a couple of weeks. I've tried to make this picture look like me to really entice people to come and see the show.

Except I won't wear my glasses.

And the alto sax in this picture isn't to scale, it's smaller.

And the boobs in this picture aren't to scale, they're smaller too.

I see you shiver...

It's time to get your tickets and now you can do that online by clicking here or pasting this url into your browser: http://www.rockyhorrorinconcert.com/index.html

Where else will you see this much skin in one place? I mean, besides the ward picnic!

The anniversary

Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of my greatest personal loss, and it was extremely anti-climactic. In fact, the build-up throughout the week was probably more traumatic than yesterday. Yesterday was... just another day. I don't know what I expected, really, if I would get haunted or if my dad would walk in and say he was just kidding, but nothing.

I watched the latest episode of Moonlight.

I went to the gym.

I washed my hair.

Part of me feels extremely guilty that I've gotten on with my life, a feat I didn't think I'd be able to do last year at this time. And for that, part of me feels a giant sense of accomplishment.