The Inside of My Head

We Interrupt This Regularly Scheduled Blog Post. . . .

2011-02-13T08:20:00.003-06:00

. . . for a ~~blatant plug~~ marvelous glimpse at the fruits of my friend Angie's imagination! If you haven't been over to Handmade Hugs lately, lookit what you've been missing!

Hugs for your neck, your wrist, your fingers, your wine glass stems, and even your walls. She'll customize anything in her shop with your favorite colors, too, so yours will be unlike anyone else's! Aren't they pretty?

It's Called "Following Distance", Ya Jag!

2011-02-06T08:39:00.006-06:00

A few facts before I launch into my story.

Fact: I drive a Jeep.
Corollary: Yay four-wheel-drive!
Corollary: Boo, utter bullshit visibility from the old, cracked, scratched up plastic back window.
Corollary: I can hear everything that happens outside my vehicle as though I were driving with my window open.

Fact: My "driving formative years" were spent in climates where snow was rare, and certainly didn't accumulate over a few inches (namely, southern New Mexico and southeast Texas).

Fact: People who grew up driving in the Greater Chicagoland area drive in the snow, and on icy roads as though it's just another sunny day. It's terrifying.

Fact: I've been driving here for about nine years now; I aught to be used to driving in winter conditions, but I'm just not. Sue me.

But luckily, I have common sense; it tells me I should drive slowly and not follow anyone too closely on icy roads, and I pay good heed to that sense. This strategy apparently stuck in some sports-car driver's craw (no doubt, a native).

I was driving to work Thursday morning, the day after our big blizzard. The sky was clear, and the roads had been plowed, but there was a thick enough layer of ice on the road that driving felt more like off-roading. People were sliding around like crazy, and I was doing my best to navigate all the treacherous road conditions, and dodge other cars.

I was halfway through Gary (a city derelict in general street maintenance even on a good day), driving in the right-hand lane so as not to offend anyone with my vexing attempts at preserving my life and the good repair of my Jeep. I noticed the vague shape of a smallish car out my ruined back window, driving way too close to me. A glance in the side-view proved it to be a small black Civic, naturally tricked out like the owner thought he was starring in Fast and the Furious.

The light we were approaching turned red, and instead of stomping on my brakes and sending myself careening off in some undesired direction, I began down-shifting to slow myself down; I rolled to a gradual stop about two car-lengths behind the guy ahead of me. You know, just in case. The Civic stopped so close to my bumper I couldn't see his headlights anymore. I suspected he did this intentionally, but let it go.

The light changed, and we began moving. I could hear Civic's engine racing behind me, and driving way too close. I could actually see the owner gesticulating. Ridiculous! My window is in such bad shape, I should't be able to make out anything but headlights! It made me nervous, but I ignored him and made my cautious way along. Civic eased up off my tail, and began flashing his lights at me. Was that supposed to goad me into driving recklessly?!

Poor Civic was in for a nasty surprise- I am not affected AT ALL by road rage. My attitude toward my fellow motorists is a pretty solid Whatever, whether they're cutting me off, creeping into my lane, honking, using the shoulder to get past stalled traffic- it doesn't matter. I'm completely imperturbable.

Anyway, since the light flashing didn't seem to have the desired effect, Civic left his lights on high-beams, and tapped his horn. The lane to my left was clear- he could've opted to move over and go around me at any time. I guess he thought laying on his horn was the better option.

I rolled to a stop at the next light, twoish car-lengths behind the guy in front of me. Civic rode back up my bumper, obscuring his high-beams. He rolled down his window and started yelling at me. Yelling at me! I couldn't believe it! Cautiously, I cracked my door open and looked behind me. He paused in his tirade. He seemed somehow surprised by me.

"Pick up the pace, sister!," he finished lamely.

"Just go around me!" I replied calmly. The light turned green, and I shut my door on whatever it was he was about to say to me. The left lane filled up, and he missed his opportunity to bypass me. He continued raging behind me, and I was not looking forward to the next stop light.

By now, traffic was dense, and he was attracting the attention of everyone around him. I could see the car next to me frowning into his rearview, and the passenger craning around to get a better look at the spectacle behind me. We came to a stop at the next light, and I decided opening my door wasn't a good idea, so I just sat there while he delivered his stream of abuses from his open window. I hoped he was freezing his nose off.

"It's called 'Following Distance', ya jag!" I heard another voice chime in. To my surprise, I saw the passenger in the car next to me hanging out of her window, addressing my tormentor. Civic replied something in a smaller voice. I didn't catch what he said, but the Amazon passenger apparently did. She thrust her door open, and stepped her nearly-six foot frame out of the car and stalked over toward my erstwhile traffic-persecutor. I cracked my door and peeked out as Civic was furiously rolling his window up.

"Oh, you not such a big man now, huh? Roll ya window back down and say that shit to mah face, white boy!" She rapped lightly on his window, and then (OMG!) tried the door handle.

"That's what I thought. Pussy," she said with a charming smile and stalked back to her car. She winked at me and got back in. Civic turned at the next light, and the remainder of my ride to work went without incident.

Cafeteria

2011-02-04T08:49:00.000-06:00

Shelly sat in the old cafeteria where nobody was allowed to sit; sitting in there would bring ruin.
She had found something that was hers. She clutched it to herself and began to cry.
As the tears fell to the soil, more things came to the surface to be found, things that shouldn't be found.
Things better left in the past.
One was a piece of inscribed glass that said The Love I Should Never. . . it crumbled to dust in my hand before I could finish reading it.
A doll turned to me and spoke, and i spoke back, silencing it.
I told her and Jessica to leave- I had to start it on fire.
I went to the wall and traced my fingertips in circles on it.
I stroked it slowly, encouraging it to ignite.
The wall bulged in a spot in front of my face, and a long forked tongue the size of my arm burst forth.
I caressed it, moving both hands up and down along its slippery wet length, feeling the dormant strength of it.
I knew who it belonged to.
Flames began to lick the wall where I had touched it, and I opened the cabinet to prepare the denizens for their awakening.
I bared my breasts.
I yanked the clothing and spite from Shelly and began to adorn her.
I placed an amber choker around her neck, an amber spiral around her arm, amber shackles around her ankles, an amber phallus into her vagina and I was interrupted before I could place the jewel on her brow.
Her forgiveness would not be complete, then.
A crowd still milled around, waiting to see what would happen.
I screamed for them to leave, but they couldn't hear me.
Fools. . .they would give up their lives for a good show?
I left them to regret their fate.
I turned back to the cabinet and the children had begun to crawl toward the doors.
One by one, I tore the flesh away from them and released the firey creatures trapped inside.
They skittered about, finally free, dripping trails of burning brimstone behind them.
The fire began in earnest.
I went back to the wall, stroking the tongue, and the owner began to emerge behind it.
He couldn't see me, but i could see him.
I pressed my naked breasts on him, crooning to him, willing him to see me.
My flesh seared where it met his.
Power coursed through me.
My mouth opened to say his name and complete the event.

Willpower, Why Hath Thou Forsaken Me?

2011-02-02T08:59:00.002-06:00

I know, I really have a flair for the over-dramatic, but it just hasn't been a good past couple of days. Monday I talked myself into cheesecake (yes, that same cheesecake I blogged about on Monday; that same cheesecake that caused my coworker to call me out on my whiny bitchism). I tracked it, though, and I was determined to not let that piece of lemony, blueberry-ey goodness put a wedge in my week. (Get it? A wedge in my week? Okay, sorry. Moving on. . .)

Then I got some pretty awful news last night. Not good, seeing as how I'm an honest-to-God, dyed-in-the-wool emotional eater. So maybe I can't exactly articulate how terrible news translates to Taco Bell, but it did last night- a seven layer burrito and a nacho supreme. I know, I know! I could have at least eaten off the Fresco menu, but I didn't.

I was tempted not to track it. . . okay, I'd totally decided not to track it and just throw in the towel for the week. But then I got up this morning and decided I just had to know the damage, so I looked it up and tracked it. Turns out it didn't completely wreck my week (I've got 8 weeklies left, and this is my WI day). But I'm still upset, and worried about how that's going to impact my day.

I promise, I'll do my best not to let it.

It's Gotta Be Steaks

2011-02-01T08:30:00.001-06:00

It was our turn to go get lunch. Everyone decided on Wendy's, so we got in the truck and started heading over there. Instead of pulling into the parking lot, he decided to keep going, because he had a better lunch idea.

"Steaks," he said to me, "fast food ain't no real lunch. It's gotta be steaks." I nodded my agreement, and we headed off to get some steaks. He drove by several grocery stores, and I watched them go by but didn't point it out.

"I want fresh steaks," he said, as though I'd pointed it out.

We pulled up to this ramshackle butcher shop and went inside. He was going to get the steaks, and I was going to procure the slaw. I went over to the counter where they sold the cold salads, and the old lady told me that they were fresh out of slaw just now, but if I wanted to wait an hour, they'd have some made up. I told her never-mind and went back to the meat counter where he had only ordered four steaks.

"We need five, Hip. You're forgetting Tanya," I reminded him.

"Make it five, Mister," he told the butcher, and he disappeared through the vertical plastic strips with the loin to cut us up five filets. While we were waiting, I told him there was no slaw, and that it would take an hour to make some more. I was itching to get back because we'd already been gone an hour and a half, and I knew our boss was gonna have fits as soon as we walked in.

He said he knew a place on the way back that had good slaw, and black eyed peas too, so we'd hit that place up when we left. The butcher came back and passed the steaks to us wrapped up neatly in spotless white paper. I always wondered how they kept that paper so crisp and white, with no evidence of the blood and carnage it concealed.

As the butcher rang us up I realized i'd forgotten to take up everyone's money, so I paid for half and he paid for half and we'd collect when we got back.

"How're we gonna cook these?"

He didn't answer. I climbed back into the truck with my neat little white package and glanced at my watch again; we'd been gone two hours now. It was one thirty, and Steve would have left by the time we got back; poor Steve. Working all day and not getting any lunch.

We pulled up to this little hole and he went inside to buy some slaw and peas. I waited out in the truck, wondering if the bunsen burner would cook a steak well enough or would it just burn the outside. I was kind of excited to try, because we'd never had occasion to use that bunsen burner as long as I'd been working there.

He tossed some bags over to me and hopped in behind them. They smelled like edible divinity.

"You cain't cook a steak over that thing," he said as though I'd suggested it out loud. As we drove back to the lab, he tried to convince me that if I douse the steak in enough worcestershire sauce, it would seem done and I wouldn't know the difference.

"Like how they do fish for sushi up in lime juice", he concluded. I was skeptical.

What Do You Even Want?

2011-01-31T20:34:00.000-06:00

I was ~~whining~~ talking to Jessica earlier about how badly I wanted to make sweet, sweet taste bud love to a piece of cheesecake.

Me: Dude, did you hear me? Not just any cheesecake, blueberry lemon cheesecake.

Jessica (distractedly): Yeah, I heard you.

Me (outright sulking like an emo teenager just denied access to texting): Fucking Weight Watchers.

Jessica (pausing): Uh huh.

Me (finally noticing her who-cares attitude): What?

Jessica (marshaling her expression): Nothing!

Me: Seriously, what?

Jessica (scrutinizing me to see if I really wanted to know): It's just. . .

Me (prompting after a few seconds): . . . just?

Jessica: Nobody's twisting your arm to do WW, you know.

Me (taken aback): Oh, I know-

Jessica (cutting me off): So what do you want? Do you want to lose weight, or do you want a big, cheesecake-induced ass? You can't have it all. Make up your mind and quit feeling sorry for yourself.

I watched her stalk off, floundering somewhere between shocked speechlessness and How Dare You. The scales tipped all the way past How Dare You, straight to Fuck You, Bitch! I dodged her for the next couple of hours, thinking dark thoughts and hoping that somehow all her tires were on flat when she went out to the parking lot after work.

Now that I'm home and calmed down, I'm developing a little perspective. Am I really that annoying to people? True, I complain about being fat in the same breath as I whine about not being able to throw anything I want down my face with impunity, but lots of people do that. Right?

I know what I want, and it isn't possible. I can't just eat whatever I want and have the kind of body I can be proud of. So I think I'll take her question seriously: What do I want, anyway?

WARNING! I'm about to give way more information than is really tasteful, so stop reading now if you're not interested in feeling nauseous.

1. I want my belly not to poke up out of the water when I take a bath.
2. I want to be able to see my *ahem* business when I look down.
3. It would be nice if my upper arms resembled *arms* more than they do winged hams.
4. I want my entire ass to fit in the airplane seat without oozing underneath and around the arm-rests.
5. I want to see my muffin top on a milk carton, only I won't be offering a reward for finding it.
6. I want my life to be structured around things I enjoy doing, not around meals.
7. I want the strength to push my plate away, even though there's clearly still food on it.
8. I want to be able to say no thanks to sweets, and really mean it.
9. I want not to be cranky anymore when I opt out of the [insert misc. bad-for-me baked goods here] left by someone's thoughtful wife on the break room table.
10. I want not to have to spend more on clothing because that clothing requires more cloth to make.
10a. I want not to be limited by ugly plus-sized clothing.
10b. I want to stop wearing clothes that are way too big for me in the failed effort at hiding my body.

This is by no means a comprehensive list of I Want, but it's a good start. The important thing I need to remember is, I have more wants that are achievable by WW, and their fulfillment will make me happier than cheesecake.

Portion Sizes, Schmortion Sizes!

2011-01-25T14:44:00.001-06:00

At least, that's been my attitude toward fruit ever since WW decided it's "free".

The retarded thing is, I didn't even think about it until I sat at the lunch table yesterday, and after a very satisfying meal, proceeded to eat a pound of cherries (literally- I bought one pound because they were on sale). And even then I would've been oblivious if my boss hadn't pointed out that I now had none for tomorrow.

Woah. Did I just eat a whole POUND?! Why, oh, WHY didn't you point that out half a pound ago, Roz? Suddenly, I was stuffed and miserable, and I hadn't even had a single piece of chocolate. Funny how that works, isn't it?

After that, I took a gander at my tracker to see what I'd been up to for the last week. Fruit, that's what I'd been up to. I hadn't had a single veggie in nine days, and to make matters worse, I hadn't tracked a single portion size of all that fruit! I mean, some of it wasn't so bad- an apple pretty much portions itself, but grapes don't. Neither do cherries or cantaloupe chunks or craisins (which still have points, dummy!). Now I'm worried it'll keep me from a loss this week.

So, I promised my tracker I'll make at least two of my five a vegetable this coming week, and to portion out my fruit. He'll be watching, too.

The Unnecessarily Long Story Of How I Transformed Diet Cocoa Into A Packet Of Pure Awesome

2011-01-23T11:03:00.002-06:00

I bought a box of that Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet once when it was on sale for a dollar (I'm a sucker for a good sale). I took it home, all kinds of giddy about having discovered 0 point cocoa; mixed it with 3/4 cup of water, and sat down to enjoy my find.

Of course it would be practically flavorless. Ah, well, it was only a buck, so I wasn't upset about the failed experiment. I put it in my cabinet and promptly forgot about it.

Fast forward a year past it's Best Before Date to this morning. I was frowning into my tea cabinet, at a loss for which one to pick when it occurred to me that I just wasn't in the mood for some tea. I'm not a coffee drinker either, so that was out of the question, but I really wanted a cup of something warm to wake up with. That's when my eyes fell upon the long-forgotten box of Swiss Miss.

I sighed and pulled it down, wondering what the new points value was since the system changed.

Calculator: That vile stuff is no longer free, my friend.

Me: What?!

Calculator: Yup. That cup of watered down, not-quite-sweet hot chocolate will now set you back a whopping one point.

Me: . . . Life hates me.

Calculator: Sometimes.

I went to put it back in the cabinet, when the last line of instructions caught my eye: For more indulgent cocoa, make with milk instead of water.

Huh. Couldn't hurt to try, right? I have a hard time getting my milks in anyway. But upon opening the fridge, I realized we had no milk.

Me: Life really hates me.

Fridge: Yeah, sometimes. Maybe try the soy milk?

Me: I have soy milk?

Fridge: Yeah, it's buried behind the ketchup bottle, the 2 liter of Pepsi and whatever's growing in that blue tupperware bowl.

Me: Right! I bought it for my chai the other day. Thanks, man!

Fridge: You can thank me by cleaning me out today.

I exhumed the soy milk from the back of my refrigerator and calculated the points. 2 points for a cup, 1 for 3/4 cup. I decided it was reasonable, warmed it up, and proceeded to make the cocoa. I was almost afraid to taste it.

The first sip wasn't so bad, but it seemed like it was missing something. I went back into my cabinet and pulled out an unopened bag of gingerbread marshmallows I'd bought on a whim (and because they were on clearance for a buck after Christmas). Crazy, I didn't think I'd ever find a use for those things.

Calculator: You can have up to two for free.

Two seemed plenty, since the cup was pretty small. I mixed the two little gingerbread men in and took another sip. It was heavenly! Exactly what it needed! So here's the point of this unnecessarily long story- a low point recipe for yummy cocoa, while satisfying one of the two milk requirements:

1 packet Swiss Miss Sensible Sweets- Diet, 1 point
3/4 cup Soy Slender soy milk, Vanilla flavored (I bet chocolate would be awesome too!), 1 point
2 Jet Puffed Gingerbread flavored marshmallows (I'm sure any marshmallow would do nicely, but these are unbelievable if you can still find them), 0 points

Heat and enjoy!

Now I Know What People Mean When They Say, "It's not the flavor- it's the texture that sicks me out"!

2011-01-22T19:09:00.001-06:00

I'm really trying to give whole wheat pasta a chance, but it's just so. . . mealy. I haven't been able to make the leap yet, even though I started off small; I switched from semolina pasta to semolina/whole grain blend, and that wasn't so bad. The flavor was virtually identical, and the texture was only slightly off. After a few dinners, I couldn't even tell that I wasn't eating white pasta anymore.

Satisfied I'd mastered the first step toward whole-grain-dom, I tried to take it to the next level: I bought a box of whole wheat spaghetti. The flavor was noticeably different, and not even unpleasantly so, but I couldn't believe how NASTY the texture was! I thought at first that I'd undercooked it, so I threw it back in the water and boiled it for a while longer. It got mushier, but it retained its graininess, and I ended up just chucking the whole thing and going back to my blend.

Every now and then, I'll come across a box that promises improved texture (I must not be the only one who thinks it's inedibly gritty), and I buy it, full of hope that this time will be the time I can finally convert to whole grain. I go home and cook it, all the while suppressing the fear that the manufacturer was lying to me; my fears are always realized, and I mutter curses at them for robbing me of ~2$. Jerks.

"I'm Full" vs. ". . . But I Already Paid For It!"

2011-01-21T20:07:00.000-06:00

It's another whiny Weight Watcher's post, so feel free to skip it if you want to. I won't be offended, I promise!

One of the things WW tries to teach us ~~fat chicks~~ chronic over eaters is how to stop eating before we're so stuffed our pants ~~that are already straining at the seams like a busted can of refrigerator biscuits~~ don't feel comfortable.

I don't know about yall, but I was raised in the Eat What's On Your Plate, There Are Starving Children In China generation. This has had a couple of results: 1) I'm less wasteful, 2) I feel guilty when I don't finish my food, and 3) I learned to completely disregard my brain's natural For The Love of GOD Will You PLEASE Put The Fork Down signals at such an early age that I never learned what "satisfied" felt like. It sounds simple enough, right? Eat until you're not hungry anymore and then stop. But the problem is, if I wasn't suffocating under the weight of way too much food, I thought that meant I was still hungry. There was no middle ground between starving and stuffed.

And if the food's tasty? Forget it- I'm going straight to UnButtonMyJeansVille.

But after doing WW for three years now, I slowly re-acquired that lost ability to stop eating when I'm satisfied; now when I'm overfull, I'm miserable, and it's a great incentive to push the plate away. Yay me for returning to how nature intended my brain to work! Three years sounds like a long time, but when you stop and consider how long it took me to disconnect my full-meter, it's actually a pretty impressive feat.

Yet sometimes, in spite of this new skill, I'll go to put my fork down and take a look at what's left on my plate. And I catch myself thinking, "But I already paid for that!" (translation: I tracked it, and now I feel robbed because I didn't get to finish it). Then the internal argument ensues:

Me: Don't even think about it.

Saboteur-Me: But I TRACKED it!

Me: So what? You're totally satisfied!

Saboteur-Me: But don't they say you should eat ALL your points? If I don't finish this, I won't be eating all my points.

Me: Dude! There's no more space!

Saboteur-Me (in a whiny voice): But it's TAS-ty!

Me (sighing inwardly): It is tasty.

Saboteur-Me (smelling victory): And it's already written down! It's as good as eaten! And I have the points for it, right?

Me: . . . right. . .

Saboteur-Me: It's settled then!

Me (caving): Fine. If you can find some place to put it. . .

But Saboteur-Me has already stopped listening, and is elatedly shoveling the remains of my meal into my eagerly waiting face. I never stood a chance against the conspiracy between Saboteur-Me and her backstabby accomplices- The Taste Buds. Belatedly, my ostensible ally (Stomach) starts objecting to the extra load and starts pushing against her confines (My Jeans).

Me: Where were you ten minutes ago, Stomach?!

*sigh* I get it right most of the time, but I do look forward to the day the wasted points won't matter to me anymore.

Week One's In The Bag! (This Is Not an Interesting Post)

2011-01-13T20:51:00.004-06:00

In spite of my misgivings, I am down 1.8 lbs (yay me!). I did have a hard time staying in my points for the first few days- I was averaging 35-44 points a day (I'm not sure if I was really that hungry or if it was panic-induced eating), but the extra 49 came to my rescue.

I leveled off after I re-learned how to distribute my points throughout the day, though, and I was feeling pretty confident about skating into my meeting with a loss. All in all, I have to say, the plan isn't really very different; the new values just take a bit of getting used to.

One thing I'm really hating: the new calculator (warning! incoming pettiness!). It just doesn't flow right! All nutrition labels go fat -> carbs -> fiber -> protein. All. Of. Them. So why does the calculator ask for protein -> carbs -> fat -> fiber? It's all over the place and I'm constantly putting the wrong values in. Sometimes I catch it and correct (pain in the adipose!), but I'm sure there've been times I didn't and just tracked wrong. That mis-entry could be the difference between a loss and . . . well, not-a-loss.

One thing I'm really loving: the "raise" I got for getting up off my ass! I've never been an exercising kind of person, and the fact that I don't have to do as much for my activity points is butter and gravy in my world. And please don't go telling me I'll get addicted to it once I'm in the habit! I waited and waited to love exercise like everyone promised, and I still count the seconds till I can get off the Evil Conveyor Belt of Ultimate Misery- aka my treadmill. It's outright lies, but I'm doing it anyway. Even if my muscles hate me the next day, my cholesterol will be thanking me one day, and it's enough that at least part of me will be grateful.

A Man Harrassed While Making Rice

2011-01-08T15:08:00.009-06:00

I was sitting around today, just letting my mind pick its own way around when I remembered something that made me snicker:

Rob was cooking dinner for us a few visits ago. He was making lemon pepper tilapia over brown rice and I was thrilled about it because I love fish. He'd gotten out a small sauce pan and was filling it with water for the rice.

Jim: Are you sure that pan's big enough?

Rob: Yeah.

Jim: I don't know, it looks small.

Rob: I've made rice in this pan before, dude. It's fine.

Jim: You used a lot of rice; I think it's gonna boil over.

Rob: It's brown rice, it doesn't cook the same!

Jim: Yeah, but-

Rob shot him an exasperated look. I smelled an oncoming testosterone-fueled culinary argument, and spoke up to derail it before it could boil over like the rice in question.

Me: Honey, I'm sure he's perfectly capable of making rice in his own kitchen. He looks like he might have done this before.

Jim looked dubiously at the pan size, but elected not to say anything else. I could see his control-freakism urging him upward to avert what was surely to be a boiling-over pot of rice, and I silently applauded him for not giving in. Then Angie walked in.

Angie: What doin?

Rob: Making rice.

Angie: Why don't you just use the rice cooker?

Jim and I nearly peed ourselves! Rob gave her a long-suffering, Et Tu, Brute? look as we laughed our asses off. Against mounting opposition, Rob studiously ignored us all, using his small pan to make the rice.

It's a good thing it never boiled over- I don't think he could've ever lived that one down.

29 Points?!

2011-01-08T11:10:00.004-06:00

Really? I'm at the new plan minimum?!

I'd been absent from meetings since (predictably) two weeks before Thanksgiving and was just finding my way back for (even more predictably) the New Year. I sat at my first PointsPlus new-plan meeting, post-weigh-in, and I felt like someone had just delivered me the mother of all sucker punches.

29 points. Wasn't that the equivalent of 18 points on the old plan? How am I supposed to LIVE on that? Roz also has 29 points, and I out-weigh her by a good 45 pounds.

Calm down, I told myself, there's got to be a mistake. I pushed this unwelcome bit of news out of my head so I could focus on Jen, my awesome leader for the last three years. She hadn't lost any of her pep or powers of motivation, and I felt myself drawn back into her enthusiastic can-do spirit. I love her meetings; they never fail to pump me up no matter how despondent I'm feeling over my latest lapse.

We celebrated the scale-wins and the milestones, she left us with a final thought to carry us through the temptations of the coming week, and we got up to leave. I wanted to ask her about my new points target, but the crowd in the year-beginning meeting was huge. There were actual new people who needed her attention more than I did, so I quietly departed with the number 29 orbiting my brain, wondering dramatically how I would avoid starving to death.

The plan has always worked for me when I worked the plan. I owe it more than a little faith that these new changes would work just as well as, if not better than, the old plan.

I mean, it's only a week, right?

You Know What's Bullshit?

2011-01-04T11:16:00.000-06:00

I fill my tub with sparkling water turned Caribbean blue by the aromatic bath salts I got for Christmas. I lay my book down on the ledge of the tub (the water damaged one, so a good one doesn't get ruined), adjust my bath pillow placement, and place my phone within easy reach; close the door, step in, draw the curtain to trap the steam, and ease myself down into the not-quite-boiling water. An audible sigh of contentment escapes me, rising to mingle with the water vapor saturating the air in the small bathroom I call "mine".

As I lay there, the water gradually escapes via one of those half-way-up-the-tub secondary drains. At first, I ignore it. But soon, bits of me are sticking up above the waterline like bathing vessel islands. I glare at the drain as fully half of my water (and contentment) bails on me, leaving half of me warm and languid, and the other half goose-pimply. My bathing spirit somewhat dampened (har!), I turn the knob and add more water, only to be in the same spot I was fifteen minutes ago.

I have not been able to figure out why these things exist, except to deprive me of about half of my bath water.

It's in case you accidentally leave the water running, so the water has a place to drain off, you may be mentally suggesting.

My answer to that would be (if you were, in fact, suggesting, which you probably aren't), No way; the drain-to-fill ratio is heavily stacked in Fill's favour, and the water would end up overflowing anyway. Not even the ~~unreasonably~~ low placement of the drain would give any added benefit to that scenario.

It's for the babies! The babies could turn the water back on, and they'd drown if that drain wasn't there.

My answer, again, is the comparatively poor drain rate. If some neglectful parent were to leave their baby alone in the tub long enough for the water to over flow, that drain wouldn't save the kid. And shame on you, Theoretical Neglectful Parent, for supplanting watchful parenting with badly-conceptualized household fixtures!

What about the people who fall asleep in the tub? They could drown if the water level was too high!

This may be true, but it's one of the risks we knowingly undertake when we make the decision to plead with Calgon to take us away. Someone could just as easily drown in half a tub of water as a fully one, I'd be willing to bet; especially as small as my tub is. A full tub in my house is a rather idle threat.

One day, I'm going to find a way to plug it up (thus far, saran wrap, plastic bags, silly putty, and press-n-seal have proved to be ineffective measures). Then I will bathe in fully-submerged, baby-endangering, potentially-drownable bliss. It's gonna be. . . well, blissful.

Snippet From My Day #8

2010-12-25T17:53:00.001-06:00

He loves lemon rice soup and orders it anytime we eat at Paragon; today was no exception. The waitress returned with his soup and plunked it down in front of him while he was preparing his coffee. She turned to me for my order.

Waitress: What'll it be?

Me: I'll have the melting pot skillet, but could you replace the American cheese with mozzarella?

I hate American cheese.

Waitress: Sure can! How do you take your eggs?

Me: Scrambled.

Waitress: Toast?

Me: Wheat, buttered.

She turned to Jim for his order, and for once, he was the one scouring the menu with indecision. He flapped his sugar packets back and forth, forcing their contents to the other end of the tiny envelope they dwell in, and made his decision.

Jim: I'll have the Confederate skillet.

Waitress: How do you take your eggs?

He tore open the sugar packets, completely bypassed his coffee and upended them directly into his soup. Without missing a beat, he nonchalantly began scooping ruined soup out of his bowl onto its accompanying saucer.

Jim: Uh, scrambled. Rye toast, buttered.

I blinked at him. Was he trying to play this off?!

Me: Did you just dump sugar in your soup?!

He glared at me.

Jim: Yes. Yes, I did.

Waitress: Oh, I'll get you another bowl! You can't eat that one, it won't taste right!

Jim: . . . thanks.

He looked like he wanted to crawl into a crack in his vinyl booth seat. I snickered at his discomfiture- this is the sort of gracelessness he usually gives me shit for. The waitress departed to retrieve his cup of do-over.

Me: I'm telling everyone. I'm sending a mass text right. now.

He whipped out his phone and waved it menacingly at me.

Jim: I'll text first and tell everyone you did it. You know they'll believe me, and your text will just make you look bitter.

It was true. Everyone would believe him, and to make matters worse, he texts much faster than I do. Reluctantly, I lowered my weapon, and he resheathed his. But that's alright, I have a secret weapon he has no defense against: a blog.

Jesus May Or May Not Be The Reason For The Season, But. . .

2010-12-06T08:31:00.002-06:00

I was out yesterday, shopping for Christmas cards. I LOVE sending Christmas cards! It usually takes me several days of careful shopping and comparisons involving pictures of packages taken with my cell phone, labeled with the store I found the contender for the title of Christie's Christmas Card of the Year; and possibly stashing a contender in an unrelated department (if it happens to be the last of the package) while I take my time deciding if it'll make the leap from Runner Up to First Place. Once I decide, I buy pens with ink that match the card, and I buy envelope sealers that complement the card inside, and I even get complimenting address labels.

Yup, I'm obsessive about sending the perfect Christmas card.

Here are several criteria a package of cards must meet in order to be considered worthy of the 44 cent badge it'll eventually wear on its way to my loved ones:

* Size matters! I don't usually have a whole lot to say in my cards (hard to believe, right?), and nothing emphasizes that lack like a big ole card full of unused writing space. That's right, I like my cards small. So I'm looking for something around the size of a printed photo (what're those, 4 x 6?).

* The design must be simple; austere, even. I hate busy cards.

* The design can't feature anything religious. No manger scenes, no fish, no doves, no baby Jesuses, no wise men. . . you get the idea. Those usually fall under "busy" anyway.

* No funny! I've got nothing against funny cards. I like receiving them just fine, but for some reason, I just don't like buying or sending them.

* The message inside can't be religious. I'm not a religious person, and that just feels like hypocrisy.

* The message must be simple. Nobody reads all those lengthy, long-winded cards anyway. Let's face it- they're just looking for the check.

* The message MUST reference Christmas.

This last criterion's the meat and bones of the problem I encountered yesterday. I found lots of wishes for the happiness of the season, lots of season's greetings, stupid numbers of warm holiday wishes, various encouragements to enjoy the holiday season, happy holidayses, happy holiday seasonses, blah blah blah. Holidays, seasons, and holiday seasons, my friends! Very few cards outside the religious category actually said CHRISTMAS!

Now, I think I already mentioned that I am not a religious person, and yes, I'm well aware of the Christian connotation of the word "Christmas". But doesn't "Happy Holidays" just sound so dry and generic? And how many of us actually grew up saying "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings" to one another?! If there are any, I'm sure yall're in the minority; if one of my third grade class mates had said that shit to me, I'd have likely stuck a Kick Me sign on his/her back at the earliest opportunity. Say it out loud to someone today- I guarantee you'll feel and sound like a complete tool.

Most of us who celebrate December 25th grew up saying "Merry Christmas". So why is it slowly becoming more difficult to find a damn Christmas card that says Merry Christmas, and does NOT feature a manger scene or a lamb or a blue-cloaked lady holding a beatific baby? Let's hear it, Hallmark! I'm all ears!

99 Things

2010-07-26T18:38:00.001-05:00

I haven't blogged in a bit, and I figured this would be a nice way to ease back into it. I found it on my dear, dear friend's blog, Amelioration. Check her out! You'll love her, i promise :)

So this is a list of 99 things that someone, somewhere came up with that they'd like to do over the course of their life. I need the motivation, and it was a nice trip down memory lane, too. My accomplishments are crossed out.

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more to charity than you could afford to.
7. Been to Disney
8. climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
~~13. Watched a thunder and lightning storm~~
~~14. Taught yourself an art from scratch~~ I'm working on crochet :D Fuck off, it IS an art.
~~15. Adopted a child~~ My dog is my baby.
~~16. Had food poisoning~~
17. Walked to the top of the statue of liberty life
~~18. Grown your own vegetables~~ I'm a home-owner. . . i should be doing this now.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
~~20. Slept on an overnight train~~ Chicago to Reno. Yeah!
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill Doing that today!
~~24. Built a snow fort~~
25. Held a lamb
~~26. Gone skinny dipping~~
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
~~29. Seen a total eclipse~~
~~30. Watched a sunrise or sunset~~
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
~~36. Taught yourself a new language~~ I learned German by playing with the neighborhood kids.
37. had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the leaning tower of Pisa in person
~~39. Gone rock climbing~~ We didn't set out with the specific intention of rock climbing, but it ended up happening anyhow.
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David in person
~~41. Sung karaoke~~ =/
42. Seen old faithful erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted Mum did mine and my sister's when we were little.
~~48. Gone deep-sea fishing~~
49. Seen the Sistine chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the great wall of china
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
~~61. Sold girl scout cookies~~
62. Gone whale watching
63. Gotten flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Been sky diving
66. Visited a concentration camp
~~67. Bounced a check~~
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in times square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the changing of the guard in London
77. Broken a bone
~~78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle~~
79. Seen the grand canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
~~82. Bought a brand new car~~
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on new year’s eve
86. Visited the white house
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
~~88. Had chickenpox~~
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
~~91. Met someone famous~~
92. Joined a book club
~~93. Gotten a tattoo~~
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the great salt lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

There're quite a few things on this list that i have absolutely no interest in doing (like having or adopting a kid, or whale watching), but it's an interesting inventory of some stuff I've done. What've you done? Feel free to take the list, or just talk about one thing.

Risk

2010-06-29T17:06:00.003-05:00

Jim: Omg, Angie thinks she can beat me at risk!

Me: I know, she told me :D

Jim: She'll be a quivering heap after the crushing beatdown she receives :P

Me: Lmao! Imma be the divisive force of shifting alliances. You'll both bow before my might.

Jim: Omg no you aren't, you're going to be Switzerland

Me: Or will I?!

Jim: Aieeeee, I'll go Kamchatka on you two!

Me: Oh, what ever! Imma be all terrorist on your ass when i take over Afghanistan and Irkutsk!

Jim: You guys are doomed. I'll sweep in from Asia.

Me: Pssh. Dream on, Genghis Kahn.

Jim: Haha, this should be fun :D

Me: Yer goin' down-down. In a lelliloorah.

Jim: I'll be your number one. With a bullet.

*cringe*

Dear Makers of Fat Girls' Clothing,

2010-06-18T20:21:00.002-05:00

I'm not much of a shopper; jeans and tshirts comprise about 85% of my wardrobe, with the remaining 15% being undies, socks, pajama bottoms, and one skirt with dust so thick it'd be more like an excavation than merely taking it out of the closet.

But then my stepspawn went and decided to graduate after all, so I had to show up in something nice-ish. I knew this meant a shopping trip, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I mean, it's been years since last I set foot in an actual clothing store.

So five hours before he was due to fall asleep in front of the valedictorian giving a speech nobody would give a rat's ass about, I hit up a few purveyors of plus size clothing (yeah, yeah, lose weight blah blah blah. Shut up. I'm working on it, and I've got to wear something in the mean time). It was the most ghastly experience I've had in quite a long time, and not just because I dislike browsing around and trying on clothes. So I've put together a few questions and helpful hints for you of the Plus Size Clothing Industry:

* Who told you guys that us fat chicks want all of our shirts made out of t-shirt material?! Printed jersey shirts, floral jersey shirts, button down jersey shirts, "dressy" jersey shirts! I mean, a few of those shirts could've been really nice had they been made out of a nice linen or silk or satin. . or even burlap, for chrissakes. So helpful suggestion for the future: consider different fabrics when your instinct tells you your target demographic would just LOVE another chance at wearing quasi-tshirts.

* I saw some really cute blouses in the smaller sizes, and the same style of shirt was available in plus size. But somehow, you thought instead of that nice, tasteful solid colour with the embroidery around the neck and sleeves that we'd prefer huge flowers and paisleys and god-knows-what-else that was supposed to be. Newsflash! Busy print does NOT make us look thinner! It doesn't even distract from it. Nope, wearing it just makes a person think, "Oh, here comes another fat girl wearing a huge printed shirt. Who does she think she's trying to kid?! Floral prints don't hide a second chin!" Seriously, guys, fat girls have tasteful fashion sense, too. The only reason we wear that crap is it's the only thing we can find. So instead of splurging on a whole different fabric for fat girl shirts, just use the same stuff you used on the skinny girl shirt and make it bigger.

* With it being summer, it's hard as hell to find a shirt that isn't sleeveless. Why not throw a little sleeve on it? It doesn't have to be long, mind you, but you have to know that nobody wants to see these ham hock upper arms of mine. Provide them with a bit of cover-up, please! You can still be summery with a little sleeve. And the spaghetti straps? Come on. That's just uncalled for.

We'd like the opportunity to be just as cute wearing your clothing as that size 2 bitch shopping next to us while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing us with distaste. I hope you'll take these suggestions into consideration, and pass them on to the department most appropriate for effecting these tasteful changes. I'm not advocating completely doing away with the things you're making now! But with the addition of some alternatives, you'll find a wider variety of satisfied consumers, myself among them.

Christie Love.

Insert Excuse Here

2010-03-08T08:14:00.000-06:00

Okie, seriously, I've been crazy-busy with trying to relocate a nuclear pharmacy (you have NO idea what kind of red tape that involves), my pottery class, my ceramics class, Mrs. C's blogging challenge (which is over, and I won *yay*), Weight Watchers, trying to get more exercise into my life, getting over being sick, and spending more time with my husband and my stepchild, who will be gone in another couple of months.

The end result of all this is I've got about five or six weeks worth of unread blogs, that I do have every intention of reading! It'll be slow, but I'll catch up.

Then my next priority is you, Ang! I WILL get my reading and blogging project blog done this week if it fucking kills me. I really don't think it will, though, ~~I'm just being dramatic.~~

Ashes To Ashes

2010-02-24T19:30:00.002-06:00

I sat on the curbside with the EMT's blanket wrapped around my shoulders, thinking about how stupid it was to try to warm a person who's just been pulled from a fire. Heat was the last thing I needed. Tears streaked my face- real tears, shed by smoke-and-ash-stung eyes, providing the perfect appearance of sorrowful shock at losing everything we owned. Well, everything I owned. After all, I was the survivor.

I savored the sight of the fire, watching the flames lick at the timber of the beautiful home it was greedily devouring. It was so easy to throw it all away- the designer furniture, the expensive private collections of art and wine, the clothing. . . the appearance of a perfect life. So easy to destroy that facade forever. I closed my eyes and replayed the night's events in my head.

***

After paying his black-haired stripper whore to deliver the divorce papers, I went home to play the jilted, wounded wife. I knew he'd come crawling back to me, telling me it was nothing, that she meant nothing to him.

"It's too bad you decided to risk our marriage over nothing," I had flung back at him, surprised at how easy it was to summon up the anger I thought had died with my love for this pathetic piece of shit philanderer. I suppose I was angry, in my own way- no woman wants to lose her man to rented pussy.

And what kind of idiot did he take me for?! I watched him spend money and time on this common street trash three times a week for a year. I listened to him lie to me about working late, weekends out of town on "business", expenses for "client entertainment"; he thought he was so fucking smart. I stifled a smile as I wondered how that was working out for him now. Being smart, that is.

Predictably, he groveled. He apologized, he promised it was over. He swore he'd change if only I wouldn't leave. Pretending to believe that bullshit almost made me physically sick. Affecting joy at being presented with the gift I knew he bought for HER for their one year anniversary fortified me for what I knew I had to do. He slipped the fifteen carat diamond choker around my neck, and I tried not to recoil from his touch or the garishness of the trinket. Then he went down to the cellar to bring up some wine.

He poured a vintage merlot into two balloon glasses and toasted the "rebirth" of our marriage. I raised my glass and smiled my brightest, most doe-eyed smile and sipped my wine, relishing the way its dryness took my breath away. We talked of the changes we'd make, the things we'd do, and I promised to call my lawyer first thing in the morning to tell him we'd healed our breach. The wine flowed like liquid love, and we drank.

Rather, he drank. I drank enough to be appropriately tipsy, but not enough to dull my wits. It didn't take long for him to pass out since he'd had so much to drink during his "breakup" with the hired cunt. I shook him vigorously, and he didn't wake. I called my neighbor, slurring my request for assistance with putting him in bed; it was a request I hadn't made in quite some time, but it was frequent enough at one point that he came over right away, wearing his best sympathetic look.

I giggled my sodden embarrassment at our overindulgence, and he Neverminded and Not At All'ed me all the way to our bedroom. I tripped over the stairs frequently enough that he planted me on my butt and then returned for me once he'd deposited my husband on the bed. He nestled me close and gently laid me on the bed next to my snoring better half. I murmured my thanks and did my best to fade out of consciousness. I heard him let himself out and I thanked him out loud for his anxiousness to gossip about this incident to our other neighbors, thus guaranteeing that my story was already in place before I even lit the cigarette.

I punched our alarm code into the wall panel above the bed, took one last drag off the cigarette, and let it fall from my fingers onto the carpet on my side of the bed. At first, nothing happened, and I thought I'd have to light another one. I was reaching toward the night stand when I saw the bed ruffle suddenly flare into life. I stared in fascination as the gluttonous little flame fed itself and grew fat, creeping across the carpet to ignite the heavy damask drapery. A small corner of my mind screamed at me to get the hell out of there and call 911, but I forced myself to be calm and let our state-of-the-art fire alarm summon the fire department for me.

I didn't expect the smoke to be so thick so suddenly. I stayed in the room as long as I could stand it, and then I went out to the top of the stairs to wait. After a few long minutes, the smoke poured after me, chasing me, accusing me.

"How do people ever burn alive in their homes?!" I demanded of the noxious fumes surrounding me, "this shit takes forever to spread!"

Irritated, I stomped back to the bedroom to check on the fire's progress and I was greeted by a roar and a blast of heat that nearly knocked me to my feet. The room was an inferno! I stood gaping at it like an idiot until the alarm shook me out of my fascinated stupor. I coughed and dropped to my knees and stayed as close to the blaze as I could bear. I could smell the hair on my arms singeing. I crept by small measures toward the stairs, the fire marching slowly after me. I couldn't breathe. Panic got the best of me, and I turned to flee down the stairs.

I underestimated how weak I would be from oxygen deprivation, and my legs gave out. I took a tumble down the stairs, and the door burst open as I hit the landing. My ever-helpful neighbor grabbed me by the arm and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried me from the rapidly-erupting house. I screamed out my husband's name and my neighbor asked me where he was, yelling to be heard over the fire. I sobbed incoherently and pointed up to the second level. My neighbor contemplated the wall of flame angrily consuming the stairs I had only seconds ago been occupying with such impatience. He looked back down at me and shook his head, clutching me to his chest. The wails of the sirens drowned out his sympathies.

This was my final entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, week 10: The Perfect Crime. I made it to the final two, wish me luck!

Sweet Revenge

2010-02-17T21:55:00.001-06:00

She eased herself down the pole, gripping it loosely in her long, perfectly manicured fingers. She never took her eyes off of him. She focused on him like he was the only man in the room, and for her, he might as well have been. Other men surrounded the stage, whistling at her and waving dollar bills, but she studiously ignored them like so much rabble. Rather than daunting them, her lack of attention to these curs scrabbling at her feet like dogs over a raw filet mignon seemed to intensify their hunger for her. Soon, she knew, they'd start throwing their money at her, desperate for a glance; anything to show she knew they existed.

Of course, she'd leave them disappointed.

Kneeling at the bottom of the pole, she slowly extended her arm and leaned back, spreading her knees wide and grinding against the metal warmed by her ministrations. She dropped her gaze from him, hoping to draw him closer or entice him into a private dance. She could go out and offer herself, but she knew this would curb the thrill a bit, and she didn't want that.

She pushed herself down on her belly with her knees still splayed. She threw her head back and dragged her hair forward across her masterfully arched back, rocking forward onto her hands and knees and looking up at a vacant seat. She smiled a little to herself, but maintained her mask of slightly aloof unattainability. She didn't rush into looking for him, but let the beat of the bad music drive her languid movements as she inched back up the pole, dragging it between the perfectly rounded cheeks of her voluptuous ass. The dogs howled and clamored for scraps of her attention, and she continued to deny them.

There. He hadn't moved forward, but back toward the private entertainment rooms. She crowed inwardly with triumph, knowing he'd ask for her. Her song was almost at an end and she was impatient to go back and spruce up for him. She had a special surprise for her favourite regular, and she couldn't wait to see the expression on his face when he opened it.

Unable to contain her impatience, she boldly strode off the stage a full fifteen seconds before her song ended. She left the dogs' paltry tributes littered across the stage, completely uninterested in their pitiful offerings. How dare they think they could buy her affection for singles?! Surely even with their less-than-towering standards, they could see that she was worth so much more. . . and if they couldn't, ah, well. Not one flick of tongue across her plump lips would they receive.

She was repairing the minor smudges in her makeup when she was summoned. She nodded her acknowledgement and put the finishing touches on her wardrobe. She topped it off with a semi-sheer red drape that set her black waves off like a dark, starless night sky. She adjusted her bustier, making sure it revealed nothing before she was ready, and made her way to the room.

She stood outside the small window, looking at him through the two-way glass. He was slouching casually on the wide, over-sized round ottoman she preferred to perform on. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his cowboy hat sat slightly forward on his head, casting his face in shadow. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at the glass. She smiled at him, knowing he felt the intensity of her gaze. His manner was easy, relaxed, but she could smell his impatience. He hated to wait. She glanced up at the bouncer who would stand outside and keep watch over her, then at the guest who'd paid a high price to watch the show. The bouncer nodded at her, and she entered the room.

"You're late," he said, feigning sternness.

She only smiled in return and stalked slowly over to him. She reached for his hat with one hand, lifted it, and tossed it carelessly into the corner. With the other, she ran her gloved fingers through his hair. She tightened her hand into a fist and gripped a handful of sandy brown hair, flinging him back onto his elbows. His eyes registered mild surprise, but she could see he was enjoying this little change in their routine. After all, routine was what wives bored their men with, and he was paying good money not to grow bored.

She climbed up onto the ottoman and lowered her pelvis onto his. She rocked her hips slightly, teasingly, her head hanging forward to obscure her face behind a cascade of black waves. She leaned forward, stretching her body along his, grinding her mound hard against him, and she felt his rock hard excitement straining against her thigh. She brought her lips within a hair's breadth of his and exhaled sweet clove cigarette breath on him. He inhaled sharply, sucking her into himself greedily. His hands twitched, but he left his elbows firmly planted into the ottoman.

She pushed her face past his and crawled up his body until her shrouded breasts were even with his gluttonous eyes. She leaned down slowly, surreptitiously drawing her hands inside the shroud, and put her lips up against his ear.

"Happy Anniversary, baby," she breathed, drawing a small bit of paper out of her corset and slipping it into his hand. He accepted the paper, paying it little attention as she doffed the intervening material, exposing her perfect twin mounds peeking over the bustier. She sat back on her heels, contemplating his face. She smiled wickedly and reached down for the laces, drawing them slowly out of their knots and freeing the captives from their confines. She allowed him to gorge his eyes on them one last time. Her pulse quickened. The moment she'd been preparing for over the last eleven months, three hundred sixty four days had finally arrived.

"You've been served," she crooned in the same sultry voice. Puzzlement crossed his face before he remembered the slip of paper she'd only just handed him. He looked down at it and she slid off of his lap like a silk robe off a chair back. She had already strode halfway across the room when she heard him exclaim behind her. She placed her hand on the door handle and imagined his face as he read the divorce court summons she'd just gifted him, but denied herself a last look.

"It's done," she said as she stepped out of the room. She spared a small glance for the woman who was her favourite regular's wife. She was smiling with triumphant malice at her husband, who'd not moved from the ottoman, savouring his miserable discovery through the two-way glass she herself had been studying him through only moments ago. She didn't wait for a response before she sauntered off toward the dressing room. She was going to miss her favourite regular.

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 9: Sweet Revenge.

2010-02-14T14:32:00.002-06:00

Dear Unnamed Recipient of This Letter,

Let's skip the preamble and just dive right into this, shall we? I'm well aware that you think we suck. All we do is hold you back from doing the things you want (and deserve- are entitled to, even!) to be doing.

But here's something you've probably never considered: you're not the most awesome person to be around, either. This may come as a surprise to you, as you seem to think that in spite of your habit of looking down on everyone else, we all put you up on some secret pedestal to admire, or maybe envy. Certainly to admire. So let me kick that pedestal right out from under your feet (don't worry, it only exists in your mind anyway).

* Sure, you're smart. You think critically, and to some extent, you understand the things that are important to you. Unfortunately, this understanding grinds to a halt at your own opinions. You make NO attempt whatsoever at trying to understand things from someone else's perspective, and instead try to brow-beat them into agreeing with you. This has two interesting side effects:

a. It makes you a hypocrite. Funny, huh? Because I know how you like to spout off about how everyone's so hypocritical. You know, all those stupid Christians who just stuff their opinions down your throat and won't listen to your thoughts? Sounding familiar yet?
b. It makes you closed-minded. It just keeps getting funnier, doesn't it? Because I know how open minded you THINK you are.

But I digress. Anyway, back to being smart- your moderate intellect makes you arrogant to the point where it's just painful to be around you sometimes. I don't understand why it isn't enough for you to be smart. Why do you need everyone else to be stupid? Why do you have to engage in these sarcastic, technicality-driven arguments? It doesn't make you look smarter than you are, and it doesn't make the person you're inflicting this torment on stupid. It just makes you an asshole.

* About being an asshole. I know that's something you like to fall back on; I hear you use it as a defense mechanism ("You knew I was an asshole! I told you that when we first met"), as a way to deflect- without actually acknowledging- defeat ("Fine, you're right and I'm the asshole"), and as a badge of honor ("Yeah, I know, I'm an asshole"). But it isn't really any of these things. It's just a trait, like your brown hair, or the fact that you're tall, only it isn't the big asset you think it is. It doesn't make you edgy or cool, or make people secretly wish they could be like you. It just makes you. . . well, an asshole.

* Your sense of entitlement frequently leaves me in enraged speechlessness. Somehow, because life didn't work out the way you thought it was going to, WE owe you something? Sorry, it doesn't work like that.
Here's what we owe you: food on your plate, a roof over your head, clothes on your back, medical treatment, and a means to remain hygienic and healthy.
Here's what we do NOT owe you: a car, insurance for that car, rides out of state to see your long distance friends, permission to come and go as you please, a steady stream of entertainment, pocket money, a fridge full of microwavable food (so that you don't have to be bothered with putting effort into feeding yourself when you don't like what I've prepared), trust (that you continue to abuse at every opportunity), and a wide variety of other things that I could drone on about, but won't.

* You don't work for anything. ANYTHING. If it requires any effort at all, you simply don't do it, unless asked specifically. And even then, it takes a few more promptings. I mean, we're all lazy sometimes, but you've elevated it into an art form.

* You tell half-truths to make people feel sorry for you. I've been suckered into this on many occasions, only to discover later that you minimized or completely omitted your own culpability in your troubles. Not cool.

* You get REALLY indignant when people have the nerve to treat you the way you treat them. I have to admit, though, I find this one amusing.

This is an incomplete picture most people have of you. Not pretty, is it? I'm sure you'll blow it off or justify it away, or outright deny it altogether, but some day I hope you'll see yourself the way we do, and use it as a tool for change. Anyway, the next time you mutter about how you just can't wait to get the hell out of here, please bear in mind: we can't either. I won't go so far as to say we'll rejoice when you're gone, but we won't cry when you go, either.

Love,
Me.

Bullshit Virgins

2010-02-11T21:03:00.002-06:00

Technical Virgins are complete bullshit. You know the type I'm talking about- they're giving up the anal and the oral and "everything but", and they're still calling themselves virgins since the hymen's still intact. If that's the only thing that hasn't been despoiled, then don't go calling yourself a virgin. You know good and goddamn well that ain't "Saving It For Marriage", that's a fucking technicality; and a really flimsy one, at that.

You've been fucked. You're not a virgin. Just stop deluding yourself.

While we're on the subject, we might as well talk about the other kind of bullshit virgin- The Born Again Virgins. Who dreamed up this oxymoronic bit of nonsense?! That shit ain't Jesus- you don't "find" it again just because you decided having it off isn't for you anymore. Regret doesn't make it grow back, people! Once it's gone, it's gone.

Once again, you've been fucked. You're not a virgin. You're just deluding yourself and pissing everyone else off.

Snippet From My Day #7

2010-02-10T19:14:00.003-06:00

I got propositioned today when I was pick'n up lunch for me and Steve by a man I'm 80% sure was a pimp. I was in the Long John Silvers' parking lot in Gary- the one on Ridge near Colfax, across the street from Calumet High School.

Now, I've never seen a pimp up close'n personal or nothin', but the man stepped outta this sweet-ass restored Cadillac, wear'n a finely-tailored purple suit (no stupid shoes or hat) under a fur coat, hold'n a cane, with two roughed-up look'n bitches who'd seen better days in tow.

I was putt'n Steve's food in my car and about to jump in outta the cold when he rolled up. He parked across three spaces like an asshole, and oozed out the door.

"Say-na," he said to me, look'n me up and down. I was mindin' my own business so closely I actually thought I was in his way somehow.

"Sorry," I answered back.

"Lemme gi' you my card," he said, nevermind'n my apology. That's when I really looked up and paid some attention to what was go'n on around me. He reached into the inside pocket of the animal carcass he had slung over his shoulders and pulled out a business card. He didn't walk over to me, he just held it out for me to come'n get.

I didn't know what to say. I knew I wasn't bein' hit on- he didn't put out that vibe. It felt like business. I shook my head at him, and he nodded at me.

"I'm married," I finally explained, once I found my tongue hide'n in the back of my head. As though that were the only thing keep'n me from accepting his kindly offer of employment.

"I fee-ya." He nodded again, this time to his two gals, who'd been stand'n there look'n kinda vacant. Like someone had hit Pause on 'em. They woke up a lil and followed him into the Long John Silvers.

Snippet From My Day #6

2010-02-06T11:25:00.000-06:00

I smelled my food cooking and instinctively glanced at the clock to see how much time it had left. Once you can smell the food cooking, that generally means it's approaching Done.

Then I remembered I wasn't cooking anything- I was boiling water for tea. Shit, I must've turned on the wrong burner!

I rushed into the kitchen to discover that I had, indeed, turned on the wrong burner, and I was now heating up the trace remnants of last night's Rice-a-Roni (keep your comments concerning the evils of processed food to yerselves, please, I like Rice-a-Roni). I was also melting a plastic spoon to the bottom of the pan.

Fuck me for putting the dinner dishes off till the next morning, I guess. On a side note, Jim is despairing of my future geriatric mental state.

Watchin' Oral With Yer Grandfolk

2010-02-03T20:29:00.014-06:00

I visited my grandfolk in Oklahoma over Thanksgiving this past year, and we were all sitt'n around the kitchen, havin' a cup o liquid Christmas when Grammommie unfolded this story:

Bout 30 years ago she was visit'n my aunt Mae and Uncle Roy in Georgia for the holidays. Aunt Mae had got up to take my little cousins over to their other grandfolks' house, and uncle Roy stayed back with Grammommie to keep her from gett'n lonely.

They were sitt'n in the livingroom flippin' thru the channels for awhile when uncle Roy decided that would be a good time to make use of his present from aunt Mae. Now Santa Mae had got uncle Roy a subscription to the Playboy Channel for Christmas; she'd wrapped up the remote control with a lil' note taped to it that said:

Channel 29. Love, Mae.

Sweet, but not real suitable for polite company. But that didn't stop uncle Roy.

Anyway, there was Grammommie. . . sitt'n in a room with my uncle Roy watching the Playboy channel, all kindsa mortified. He didn't mind her, though, he watched it for a bit and then excused himself. He got up, went into his bedroom for a few minutes, and then came back out and fell asleep on the couch. Never did change the fuckin' channel.

I always knew that guy was a pervert (my sister and called him Uncle Pervy when nobody was around), and that story didn't do nothin' to change my mind.

News at Nine.

2010-02-03T18:58:00.005-06:00

Tom the Anchor: Reporting live from the scene of the accident is our traffic correspondent, Jilly Beane.

Ms. Beane (standing next to a bewildered-looking oldtimer): Thanks Tom. I'm standing outside a devastating scene straight out of an action movie gone horribly, horribly wrong. Thousands of dollars worth of property damage, and three injuries result from a late nineties model Dodge pickup being driven into the living room of Mr. and Mrs. Leeroy Jenkins. Emergency crews are working to extract the driver from the cab of the pickup, who's very lucky to be alive. Mr. Jenkins, can you tell us what happened?

Mr. Jenkins (blinking against the bright lights): Welp, the missus and I werse sitt'n watchin' Wheel-a For-chewn when this'ere pickup came clean through th' wall. I werse up gett'n a beer, else I'da been squarshed flat undaneath. Wrecked muh favorite EZ chair, it did.

Ms. Beane: How awful! Was anyone hurt?

Mr. Jenkins: The truck ran over Mae's good leg, the cat, and her favorite lamp. I spillt muh beer.

Ms. Beane: What about the driver?

Mr. Jenkins (glaring into the camera, as though the driver was watching somewhere in the audience): That driver owes me a new EZ chair. Ye hear me?! That was muh favorite chair!!

Ms. Beane (uncomfortably, looking around for someone else to interview): Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.

[A commotion from behind Ms. Beane draws the camera's attention]

Ms. Beane (rushing back to the wreckage): There appears to be something happening back at the house!

[As she arrives, a small bleach-blonde leaps unassisted down from the hole in the side of the house, smirking with satisfaction. She's suffered only minor scrapes and scratches. She spots Ms. Beane and tosses her the keys]

Blonde girl: Here. Take care o' that for me, will ya?

Ms. Beane (ignoring the keys): Miss, do you have a moment to comment? What's your name? Can you tell us what happened?

Blonde girl (looking into the camera and smoothing down her hair, smiling winsomely): Mah name's Darla Jean Wiley. Dale, you lyin', cheat'n mother(bleep)er! I know yer laying in OUR bed with that (bleep)in' tramp you think I don't know about! I picked up yer truck from the shop and took it on up to yer mother's house, just like you asked! Yer gonna hafta take it back to the shop yerdamnself, or get that trashy (bleep) to do it for you.

[Darla Jean stalks off smugly. Ms. Beane returns her attention to the camera.]

Ms. Beane: There you have it, folks. Cheating on your girlfriend and then asking her to take your truck to your mother's house can be hard on your insurance rates. Back to you, Tom!

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 7: Describe the events leading up to this picture

Fecal Coliforms

2010-01-27T20:22:00.004-06:00

I dried my hands hastily, snatching off more paper towels than I really needed. He'd made no effort at trying to conceal his impatience with my umpteenth visit to the restroom that day. I could imagine him waiting outside the public bathroom, pacing around with that brow furrow-look he always wore when he was irritated with me but not voicing it. I tossed the wad of paper towel into the rubbish bin before making my hasty exit. I reached out, grasped the handle, and yanked the door open before realizing I'd just grabbed it with my bare hand. I jerked my hand off the handle as though it was made of hot iron.

Shit, shit, shit!!!

I stood frozen in the doorway as the horror of all the people who did not Wash Hands Before Returning To Work washed over me, but it was too late. He'd already seen me and was unsubtly stabbing his index finger at an imaginary watch on his wrist. His brow furrowed furiously, mimicking perfectly the expression I'd just been imagining. It would've been comical if it weren't so utterly horrible.

I thought fast. Maybe I could tell him I'd forgotten to wash my hands? He didn't know that the whole bathroom mission was aimed at that very task, but it wouldn't matter- he'd know I was lying. I considered telling him about the grievous error I'd just made, but the furrow threatened to cleave his head in half, checking the words before they could reach my mouth.

"Why are you standing there?! Let's go," he urged obliviously. There was no help for it. I'd just have to go. By sheer force of will, I put one foot in front of the other, moving farther away from the one thing that could save me from raving madness: the soap.

'It's okay, you can do this,' I coached myself. I fought down the panic, and continued moving forward, a grim rictus that I hoped passed for a smile plastered across my face. I wiped my sweating palms on the front of my pants before taking his outstretched hand and proceeding toward our theater.

He was half-dragging me across the lobby, ranting quietly about how much he hates missing the previews and sitting on the ends of the rows, and I was desperately trying to focus on his displeasure to distract me from my mounting unease.

". . . don't sit RIGHT in the center of the row, you miss SO much. . ."

My palms began to tingle. I wrestled my attention back to my husband, forcing a look of conspiratorial resentment across my features and murmuring something like agreement.

"And if you sit too far forward OR backward. . . "

The tingle graduated to an outright itch.

". . . you miss the effect of the surround sound."

It was all I could do to keep from yanking my hand out of his and fleeing for the sanctuary of the sink. Mercifully, he released my captive hand to surrender our tickets. I pushed my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and used the cover to scratch them a bit. I felt somewhat relieved.

He carried on with his rant, unaware of my fretful inattention. I could practically feel the bacteria burrowing into my skin, breeding and spreading their pyrogens. They appeared in my mind as the wormy-looking creatures depicted on telephones and light switches in Lysol commercials. The wormies squiggled and crawled across the surface of my hands, etching the words Fecal Coliforms in neon green microscopic lettering into my flesh.

I shuddered at those words. Fecal coliforms. Ass-germs.

The itching, crawling feeling in my hands was reaching a fever pitch as we stumbled and apologized our way over peoples laps and belongings, zeroing in on our destination- the center of the row (neither too far forward nor too far back). I completely dropped any pretense of paying attention at this point and focused on clawing at my hands. I fantasized about inundating the nasty, wriggling wormies under the purifying faucet; of conflagrating them with the scalding water. Dreams of this boiling baptism and the devastation it would visit upon the coliforms filled me with such longing that I missed one woman's foot and pitched forward onto the floor.

I didn't feel my head banging on the chair next to me, nor my shin banging on the arm rest of another seat. I didn't feel my teeth sink into my lip nor the sting of my bruised pride. What I felt was my hands pressing down into the soda-sticky, food-littered, gum-stuck seething mass of germ-procreation that was the theater floor. I stifled a scream that the concerned onlookers took for a grunt of pain, and they helped me up. My hands felt like they were being devoured from the inside out.

"Your lip is bleeding, honey," my husband worried at me, "are you alright?"

I smiled shakily at him.

"I'm fine. I'm just gonna go wash my face and get myself together."

He nodded sympathetically, and I hurried off to pursue my long-awaited ablutions.

This is my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 6: Obsessed

Dear ELIB-

2010-01-20T19:51:00.007-06:00

Dear Ex Live-In Boyfriend-

It's been awhile since since we broke up (and by 'we broke up', I mean 'I kicked your ass to the curb like last week's trash'), and I have to say I was always uneasy about the way I went about it. Kicking your ass to the curb, I mean.

You demanded to know why I ended our relationship, what you did wrong, blah-blah-blah, and I quite unfairly told you some pretty bald-faced lies. Now, these lies were told in the spirit of sparing your feelings, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I deprived myself of the opportunity to tell you just what a special kind of loser you really are! I know this may shock you, as it flies directly into the face of what I've previously led you to believe, and I really hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me my dishonesty, but I'm not sure if I could ever forgive myself if I allowed you to proceed into your next relationship with the idea that "It wasn't you, it was me", when, truth be told, it really was you. Allow me to elaborate on a few of those finer points:

1. For the love of Balls, man, sever the fucking umbilical! There's no way you should be living with one foot in mom's vagina at your age. Seriously! Commuting forty five minutes to the south side just so we could live ten minutes from Mummy?! That was just unfuckingreasonable. And do you think I enjoyed waiting for you in her driveway for hours on end because she wouldn't let me in her house?! You must have since you made me do it ALL THE GODDAMN TIME!

2. Even your douche nozzle friends considered me saintly for waking up two hours early to drive your incompetent ass to work, and then driving your incompetent ass home after having driven for eight hours at MY job. Come on! Learn to drive! Twenty nine year old suburbanites should possess this skill from, what, fifteen? Sixteen? You were twentyfuckingnine! Twenty. Fucking. Nine.

3. I can totally understand your expecting me to leave from school and either pick you up something to eat on the way home or cook for you upon my return. I mean, I would have hated for your internet gaming time to be interrupted by something as mundane as feeding yourself! But I have to say, the best part of all was listening to you whine about how you didn't like what I made, or my choice in take-out. I should've come home and picked you up and THEN gone and gotten take-out, seeing as how I just loved chauffeuring you around in my limited spare time.

3. "Motion of the ocean"? It might be a myth, but I can't be sure, seeing as how you seemed to have been modeling your ocean after the Dead Sea. At any rate, size might've somewhat made up for that, but you struck out there too.

4. Exactly how DID you expect me to take the news that your idea of being "in school" meant that you attended one class, then spent the rest of the day playing Descent online at the campus computer center, anyway?! Because I thought I handled that little gem like a fucking champ.

5. Toothbrushes- NOT a new invention! Of course if they were, you'd have been all over that shit since you just HAD to spend all our money on the latest gadgets and game systems.

I could go on, but I think I'm painting a fairly clear picture here, and surely even someone of your stunning lack of intellect can see that dropping you like the bad habit you were was my only option. Sure, I wasn't the easiest person to live with, but in my defense, this was the natural reaction of a person who didn't want to have kids to having a twenty nine year old child foisted on her. In short, grow the fuck up.

Never Again,

Christie.

p.s Please tell your mother than in order to qualify as a gold digger, I would have had to pursue someone who either had lots of money (which you didn't), or some future prospects of making lots of money (again, not you). She seems somewhat unclear on this simple concept.

This is my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic #5: Drop it like a bad habit.

Don't Be Such A Fucking Douche Nozzle On The Lanes, or How To Piss Me Off When I'm Bowling

2010-01-17T10:06:00.000-06:00

Wear Your Wet Fucking Shoes Down In The Pit

Anyone who bowls knows that you end on a slide before hurling the ball down the lane. They also know that if you step in something wet, you won't slide- you'll go and attempt to slide, and pitch forward directly onto your face, fucking up your face and the frame. It's winter, people! Take your wet fucking shoes off on the goddamn carpet!

Bring Your Screaming 2 Year Old

. . . and please, don't bother trying to control them. By all means, plead with them as they scream and run all over the lanes, as though that will cause them to see the error of their ways, go sit sedately on the bench and tone it the fuck down. Don't mind me standing there on the approach, waiting for you to collect your snot-nosed spawn out of my path. And you know how much I love it when they let out that piercing shriek when you finally decide to give up with the pathetic-voiced cajoling, remember that they're portable, and come and carry them back to your side of the bench!

Try On Six Pairs Of Shoes Each While I Wait To Pay

Really?? How is it that you don't know your own shoe size?! Oh, you DO know your shoe size, you're just looking for that perfect-fitting pair of RENTAL shoes. Well, that makes perfect sense. Rather, it would if they weren't RENTAL shoes.

Ignore Lane Courtesy

Seriously, if you don't know any better than to wait for the guy next to you to throw the fucking ball before you go charging up there to throw your granny-shot, just don't even bother lacing up your shoes. This is one of the single jerkiest things you can do to another bowler.

Arrive In A Group of Pre-Teen Girls

Pre-teen girls shouldn't be allowed in public in groups of larger than, oh, say, one. They definitely shouldn't be allowed to congregate on the lane next to me and scream OMG OMG OMG!!! at one another. Strike, spare, gutter ball, the ball returning. . . it all elicits the same response, and I hate them for it. So if you're a girl between the age of 10 and 17, kindly stay home and spare those around you the agony of your presence.

Snippet From My Day #5

2010-01-07T00:51:00.003-06:00

[Flipping through the channels. Jim pauses on the Weather Channel. Snow storm warnings abound in the Greater Chicagoland Area.]

Me: Hey, listen to that, babe! The Weather Channel's playing porn music in the background.

[I snicker.]

Jim: That's cause the mid-west is getting FUCKED!

[Jim makes fisting gestures to emphasize the point.]

The Blindfold Test, Book 4.2 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

2010-01-04T10:31:00.000-06:00

Predictably, my guesses at the plot of this book weren't even close (duh). It was much better than anything I could have anticipated. So let's go through my list of I Hopes to see which were met and which were disappointed.

* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.

It WAS funny! And the humour was kind of dark and sardonic.

* I hope the author doesn't try any ~~pretentious~~ "ground breaking" literary styles that'll make it difficult to read.

Check! Easy to read, the author didn't try to be fancy with the writing style. I devoured this book.

* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).

This was lookin' good for the home team till the very end. I was actually happy he got her, though, he'd been through enough.

* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.

The blindfold was completely figurative.

* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.

Set in 1985. My initial reaction: damn. After reading it, I changed my mind. It sort of poked fun at the 80's, and I was alright with that.

* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.

Disguising and furtiveness abounds! He really went the distance here. Mr. Shechter, I mean.

* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.

Ehhhhh. . . it was and it wasn't. It wasn't secret agent-y enough to ruin the book, and the secret agent-iness that did go on was really goofy.

* I hope the main character is geeky.

The main character is hopelessly geeky! He's easy to feel sorry for, especially once you know what's happening to him.

Ever been called an asshole by soda machine? Or lost your girlfriend to a tweed-wearing colleague? Has your apartment been broken into and vandalized? More than once? Has your mail been stolen, and then re-delivered to you three years late? Ever feel like the government has hired a personal saboteur to follow you around and ruin your life? Welcome to Jeffrey Parker's life.

Meet Hank Monroe, Jr. He was hired by J. Edgar Hoover to stalk one Jeffrey Parker, an average-looking 35 year old English professor with a PhD, a published book at 25, and a better-than-average intellect. Despite his credentials, he can't land a decent job at a major university, and finds himself instead deposited at the dubious Skokie Valley Community College to stagnate professionally. He's had offers from Princeton, Yale and the University of Chicago, which were all withdrawn suddenly, apologetically, and without explanation, thanks to some well-placed rumours perpetuated by Mr. Monroe.

Parker, or rather, ruining Parker's life, has become Hank's life's work, and this life's work is being frustrated by the subject himself. Over the years, Parker has accepted his lot in life as a rather unlucky bastard and developed a defense mechanism described by friends as "actively unobservant". He never dreams that every bad thing that happens to him is completely intentional, and simply doesn't react to the woes that Hank puts him through. This lack of reaction on Parker's part makes Hank's work completely unsatisfying to him.

Daunted by Parker's obtuseness, Hank resorts to outsourcing the majority of his work to a company who specializes in pushing people to their bullshit-tolerating threshold, Tolerance Management. Though the plug was pulled on the program funding Hank's work, he has continued it obsessively, determined to defeat Parker's indifference.

This book took forEVER for me to get into, but once I was into it, I had no difficulty in remaining engaged. I'm not sure if I'd recommend it or not; even though I liked it a lot, I can see why others might find it tedious.

Dream Job?

2010-01-03T14:08:00.015-06:00

The thrill of securing the career Audri been preparing her whole life for had long since faded into dimness. Had she ever been happy at this job? Certainly after she heard those magic words.

"We believe you'll make a good fit for our company, Ms. Langley. We'll see you on Monday!"

Audri looked down at the coffee pot she'd been clutching for the past five minutes, suddenly remembering its existence, and set it down, forgetting it almost immediately. Summers spent in study, party invitations turned down, potential friends held at arms' length. . . all of life's opportunities she'd gently, but firmly set aside in pursuit of her goal to graduate at the top of her class and achieve her PhD a full two years early. All of it marched across her mind in a parade of What Could Have Been. Sure, she wouldn't have this dream job at the most prestigious architecture firm in all of New England, but perhaps she would have had happiness.

Dream job. Hah! she snorted, absently dropping two lumps of sugar into the murky brown liquid. She didn't care that she'd sloshed some of it over the side of the styrofoam cup she'd intentionally chose as a barb to the man who'd ordered it. Audri knew he hated styrofoam, and anticipated the twinge of petty satisfaction his frown would bring her when she handed it to him.

Is this what my life has been reduced to? Fuck Yous handed out in the form of styrofoam cups? Audri demanded angrily of herself. She shook a dash of powdered creamer into the cup as a bit of extra insult, not bothering to mix it in. She stared at the blobules of powder floating around the oily surface, trying to swallow her resentment and gagging on it slightly. With a deep breath, she snatched up the cup and made her way back to the conference room where the meeting she'd been summoned to was carrying on without her.

This will be the last coffee I ever fetch, she assured herself, and she felt liberated by her decision. As she let the burden slide from her shoulders, her head and spirits rose. Audri grew calmer with each step; her ragged breathing softened, her tremors subsided, and she felt the anger draining out of her like someone had pulled a plug in her gut. She even smiled a bit and let her hips swing in her fashionable-but-understated skirt. She reached out for the door handle and paused for a moment.

Are you sure? Audri asked herself. She stayed there a moment longer, giving the question the full consideration it merited. She gripped the handle, turned it, and let herself into the room.

I'm sure. And she was.

Audri walked over to the man who'd welcomed her to the company five years ago. She thought of the broken promise he'd made to the little girl inside her who'd dreamed of creating art that people could live in; the little girl who didn't know the word 'architect', but wanted to be one so badly she chose drawing over living. She offered him the cup with a smile.

After intentionally leaving her there with her hand extended, he finally condescended to look up at the brilliant girl he'd crammed into the role of assistant, glaring as though she was inconveniencing him even as she complied with his request. His eyes fell on the styrofoam container of white clots floating in lukewarm coffee, and the beginnings of a scowl crept onto his face.

Before the scowl could get too comfortable, Audri upended the cup over his head, and Shock bumped Scowl rudely off of his face. She relaxed her grip on the cup and watched it fall, bounce off the bald spot, and land in his lap.

"I don't feel that I'm a very good fit for your company," Ms. Langley informed him brightly. She smiled winningly at the stunned group of people surrounding the table and breezed her way out the way she came in- happy and hopeful.

This is my contribution to Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 3: Take this job and shove it.

Snippet From My Day #4

2009-12-29T07:07:00.003-06:00

She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at me over the rims of her glasses. Her words were more polite than the You're A Fucking Liar expression she wore.

"That's not possible, ma'am. We use a Pyxis, and that has a very, VERY low rate of error."

"Well, what am I supposed to do to prevent this? You handed me a large bottle, and the bottle says Quantity: 180. It looked reasonably full, so I believed you. Should I, in the future, pour all those pills out on the counter here and count them myself before leaving? Low margin of error or not, there's still a margin of error." I was doing my best to be calm and reasonable, but this woman's tone was really rubbing me the wrong way.

"Yes, but. . ."

"Perhaps it wasn't the machine's error," I suggested, "Perhaps someone punched in the wrong number by mistake. Either way, I'm 18 doses short, and I'll tell you what's going to happen: I'm going to the doctor to obtain refills. I'm going to come back, and you're going to deny those refills, saying I'm trying to fill too early. And the reason I'm trying to fill too early is because you shorted me 18 days worth of doses."

"Look, ma'am, it isn't that we don't believe you," she explained quasi-patiently, We Don't Believe You almost visibly oozing out of every pore in her disbelieving face, "but you have to understand how many times a day we hear that accusation. And what are we expected to do? Hand over extra pills with an apology?"

"Inventory."

"Excuse me?"

"You asked what I expected you to do! You compare what you should have on hand against what you do have on hand, and I'll take the 36 extraneous pills. I could understand your concern if I showed up claiming to be 18 Percocet short, or 18 Oxycontin short, but you can't even get high off of this stuff! There's no recreational benefit whatsoever to my trying to get extra doses out of you."

She paused before saying, "We're very busy, ma'am."

"I feel ya. I'll wait." I took a seat and pulled my book out of my purse, and she disappeared behind the counter. She wasn't just making an excuse- they really were very busy, so I resigned myself to remain in that uncomfortable chair for at least an hour.

I had only read 12 pages before I heard the technician calling my name. I put my book back in my purse to return to the counter, and there she was, holding a small bag in her hands and an embarrassed expression in her eyes. She handed me the bag.

"We apologize for the inconvenience," she said, fortified as though preparing for a blow. I merely smiled and accepted the bag from her hand.

"It's alright," I gave a little shake of the bag, "Just be glad I didn't wait till I ran out of these things before i came in." She nodded, understanding exactly what I meant.

Holy Nutsack, Batman!

2009-12-27T06:55:00.002-06:00

It's hard to pick a "most" embarrassing moment out of all the many embarrassing moments that happen over a lifetime. I had it narrowed down to two in particular: the one where I got saran wrapped to the flagpole when I was a wee freshman in high school, and this one. This one won out because I was embarrassed for the both of us.

~*~

I was married in Lake Tahoe. I don't live anywhere near Lake Tahoe, but it had a few things going for it that made the trip beyond worthwhile: it was absolutely one of the most beautiful places I've ever had the pleasure of visiting, I didn't have to deal with houseguests, and the resort people planned my entire wedding for me- all I had to do was pick out the flavour of the cake, the colour of my bouquet, and then show up at the appointed time. The last perk was the most important one to me; I'd decided to get married after all, but I damn sure wasn't going to go through the stress and hassle of planning the wedding.

The downside to elopement wasn't obvious to me at first. I'd never been married and I had NO idea what to do, and there was to be no rehearsal. You'd think simply walking down a narrow aisle would be easy enough, right? No cause for anxiety? What if I came in before I was supposed to? What if I came in late? What if I stood on the wrong side?? A lot can go wrong in twenty nine steps.

But we did have the next best thing: an appointment with the minister, and he was going to give us the play book. So we went downstairs to the lobby of our resort to meet with Reverend McIntyre the day before the wedding. I liked him immediately! He was friendly, he had that ministerly look about him (without being stuffy) and he was willing to try to make our wedding whatever we wanted it to be.

We took our seats opposite him to tell him what we did and didn't want in our ceremony. I was in the middle of trying to explain to him (without offending him) that we weren't religious people and we wanted as un-religious a ceremony as we could possibly get away with, when something on his pants caught my eye. Before I could stop myself, I glanced down to see what it was, and immediately wished I hadn't. There, right at his crotch, was a split seam maybe an inch in length, and some pink was showing through.

I felt my cheeks flame bright red with sudden blush. I was thinking it was kind of funny for a minister to be wearing pinkish underwear, when the truth of the whole business hit me like a wrecking ball: it wasn't pinkish underwear at all. I was being peeked at by Holy Scrotum. I remember blinking a couple of times, thinking I must be mistaken. I was not mistaken.

"How can he not FEEL that?!" I demanded silently, "It's COLD in here!"

My husband noticed I wasn't paying attention and knew something was wrong, because I'd just been fretting about not knowing what to do when the time came to do it. I could hear him making decisions, but I just couldn't make myself pay attention. He elbowed me in the ribs a few times, and I tried to marshal my errant focus and raise my eye back up to Rev. McIntyre's face, feeling all the while that this must be how a guy feels when he's assaulted by perfect cleavage.

The next thing I knew, we were on our feet and Reverend was shaking our hands to take his leave. He wished us luck for the morrow and left, and I stood there gaping like a complete retard, unable to utter anything coherent at all. As soon as he'd gone, Jim turned to me and demanded to know what THAT was all about. I told him. I couldn't believe he missed it!

"Well, *I* don't go around checking out ministers' packages, babe," he retorted.

~*~

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 2: Most Embarrassing Moment

Tea in a Cold Room

2009-12-20T07:53:00.004-06:00

A steaming cup of Darjeeling in a still, cold room is a thing of beauty. The crisp, austere white porcelain foils so agreeably with the clear russet fluid it carries.

The line between the surface and the air just above is a smear, blurred by the liquid transmuting to steam and taking wing before your very eyes. The newborn vapors rise in a thick, straight rope; the rope doesn't twist or furl in the quiet, undisturbed air.

The faint muscatel scent ascends in this medium, astride the column of mist before dispersing into cool atmosphere, invisible but delightful in its presence.

An unseen corona of heat gently suffuses the cup, eager to provide comfort to the chill-shrunken hands that embrace it.

A pleasure to all five senses, all that remains is to raise it to the lips, invite the piping wetness to cross the threshold of the mouth and let the tinge of its astringency linger briefly on the tongue before sliding down to warm the body and infuse the spirit.

Snippet From My Day #3

2009-12-17T21:40:00.007-06:00

"Ugh, I've got an eye-twitch in my foot," I complained, shaking my foot as though it were something I could dislodge.

He stared at me like I'd just sprouted the twitching foot in question directly out of the side of my head.

"You know those annoying eye twitches you get when you're tired?" I tried to explain.

". . . yeah. . ."

"Well, I've got one in my foot. An eye-twitch in my foot."

"Yeah, I hur' what you sai'. It jus' don' make no sense."

"Sure it does! It's a tiny little spasm-y jerk right in the arch of my foot. It's exactly like the tiny little spasm-y jerk you get in your eyelid."

"Woul'n that be a foot twitch?"

I watched him persist stubbornly in completely missing the point, and gave up. I wasn't exactly sure I had a point in the first place.

"I suppose it would," I conceded.

Christmas Recipe Swap (Group Blog Thursday)

2009-12-17T20:04:00.004-06:00

Yes, I LOVE recipe swaps! It's the topic for Steph In The City's Thursday Group Blog. I can't think of a better thing to blog collectively about just before I do my Christmas dinner shopping, thanks, Stephanie! Here's my recipe for a fanTAStic side dish (crock pot, so it won't take up valuable oven or stove top space!), and something to take the edge off of over-the-top family members ;)

Orange-Glazed Carrots

Ingredients:

1 (32 oz) package baby carrots
1/2 cup firmly packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup orange juice
3 tablespoons butter
3/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 cup cold water

Combine the carrots, brown sugar, orange juice, butter, cinnamon and nutmeg in a large bowl. Mix well. Place carrot mixture in slow cooker set on LOW. Cover and cook until carrots are tender but not soggy (about 3.5-4 hours).

Spoon carrots into a serving bowl. Remove the juices to a small saucepan and heat to a boil over high heat. Mix the cornstarch and water in a small bowl and blend. Stir into saucepan and boil 1 minute until sauce is thickened (stir constantly). Pour sauce over carrots and serve!

My Variations:

I like to double the sauce and add a chopped apple or some halved cranberries. It makes a great alternative for those who don't like sweet potatoes :)

Gluhwein (German Spiced Wine)

Ingredients:

1 lemon
12 whole allspice
12 whole cloves
dash of ground nutmeg
1 cup water
1 cup sugar (Splenda works too)
3 cinnamon sticks
6 cups of cheap Burgundy wine (the cheaper varieties flavour better, so don't catch yourself thinking that if you buy a better quality wine that it'll taste better. I like to use Inglenook).

In a small sauce pan, combine water, sugar, allspice, cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon sticks and the peel of the lemon (it can be chopped, torn into small pieces or grated, it doesn't matter). Heat to boiling and then simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat, cover, and let it sit 15 minutes. Strain the syrup, retaining the cinnamon sticks.

In a medium stock pot or Dutch oven, pour the wine and squeeze the juice from the lemon (pick out the seeds). Pour in the syrup and add the cinnamon sticks. Heat slowly until hot, but not boiling (boiling ruins it). Serve in mugs.

My Variations: I like to throw two or three Tazo Passion tea bags into the syrup as its boiling (remove with the other spices) and garnish the mugs with orange slices.

Enjoy!

A Fly On The Wall

2009-12-16T20:24:00.011-06:00

I saw "John" and "Jane" casually glancing around, taking stock of who was around and paying attention to them. They didn't notice my surreptitious focus, as I was bent over a task and looking at them through the periphery of my vision. I knew that look. That was the look of a pair of people about to go off and do things they oughtn't be doing, mainly because they're coworkers and Jane is married. You know, to someone else.

First John went out the door, trying to look intent on an errand. Jane hung back, puttering around and trying to look busy, but watching the clock. I predicted five minutes before she followed John out the door. She waited three, and with a last glance around the room, headed out a different door. Clever move, I congratulated her silently. I hadn't anticipated the different door.

Feigning an errand of my own, I left the lab and went to my office, which was conveniently located next door to John's. I walked past his closed door, went into my office, and silently shut the door. I shed my pretense on my desk and leaned against the shared wall, trying to sharpen my hearing. All I could hear were murmured voices, and I couldn't make out anything they were saying. I stood stock-still, listening, but nothing changed; the murmurs didn't change to sighs, or stifled moans. I heaved a sigh of disappointment and sat down in my chair, contemplating.

I wished I could be a fly on the wall! I closed my eyes and imagined being tiny and completely unnoticed, able to take in the scene without caution or embarrassment. I imagined the thrill of being the ultimate voyeur, the succulent vision before me splintered into hundreds of facets in my fly-eyes, rubbing my fly-forelegs together in greed.

I opened my eyes to a prismatic world, and my little fly brain began to buzz with the excitement of a wish come true! I flapped my iridescent fly wings experimentally, flushing with pleasure as I felt myself lifted from the now-huge landscape of my chair, and made a bee-line (fly-line?) for the air vent that connected my office to John's. As I popped out on the other side, I was instantly rewarded with the sight of John's face buried in Jane's perfect A-cup breasts. The murmuring voices came from an AM talk-radio station playing softly from the radio sitting on a shelf in the corner, just loud enough to cover the furtive noises of the trysters. Clever, I silently congratulated them again, and focused on the scene before me.

Jane carelessly discarded her blouse while John hiked her skirt up around her hips. He lifted her effortlessly off her feet and planted that perfectly rounded ass on his desk, one hand sliding up her thigh toward the prize. She wrapped her long, 40-inch legs around his hips and drew him close to her, fumbling with his pants as her mouth fed hungrily on his. I crept a little closer, my human mind gorging itself on the forbidden scene. I drowned in the scents of their pheromones and her secret honey dripping from her flower hotly into John's palm as he worked her. I battled my fly instincts to hurl myself toward that intoxicating smell, forcing myself to retain my place on the wall.

Jane finally won the skirmish with John's zipper. His member had barely sprung free of its confines before being slammed into a new, sweeter prison. She flung herself back across his desk, giving herself over to his thrusts, biting back little cries and swallowing them down that gloriously arced throat. Her lovely little breasts rippled and rocked to John's furious rhythm when suddenly her back arched and her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. I smelled her climax seconds before his followed. Not trusting myself to conquer my fly instincts any longer, I retreated back to the air vent, and then my office.

I planted myself back into my chair and closed my eyes to digest the images I'd taken in. When I opened my eyes again after replaying the events in my head, my vision was stereoscopic once more. I marshaled my thoughts and exited my office just as Jane was exiting John's. She looked at me, startled, and I smiled blandly at her. I was preoccupied with the lingering scent of honey trailing her, and my distracted expression set Jane's mind at ease. She smiled back at me as she adjusted her top button and made her way back toward the lab.

This is my contribution to Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 1: You're a fly on the wall, what's going on? What do you see?

Occasionally, I Hate Blogging On MySpace

2009-12-13T03:01:00.004-06:00

My primary blog is on MySpace (yeah, yeah, i know, MySpace is for 14 year old girls who like to spend their days taking/posting hundreds of pictures of themselves). Why do I blog there? I don't know, it's where I started and I have a steady readership over there. I have never had any hate comments (anyone who's ever blogged on MySpace knows all about those- they attack you as a person rather than what you've just written about), and I get some pretty good feedback from writers I like to read. I like how you can leave a kudo if you don't have anything in particular to say, but want the author to know you liked it. In short, it has its perks and its irritations, much like anything else in life.

Yesterday I experienced an unanticipated irritation.

Eventually, if you read the same people often enough, you start moving in the same circles as other readers of that persons blog. Sometimes, if they like your comments, they'll come read your blog. Very occasionally, someone you don't like ends up reading your blog, and you have to choose between responding neutrally to their comments, or telling them to go piss up a rope. Option 2 is the more honest, upfront thing to do, but then (depending on who it is) you risk the wrath of that person's whole blog circle coming down on you and bombarding you with hate comments/mails/messages/what-have-yous. It's an issue that seems to be unique to MySpace blogging, and I've never been bothered by it until a few weeks ago. Enter "Jane" (name changed to protect blah blah blah).

I've seen her comments on other blogs I've read before, and she'd replied to a few of the comments I'd left myself, but I don't really care for her. I found her to be a rather obsequious sycophant, and a long-winded one, at that. Anyhow, my policy for dealing with unpalatable online personalities is simply not to respond to them, and that's how I'd dealt with her in my infrequent brushings with her.

Then she started reading my blog. Fuck.

She pulls the same over-the-top OMG I AGREE WITH YOU SO MUCH type comments on mine as she does on everyone else's, and I'd decided to deal with her monosyllabically whenever possible. After all, when one kisses as much ass as she does, one gathers quite a few friends, and she sports quite a few drama bloggers as friends. Not a scene I'm interested in! I just want to post my rants about my daily life, my bits of fiction, random dreams, and be on my way. Preferably with mild interaction with my readers.

So she's been reading my blog for a few weeks now, and I popped over to her blog, out of courtesy, and read a little bit. She's an issues blogger, which is a turn-off to me in the first place, and the cause she champions isn't one that interests me. Throw in all the bad grammar and spelling, and I decided to politely unsubscribe.

That's polite, right? Unsubscribing quietly?

Apparently, it isn't. I got a message from her yesterday asking why she hadn't seen me commenting on her blog. Fuck, and double fuck! Now I'm back at my initial problem: be honest or be vague. Here's vague:

Sorry I haven't spent much time at your blog, I've got a lot of subscriptions and as much as I try to make it to everyone, I don't always succeed. I'll try to be better in the future.

Apologies,
Christie.

Then I can visit her blog daily and hit the kudos button, making it look as though i read it. But that's really WAY too much effort, and it's just downright dishonest. I already feel horrible just for having thought about it.

Here's honesty:

I don't have a lot of free time, and I'm not going to spend that little bit that I do have reading shit that I don't enjoy, by people I don't like. I don't expect people to read my blog just because I read theirs, I expect people to read it because they like it. If they don't like it? I'd prefer they politely unsubscribe and spend their time elsewhere- no drama, no flaming, no butt-hurtedness. Everybody wins! So please, unsubscribe in an undramatic fashion. You really would be doing me a solid.

Best of luck,
Christie.

And I honestly feel that way! I don't expect people to read me just because I read them. It doesn't change the fact that I enjoy their writing, and I'm going to continue reading it. I found out a long time ago that very few MySpace people feel this way- if they spend time reading and commenting your blog, they damn sure expect that you reciprocate. If you don't, most of the time, they just quietly unsubscribe (yay for quiet unsubscription!) and you stop hearing from them.

Oh, but not Jane! No, she requires explanations. I've done my best to avoid dealing with her, and that's clearly not going to work. So I think I'll go halfway between vague and honest:

I'm sorry I haven't made it to your blog, but at this time, I don't have time for additional subscriptions. I appreciate the time you take to read and comment mine, but if it isn't something you enjoy doing for its own sake, then please don't feel obligated to continue doing so. I know your time is valuable too, and I wouldn't want you to waste it on a one-sided blogging relationship.

Best of luck to you and your cause,
Christie.

A firm Thanks-But-No-Thanks, but not a rude one. I hope she quietly unsubscribes and refrains from tossing me to the lions.

Group Blog Thursday: Tacky Holiday Traditions

2009-12-10T17:04:00.012-06:00

This is my first time contributing to Stephanie's Group Blog Thursday. This week's topic is tacky Christmas traditions that we'd like to see banished from today's society. Take a gander at hers, The Ugly Christmas Sweater, and contribute if you like :) You've always been a tough act to follow, Steph, but here goes!

While i was checking out at Big Buys yesterday, i had the following conversation with the cashier:

"Will that be all for you today?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I only ask because. . . ," she paused and eyed my meager selection of purchases-to-be. "To be blunt, it just seems you're being a little chintzy this year."

"Well, it's not exactly chintziness. I took a pay cut-," i began defensively.

"Yeah, yeah, the economy, blah blah blah," she interrupted, "You know, this is the one time of year where you have the opportunity let everyone in your life know how much you care about them, and you're about to drop the ball with some of them, and completely blow it with others. I mean, if you're willing to sacrifice your friends' and family's perfect holiday, that's your prerogative."

I was at a loss. She was right, i was buying things i knew my kids weren't exactly hoping for, and outright not buying for others at all. I tried not to look ashamed.

"Well, i . . . ," i stammered, groping for an unScroogely excuse. She held up her hand, mercifully forestalling my lameness.

"But there IS something you can do about it."

"There is?" Relief washed over me.

"Yes. You can apply for our Big Buys Visa card and max it out. Nothing says, 'I care' like a maxed balance on your store credit card."

"Hmm, i don't know. . . "

"Low monthly payments! A very competitive 35% APR! And a guaranteed line of credit that's unjustifiably high, given your recently-trimmed salary."

"Won't that take me like, 25 years to pay off?"

"Pah, 21! PLUS you'll get 10% off your first purchase!"

"10%! Do you know what this means?!" i enthused, my mind racing with the possibilities.

"I certainly do. You can buy 10% MORE gifts. That means you can even buy for a few co-workers you don't even like! Come on, let's face it. This is NOT the time to hide behind flimsy excuses like 'your budget' and 'the economy'."

"You're absolutely right. What're you waiting for?! Sign me up!" I smiled beatifically at the saviour of my family's holiday happiness as she ran my instant credit app.

****

Okay, so it didn't quite happen like that, but that's how it feels when every person who works at the store stuffs instant credit apps in my face as i shop. So the tacky holiday tradition i'd like to see done away with: companies trying to strong-arm me into fiscal irresponsibility by pushing credit cards on me (that i know damn well i can't afford), using the illusion that holiday happiness comes from a store.

Jake

2009-12-08T09:09:00.001-06:00

Old age weren't easy on Jake. He walked unsteady and uncoordinated, like each leg wanted t' go its own way, not mindin' where he wanted t' go. My Daddy said it was cause he'd been chained up a lot, and bein' yanked back by the chain damaged his spine and his nerves. Or somethin' 'long those lines. My uncle called 'im his Crippled-Up-Old-War-Veteran. Anyway, he couldn't hardly walk, and toward the end he needed help standin' up, too. He looked vicious as hell, but he was a big ole softy with bad gas. I shit you not. When he farted, you could see his whole butt hole open up t' let out the cloud, and i swear you could see it before it hitcha. I never knew anyone or anything that could clear a room as fast as Jake, Lord rest his soul.

Fish in particular tickled 'im. My uncle would bring 'im over, and instead of playin' with our dogs (which was real hard on his joints), he'd park that big smelly ass in front of our fish tank and look at it for hours. Sometimes he'd sit there quiet-like, and other times he'd get riled up watching them fish swim round. He'd fidget and whine at em. He'd bump the tank with his nose and yip. He'd breathe heavy, his tongue lollin' out the side of his mouth. When he wasn't lickin' at the glass. He reminded me of my uncle and my daddy (hollerin' at) watchin' the game with all that carryin'-on, only my uncle and dad never licked at the TV. I sure miss that old boy.

Montserrat Rocks Bristle Ridge's Face Off

2009-12-04T07:44:00.018-06:00

Rob, Jim, Angie and I gathered up our hangover collection and stumbled out the door Saturday morning on our planned trip to the Montserrat Winery outside Knob Noster, Missouri (yeah, yeah, go ahead and snicker at the Nosters of Knobs- i sure as hell did). It wasn't a long trip, maybe thirtyish minutes. The brochure we'd read promised tours and tastings and unique gifts, and i was very excited about it, having never actually been to a winery before.

Our exit held a wonderful surprise for us: right next door to our destination was Bristle Ridge Winery! We hadn't noticed it at first on the brochure, but sure enough, they, too boasted tours, tastings, and unique gifts. Two wineries in one trip. . .fucking score! Bristle Ridge was actually before Montserrat, so we stopped there first.

We parked on the hill and climbed up to a large, surprisingly elegant covered patio nestled among absolutely stunning landscaping. The patio sported high, round tables and chairs, each with a little brazier in the center to keep the winers warm as the weather cooled. Inside, we were greeted by a weird odor and more elegance: the chandelier, the light fixtures, the hardwood floors, the fire place, and the bar were all beautifully ornate and candle-lit. The bar was tended by an old lady polishing a wine glass with a towel and an air of superiority. She smiled perfunctorily at us as we entered, and asked if she could help us. She really looked as though she'd rather not. Help us, that is.

Rob approached her and asked if we could take the tour. She coolly informed him that there were no tours at this winery, and not-quite-demanded to know who told us we could take a tour. Angie produced the brochure, which the Bar Crone barely even glanced at before crisply telling us that there were no tours. She stared at Rob with Will That Be All? Face, but to her ill-concealed dismay, he asked if we could get a tasting. She said of course we could, and produced a wine/price list before returning to the vigorous glass-polishing we'd so rudely interrupted.

The wine list looked about how we'd expect a wine list to look except for the price: tastes were two bucks each, for a two ounce sample. Somehow i didn't think this winery produced dollar-per-ounce quality wine, but i was eager to get on with trying to salvage my souring first-winery experience. We talked about which wines we wanted to try, and then looked back at the Bar Crone, who studiously ignored us.

I decided to go and have a look at the Unique Gifts, since they were the only thing left on the brochure that hadn't disappointed me yet. They were varied and wine-related, and expensive, but i found a few things i liked and i was trying to decide what i wanted to buy when Jim went to step out for a smoke. Now, we all had obviously arrived together: we all piled out of the same car, walked up and entered together, and spoke familiarly with one another; in short, we were clearly at the winery as a group. But when Jim went to the door, cigarette in mouth, the Bar Crone looked up and dismissively thanked him for coming as though he was going to leave without the rest of us.

I probably don't need to mention that her Thanks For Coming sounded more like a Get The Hell Out Of My Tasting Room. We all looked at each other, and Rob shrugged.

"Well, if you want us to leave, we will," he said, and the rest of us headed for the door. She didn't thank the rest of us for coming. I later learned that the Bar Crone was the owner.

That's right. The. Owner. (Well, she and her husband). I wouldn't have believed how rude she was if i hadn't just experienced it myself.

By contrast, the atmosphere at Montserrat was warm and inviting. The tasting room smelled terrific, and the guy working the bar greeted us like he might have actually been glad to see us. The decor lacked the elegance of Bristle Ridge, there were fewer gifts to browse, and no tours were offered here either, but we were offered a wine list as soon as we walked in, the samples were FREE, the bar guy was friendly, and he actually gave us samples once we'd made up our minds!

We tasted several wines, including a chocolate wine (that's right- Chocolate!). The wines were tasty, and Bar Guy told us about the local wine industry while we sampled. Never at any point did we feel rushed or unwelcome, and my disappointment evaporated as though Bristle Ridge never happened. After some great wine and conversation, we bought a few bottles and left with good memories and a mental note to return next time we came through Knob Noster. Oh, and the Bar Guy? Not an owner, just an employee. It's a sad, sad day when an employee treats the clientele better than the owner of an establishment.

Snippet From Oklahoma #1

2009-12-03T07:45:00.005-06:00

I arrived at my Nana's house after a rather exhausting trip in my Jeep. For those who've never taken a road trip in almost-winter in a Jeep. . . well, it's far, far less than comfortable. I won't bore you with the details, but i will say that the only road trips Jeeps are meant for are ones in the summer, with the top down.

There were hugs all around, trips to the bathroom, unpackings, and ploppings down on furniture more suited to being sat on for extended periods (made all the more comfortable by the relative discomfort we'd sat in for the last 8ish hours). We were the last to arrive; my aunt, cousin, sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew were already there. Nana, Aunt Trisha, my cousin Corrinne, and my niece Morgan were all dressed to go out, and Nana invited us to go with. It was a Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt Jan's church.

I'd been to Aunt Jan's churches before (i think this one was a different one, but after the previous two, i didn't hold out much hope for improvement), and i wasn't of a mind to go be dressed up in uncomfortable clothing, and sit among people who made me uncomfortable after a long uncomfortable trip, so i declined. Nana turned to my nephew, Carter, and asked if he'd like to come to dinner with his sister. Carter looked dubiously up from his Nintendo DS.

"At a church?"

"Yes."

"Noooo-ho-ho-ho. No."

Confession (Dew Write)

2009-12-01T21:33:00.014-06:00

Mass Merriment <---- Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.

She snatched the sheet off the pad and wadded it up. Another ball for the basket, and she'd missed it again. This time she didn't bother getting it up to retrieve it; undoubtedly, there'd be more to follow. She frowned at the growing pile of fail in the waste basket next to her desk, disapproving her own inadvertent cliche.

Did he give her any signs? She searched her memories and found them sitting together, chatting companionably at the kitchen table. She remembered feeling full to bursting with feelings for him, but he seemed not to notice. She remembered a few other times of being alone with him, and it was always the same comfortable chat. She remembered barely being able to focus on what he was saying, only wanting to take his face between her small hands, and guide his lips to hers, but if he noticed, he gave no sign.

She looked away from the frustration to ply the pen to the waiting page, and then withdrew it again. The paper stared blankly back at her, offering pressure instead of inspiration. What If tripped her pen, mussing her neat, wispy hand. What if she chose the wrong words and he didn't understand? What if she chose the right words and he didn't care?

What if he did? The thrill and the anxiety and the What If would be gone, replaced by warmth. Not that warmth was bad! She welcomed warmth, but there was always a feeling of loss; of something missing once they abandoned the refuge and cowardice of willful unknowing. Once she looked over that cliff, she'd see the bottom. Reality would replace dream, and while she rejoiced in the solid, actual Him, she would mourn the fantastical, intangible Him. He would fulfill her. He would let her down. He would would love her.

But not right.

Emerging from her reverie, she turned back to her letter, fancying both his acceptance and his rejection with equal parts longing and dread. Ah, but the release! At least she'd have that, and What If relaxed its grip on her pen.

Beloved,

It's been ten days and seven hours since i almost kissed you. . .

A Tendency To Recycle Disposable Cups

2009-11-17T00:54:00.000-06:00

I love a good disposable cup. Especially the kind with the sippy lids that stop the liquid inside from sloshing into the cupholders in my car. I'm not kidding, I will rinse and reuse that thing until the paper leaks and it looks like i've fished it out of a trash can.

So why not just buy myself a permanent, reusable thermal mug? I have; i've bought several, one of which i even liked. I lost the lid to the one i like. Others have had an array of problems: one dribbled liquid out from the crevice between the lid and the cup; another didn't fit in my cup holder, in spite of its label's promise to fit any cup holder; another one was too narrow for me to get my hand down inside and wash it properly; another one had a lid that was too complicated to wash properly. All of them seemed too bulky or top-heavy.

If they made a permanent reusable thermal mug that was shaped like a disposable one, i'd be all over it.

Snippet From My Day #2

2009-11-16T08:10:00.000-06:00

"Look, Reeses peanut butter bells!"

He looked dubiously at the bag i had thrust at him.

"No way."

"Why not?!"

"They're not fucking natural, that's why," he retorted, just in time for a middle aged woman in a matched knit jogging suit to walk by. She stiffened visibly.

"What do you mean, 'not natural'?! It's candy, for Balls' sake!"

"Look, Reeses only occur in cup form in nature. Anything else is an abomination. A bioengineering experiment gone horribly, horribly awry."

". . . in nature? Like, Reeses in the wild?"

"Fuckin' a," he said smugly. The stiffened middle age woman threw us the stink-eye from over by the Hershey kisses. Her face pinched up, but she didn't say anything, so i politely resisted the urge to laugh at it.

"I can't see a herd of Reeses roaming the country side in ANY form, man," i disagreed.

"No, no, they don't roam anywhere! They grow on trees."

"Like THESE?!" I picked up a bag of Reeses trees and brandished it.

"Yes. Reeses cups come from Reeses trees."

"Mhmm. And how bout Reeses minis?"

"Oh, those are like Reeses tree seeds."

"Right."

"Once they ripen into full-sized cups, they're ready to be picked and enjoyed."

"Uh, huh. And how do Big cups fit into the picture?"

He rolled his eyes at me, and sighed with exaggerated forced patience.

"Do apples all show up in the same fucking size?!"

Pinchy Faced Stink-Eye hurled her candy forcibly into her cart, jerked it away from the shelves, and made a big show of glaring at Ry as she walked by us, back ram-rod straight (probably from the stick shoved up her ass). Just to make sure she got her displeasure across, she continued to glare at us all the way down the aisle. Which was really too bad, because she took out an old woman in a wheelchair with her cart while she was preoccupied with her display of hostility towards our making such liberal use of the First Amendment. I threw my hands up in the air as the pinched look gave way to the Oh Shit expression.

"NOW look what you've done!"

Random Snippet from My Day #1

2009-11-14T12:42:00.010-06:00

"What is this?!" She held up a baggie pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

I glanced up at her from the report i was trying to write, and then back down to business.

"A baggie of Fiber One cereal. It isn't going to bite, you know."

"It looks like fucking gerbil food."

"Well, it isn't. It's cereal."

"What's it doing in your purse?"

"I keep a stash on me."

"Uh. . . why?"

"In case i need it, genius. Look, did you want some Tylenol or to bitch about the contents of my purse?"

She looked like she wanted to comment further, maybe to ask under what circumstance i would find myself in need of Fiber One cereal. She snatched the Tylenol and tossed the offending bag back onto my desk instead.

Body Function Fail

2009-11-10T19:12:00.001-06:00

Lately my jaw has been going lazy on me when i eat. I'll be mid-chew, and my jaw muscles start getting all kinds of tired, and then finishing the bite becomes this major undertaking. Every chomp stretches out in time like i started eating in slow-motion, taking forever to complete one mastication cycle and move on to the next. I reach up and massage the flagging mandible like a boxing coach rubbing down his prize fighter. I even kind of project a mental pep talk to it: 'Come on, you can do this! You can take that bite of tuna! That shit's practically already chewed for you, quit being such a pussy!' I kind of start bobbing my head a bit, like involving my neck is somehow gonna make the job easier, but it doesn't. It just makes my neck tired too.

The Box

2009-11-08T19:38:00.004-06:00

Jim and i went to see The Box last night. I really liked it, he just thought it was okay, but we agreed it stirred up some interesting thought.

For those who don't know the premise of the movie, a creepy man shows up on a couple's doorstep with a red button in a box. It looks like this:

He gives them 24 hours to decide if they're going to push the button; if they do, they'll receive a million dollars in cash, but someone they don't know somewhere in the world will die. (I'm not going to spoil the movie, don't worry.)

The premise itself is what intrigues me the most. Think about it: the guy shows up, gives you the wealth-creating-button-o-death, then departs leaving you to stare at it for 24 hours and make your decision. Initially, you'd scoff at it- it's a joke. No WAY this could be for real. At some point, the creepiness of the guy convinces you that this is totally for real. You figure (correctly) that a guy who looks like this doesn't fuck around:

Yes, that's a chunk missing out of the side of his face.

Then you start to rationalize: the money could pay off so many bills, send your child to college, help family members in need. You could do a LOT of good with this money. And it isn't like you KNOW the person who's going to die, right? They're nothing to you. It's probably an old person, or a person in a diseased state. You know, someone who's going to die anyway. Maybe it would even be doing them a kindness.

Do you believe in karma? Could you do it? Could you enjoy the money? Could you live with the knowledge that you just condemned someone's child, mother, brother, husband to die? I could'nt.

Empty Tub

2009-11-04T07:19:00.001-06:00

"You've grown awfully lazy recently," he observed coolly.

She glared resentfully up at him from behind her mask of impassiveness. He knew it was her distaste for repetition that stayed her tongue, not laziness, but he was intentionally provoking her. He longed for her to get up and scream at him; to slap him, or to laugh or cry. Even a sneer. Any reaction at all was better than this stony aloofness.

What he didn't know was the nameless, faceless horror that oppressed her dreams whenever she drifted off to sleep. She would try to scream herself awake, but fear paralyzed her as the blackness crept into her opened mouth and down her throat, choking her. It pressed against the inside of her chest from her lungs and sat on the outside of it, crushing her and eating her simultaneously. It had finally driven her early from their bed. She didn't tell him. She was afraid if she tried, the darkness would pour from her mouth instead of words, and then they'd both perish. It was better this way.

Instead, she said, "You're the one who interrupted my bath asking for a cup of tea. If you want me to make it, then you'll bring me the kettle." She said it slowly, like an adult trying to instruct a slow child, dangling the empty cup from her little finger to emphasize her point. He didn't move for a few moments, staring down at her, trying to rip the truth from her empty face.

"Say it," she ordered tonelessly.

He remained silent. The accusation was on the tip of his brain, aching to burst its way out, but he couldn't bring himself to commit to that final act that would be the destruction of them. If he verbalized what he woke up condemning her for. . .

"Say it, or get the fuck out of my face."

Burning love warred with smoldering hate across the battlefield of his countenance; twins turned against one another, neither stronger than the other. Neither capable of defeating the other. He wanted her to care that she was hurting him. Her apathetic face mocked his pain-stricken face, he felt. He turned abruptly from her, leaving her in her empty tub.

She wondered fleetingly if he would actually bring the kettle, and whether she should have asked for the leaves as well. She knew he'd be angry when she sent him back, but she couldn't find the strength to care. She pushed him easily out of her mind to continue staring at the faucet. She wanted to turn it on, she was cold. But she was afraid the darkness would flood out of it instead of water. She shivered.

The Blindfold Test, Book 4.1 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

2009-11-01T10:32:00.001-06:00

Judge a Book By Its Cover

When i picked The Blindfold Test for this category, i could'nt wait to read and find out what it's about. I mean, how do you turn down a book with a cut-out disguise on the cover?! There's only one correct answer to that question: You don't.

I've owned this book for about four months now, and i've been successful with avoiding reading the back cover or flipping through the pages (you just don't KNOW what kind of torment this has been!). But now that i'm remembering the "Write about what you expect it's going to be about based solely on the cover art" part, I'm kind of at a loss. I have NO idea what to expect. I know that any guess on my part is going to miss the mark like Helen Keller with a sniper rifle, but here we go:

I think we'll find a stalker ex girlfriend going to extremes to avoid being made by the targets: her ex boyfriend and his new girl. She's a master of disguise, blending into the background as she pursues them from place to place, waiting for her opportunity to strike.

I'm not sure how the title's going to fit in with this plot.

Or maybe. . .

A guy is kidnapped and blindfolded by corporate goons wearing cheesy disguises (you know, so they can't be identified and stuff). The goons throw the hapless guy into a dark room with a single dull lightbulb suspended from the ceiling over a table with two chairs opposing one another. In front of him are two cups of liquid, and his opinion is being forcibly solicited:

"Which one tastes better", they demand, "Which one feels better on the tongue?" "Which one has the better aroma?" "Which one? WHICH ONE?!"

He's caught in the middle of a corporation flavour-war. The ultimate Pepsi challenge has been issued, and he's not sure he's up to the task.

At least the title fits, right?

Or maybe. . .

He's been invited to a Halloween party with his girlfriend. He abhors dressing up and refuses to waste any money on something he knows he'll never wear again. The solution? Some construction paper, a pair of scissors and some string. He'll cut himself out some sunglasses and a fake beard, then raid his uncle's closet for his old army-issue trench coat. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a ridiculous hat, too. Lame? Maybe. But at the end of the night, at least he will still have his fifty bucks and his dignity. Well, maybe not his dignity.

Again, not sure how the title'll tie into a plot like that. I think i'm just going to have to face the fact that i'm shooting in the dark with blanks here. So here're my hopes for the book, which are more realistic than the expectations i've just created on the spot (honestly, i've got no expectations at all):

* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.
* I hope the author doesn't try any ~~pretentious~~ "ground breaking" literary styles that'll make it difficult to read.
* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).
* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.
* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.
* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.
* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.
* I hope the main character is geeky.

Now i think i'll go read. Balls know i've waited long enough!

Kiss Me (Dew Write)

2009-10-24T12:50:00.001-05:00

Mass Merriment <--Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.

"Come on, don't be like that! Kiss me," she whined, amusement fading rapidly from her face.

He rolled over onto his side, pushed himself up one one elbow and looked down at her. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But she knew it, and it made her slightly unbearable. His initial declining of her invitation made her laugh. In her world, those invitations are never refused -at least they never had been until now, and certainly never by the likes of him. He was perfectly aware of his status as a nobody and the "honor" she was, in her opinion, bestowing on him.

Then he refused the "honor" again.

She waited, fully confident that he didn't mean it. She lay on the ground in her perfectly matched Hollister outfit, chosen for that carefully worn-in look. The corn-silk hair that spread out around her head could've been arranged atop the bright, lush grass by a media expert preparing a shampoo commercial. Her understated makeup accentuated rather than added to the natural beauty of her stereotypically bright blue eyes. . . lovely, self-assured blue eyes, without the least trace of pleading. She reminded him of a brilliantly coloured Easter egg laying there in the grass, demanding to be snatched up and prized (if eggs could demand). She was absolutely resplendent with all the blush and bloom of her sixteen years.

Sunlight glinted off of the faintest shimmer of nude-tinted lip balm, issuing its own invitation to feed upon those supple, rosebud lips. He imagined himself succumbing to her expectation and his own natural inclination, dipping his face down to meet that velvety aperture. Without ever touching them, he knew how her lips would feel on his. They would be perfectly moist, but not wet; firm, but yielding. Hungry, but not grateful to be fed. How could she appreciate that which she felt fully entitled to?

He shoved that thought aside, envisioning parting those petals and probing them gently with his tongue. He wouldn't enter unless invited. He would make her meet him half way, at least. He could make that one small demand of this self-possessed creature, couldn't he? That she show him that she was interested in something besides his compliance? That she wanted the flavour of him, not the flavour of conquering him? For surely he would be the conquest, not she. The concept of surrender did not exist for her.

But what was conquest to she who commanded tribute from everyone and everything she rested those baby blues on? In her world, everything in her sights was already hers. Including him.

He turned his sight from his fancies back to her, knowing he'd never be able to get out of his head long enough to enjoy this kiss that dozens of the Somebodies he knew would kill for. He lay back down next to her, feeling disregarded and wounded by her need to be adored. Adoring her in spite of himself.

Why couldn't he just kiss her? Why did he resent wanting her so much that he couldn't just do it? Why did he feel the need to retaliate? It isn't as though she intended his feelings any harm -or was even aware that she was harming them at all. She just didn't know any better. Impotent, inarticulate indignation fortified him, and he decided he would be the first to conquer her.

"I just don't like you that way."

Autumn is. . . (Dew Write)

2009-10-07T22:16:00.001-05:00

Dew Write <---Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.

I shuffled my feet through the pile of leaves i just spent all morning raking up off of the lawn that i don't care about. The browns of dead leaves are much lovelier than the browns of dead grass, i decided, tracking the leaves back across the lawn. It looked kind of naked without the leaves covering it up. The lawn, i mean. But i did just spend all morning cultivating that nude look. . . if i cover it back up, i'll have wasted my time.

Or would i have? I mean, is it a waste of time to erase something, if what i wrote over it was better? And wouldn't the wind eventually do that anyway? Blow the leaves back around the yard, i mean. It isn't as though stray leaves from another lawn will obey the invisible boundaries of tidiness i just created. Better me than the wind, i agreed to myself. Shuffling is going to take all day, though, i'd better start running. . . maybe pick some up and toss them in the air for more even grass-coverage.

But would it be so bad to take all day? I'm always in such a hurry, and it's so nice outside. I can't quite see my breath, and i'm just warm enough in my hooded sweater. The browns are so vibrant, and i can smell the threat of snow in the coming months.

No, it would be better to take all day, i concluded. Soon, i'll have to bundle up and drive carefully over the treacherous roads, sitting uncomfortably in my car in clothing that makes me feel large and ungainly. Better to savor the browns before they fade to white.

This is what Autumn is. Autumn is taking all day re-blanketing the yard with leaves, wearing my hoodie, and marveling at the browns before the snow hides them all from me.

Cussing At Work

2009-10-06T20:05:00.002-05:00

My boss and i have an interesting relationship. Usually, she likes me as a person and doesn't object to some of the aspects of my personality seem that irk a lot of other people. Usually.

Occasionally, though, she has to pull me into her office to discuss some of these more irksome personality traits because i've offended somebody else with them. Believe me, i've got quite a few unsavory characteristics, but the chart-topper has always been my choice in verbiage. I kind of figured that was the purpose of today's Come To Jesus, and my suspicions were confirmed when she handed me this memo.

Dear Employee:

It has been brought to management's attention that some individuals throughout the company have been using foul language during the course of normal conversation with their co-workers.

Due to complaints received from some employees who may be more easily offended, this type of language will no longer be tolerated. We do, however, realize the critical importance of being able to accurately express your feelings when communicating with co-workers.

Therefore, a list of 18 new and innovative 'Try Saying' phrases have been provided so that proper exchange of ideas and information can continue in an effective manner.

1, Try saying: I think you could use more training
Instead of: You don't know what the fuck you're doing.

2, Try saying: She's an aggressive go-getter
Instead of: She's a fucking bitch.

3, Try saying: Perhaps I can work late
Instead of: And when the fuck do you expect me to do this?!

4, Try saying: I'm certain that isn't feasible
Instead of: No fucking way.

5, Try saying: Really?
Instead of: You've got to be shitting me!

6, Try saying: Perhaps you should check with. . .
Instead of: Tell it to someone who gives a shit.

7, Try saying: I wasn't involved with the project
Instead of: It's not my fucking problem.

8, Try saying: That's interesting!
Instead of: What the fuck?!

9, Try saying: I'm not sure this can be implemented
Instead of: This shit won't work.

10, Try saying: I'll try to schedule that
Instead of: Why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner?!

11, Try saying: He's not familiar with the issues
Instead of: He's got his head up his ass.

12, Try saying: Excuse me, sir?
Instead of: Eat a dick.

13, Try saying: So you weren't happy with it?
Instead of: Kiss my ass.

14, Try saying: I'm a bit overloaded at the moment.
Instead of: Do it yourfuckingself!

15, Try saying: I don't think you understand
Instead of: This is bullshit.

16, Try saying: I love a challenge
Instead of: This job blows ass.

17, Try saying: You want me to take care of that?
Instead of: Who fucking died and made you boss?

18, Try saying: He's somewhat insensitive
Instead of: He's a douche.

Hopefully using these alternative phrases will ease relations between you and your co-workers, while allowing you the freedom to express yourself in an environment that will make everybody, including you, more comfortable.

Thank you in advance for your full and immediate compliance.

Jane S******n
Senior Human Resources Consultant.

As i read through this memo, i was really outdoing myself in my heroic effort to maintain a straight face. I leapt through all the hoops: lip-biting, pressing my lips together, coughing, holding the paper at eye-level to conceal my face. . . seriously. I went the distance.

When i felt i was composed enough, i put the memo back on her desk and waited expectantly for the eminent reprimand. We stared at each other across the vast, paper-littered wasteland of a desk. The corner of my mouth twitched, partially with nervousness, but mostly with ill-concealed mirth. Finally, we both burst out laughing until we cried and our cheeks were sore. My stomach was in knots and her mascara had sustained irreparable damage.

Me: So, uh, someone doesn't appreciate my diction?

Rosalind: Nah, i got it in an email, and it reminded me of you.

Me: So this isn't a real write-up?

Rosalind: Nope.

Me: Jane S******n. Nice touch.

Rosalind: I thought so.

Me: This sounds like it was tailor made for me.

Rosalind: Yeah, i changed some of it to stuff you actually say.

Me: You're a real aggressive go-getter, you know that?

Rosalind: You weren't happy with it?

The Commoner, Book 3 of Angie and Christie's Reading and Blogging Project

2009-10-04T01:32:00.009-05:00

Imagine finding someone who really clicks with you; they're accomplished, independent, educated, and very much a forward-thinking individual. You're in love, and you want to make this person the one you spend the rest of your life with.

Now imagine you're the Crown Prince of Japan. Your life is a rigid, traditional one where the things you value so much in the girl you love are seen as flaws by everyone else in your world. Making this girl your wife would mean completely destroying everything about her that makes you love her in the first place, but you can't bear the thought of marrying anyone else. Would you marry her anyway?

The Commoner is the story of Haruko, the beautiful, intelligent, athletic, headstrong, and only daughter of a wealthy businessman. Haruko comes of age in the midst of social upheaval in post-WWII Japan. Her country is rebuilding and redefining itself, struggling to arrive the modern age while clinging to the thousands-year-old traditions the war interrupted. She meets the Crown Prince during a tennis match, where, to everyone's mortification, she beats him. After this, the Crown Prince continues inviting Haruko to play tennis with him, and their romance begins.

The Crown Prince sends his trusted adviser, Dr. Watanabe, to discuss the possibility of marriage with Haruko's parents. Horrified, they initially refuse the Prince's requests, worried for their daughter's future unhappiness at court due to her low birth. Her father sends her on a trip to Europe to give her the chance to think on the Prince's proposal. It's a historic request; though their family is wealthy, they are not a part of Japan's aristocracy. She chooses to accept, beginning a long life of sacrifice and suffering.

Initially, the book is an unlikely love story between a common woman and the Crown Prince of Japan. Once Haruko accepts the role as Crown Princess, a role she is ill-prepared for, the story shifts to one that tells the difficulties faced by a person transcending the traditional caste system. Due to her rise in social stature, she loses her family and friends. Her mother in law hates her. Her ladies-in-waiting resent her for being elevated above them, in defiance of their perception of the natural order of things. Her husband does his best to shield her from the prejudice of the court, but as the future Emperor of Japan, he has little time to devote to his wife's protection. Alone, Haruko suffers decades of bullying, mental abuse, constant criticism, and perpetual pressure to embody standards she'll never be allowed by those who consider themselves to be her betters to attain.

Shortly after her marriage, Haruko gives birth to a son, who is taken from her after only a few months to be raised by a legion of nurses and tutors. The nurses, under orders from the Empress, do everything they can to deny Haruko visitation with her son. Already suffering from postpartum depression, the taking of her son is the final straw that sends her into a nervous breakdown. She doesn't speak to anyone for a year.

Twenty years later, Empress Haruko is faced with a difficult decision. Her son the Crown Prince is in love with a commoner, a successful business woman named Keiko. The daughter of an ambassador, she has traveled the world, speaks five languages, and has a bright future ahead of her. She has refused him to pursue her career. He vows to leave the country with no heir if he cannot have her. Haruko, wanting her son to be happy, knows better than anyone what Keiko will have to give up, and the unhappiness she'll suffer if she accepts.

Imagine your son is in love with someone he really clicks with. . . she's accomplished, independent, educated, and very much a forward-thinking individual. You know that helping your son make this woman the one he spends the rest of his life with will destroy everything about her that makes him love her in the first place, and so much more. It will cage her and slowly destroy her as a person. Would you choose the happiness of your son, or would you spare her your fate?

Lethargy Attacks!

2009-10-01T20:01:00.001-05:00

This exercise in visualization is based on the true stories of two girls' lives.

There was once a couple of friends, named Jinsha and Myrrh. Jinsha and Myrrh were usually the industrious sort of lasses; they would be productive at work, come home, cook good, healthy meals, exercise (Jinsha more than Myrrh), read, write, blog, and generally be engaged in their lives.

Gradually, over the period of a couple of weeks, they grew less involved in their own lives. A thick mantle of lethargy settled around their shoulders, whispering wicked things into their ears.

Lethargy, to Jinsha: You had a busy day at work, why not kick your feet up and order out? You've earned it!

Jinsha thought about what Lethargy said. It's true she had just completed the busy season at the college she worked at, preparing all of the computers for the students, installing the newest software, and debugging so that the students' studies could carry on uninterrupted. She worked longer hours than normal during this period, with no overtime pay. She DID deserve a little break! She put the ground turkey she'd been planning to use in that night's whole wheat pasta dish back in the refrigerator and ordered out for Chinese instead. She didn't hear Lethargy gloating quietly to itself.

Meanwhile, Lethargy was working Its evil on Myrrh as well.

Lethargy, to Myrrh: You've been pushing yourself too hard, what with all that teaching you've been doing lately. Why not skip your blog commenting tonight, and watch some TV? Give your mind a rest.

Myrrh thought about what Lethargy had said. It's true, she'd been preparing her technician candidates for the better part of three months, spending extra hours at work, and even bringing work home with her, to make practice quizzes and problems for her students. Her brain was just tired! Some TV would be nice for a change. She logged off of her computer and went and sat on the couch instead. Lethargy crowed in triumph, but she didn't hear it over the explosions in the movie she'd put on.

Yes, it all began innocently enough. Jinsha and Myrrh really did work very hard, both at work and caring for their families. Every night, Lethargy would remind them of the things they'd done, cooing softly and comforting them.

Lethargy, to Jinsha: You did it! 5K! Why don't you rest your feet and watch a movie?

Lethargy, to Myrrh: Your weight loss has been going so well! You deserve a pizza night every now and then!

Lethargy, to Jinsha: Softball, and soccer, and choir, and cheerleading, and homework. . . you've devoted a lot of time to your kids lately. You're such a good mother! Why not treat yourself tonight? Don't count points for those drinks, just enjoy.

Lethargy, to Myrrh: The sink is full of dirty dishes. Haven't you cleaned enough for one day? All that dusting and straightening up for the Board of Pharmacy inspection. Just hit a drive through and put on a movie or a show.

Lethargy, to Jinsha and Myrrh: It's getting colder outside. Why don't you go inside and snuggle up with your husband? He loves spending time with you.

As Jinsha and Myrrh made themselves more and more comfortable, Lethargy grew fatter and heavier around their shoulders. They practically trudged in through their doors after work, grateful to collapse on the couch and veg out for a while. They had dirty houses and unwritten stories knocking around in their heads, but they were just SO tired after all they had to do! Lethargy had grown silent, not even bothering to whisper Its calming sloth into their ears. By then, they were talking themselves into feeding Lethargy, and It didn't have to spend any effort at all. It was leading a very comfortable life, indeed.

One day, Jinsha realized she'd skipped several Weightwatcher meetings in a row, and that she was contemplating skipping another. That same day, Myrrh realized the exact same thing. They decided to talk to each other about this uncharacteristic laziness that was threatening to consume everything they'd worked so hard to achieve. They were stunned to realize that they were both experiencing the same listlessness and lack of focus.

Jinsha: I haven't finished my book yet. I'm eating like crap, and i've blown off exercise for ages now.

Myrrh: I haven't written anything in weeks! I've put on so much weight, and i can't seem to eat anything healthy to save my life!

Jinsha: I've been watching TV to avoid thinking.

Myrrh: I haven't been reading or commenting on blogs to avoid thinking.

Jinsha and Myrrh: What's wrong with me?

Lethargy sensed this uneasiness emanating from Its prey, and realized It was in danger. Desperately, It began whispering into their ears, hoping to disrupt the conversation, but the damage had been done. Lethargy had been exposed.

Myrrh: Let's take a walk together Saturday.

Jinsha: That'd be lovely! We can plan to walk for tennish minutes.

Myrrh: And if we walk longer, great!

Jinsha: And if we don't,

Jinsha and Myrrh: At least we did SOMETHING.

Lethargy shrieked in terror, but they didn't hear It over their excited planning. They knew Lethargy was a formidable enemy, not easily defeated, but they began building their arsenal little by little. They armed themselves with motivation and interest; with good recipes and smart shopping. They wounded It with exercise, both of the mind and of the body. They struck mortal blows with good meals and lively participation in their lives. Through effort and good sense, they beat Lethargy off of their backs and sent It packing. They smiled in satisfaction.

But they knew that though they'd won the battle, the war was far from over. They knew that steady vigilance would be required to keep It at bay, and they swore to themselves and to each other that they would keep that vigil.

This is for us, Angie. Let it be the first blow against the Thing that is setting us against ourselves.

Like Water for Chocolate, Book 2 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

2009-09-20T10:36:00.001-05:00

I'll do my best not to gush over this one.

This was the most interesting melding of a recipe book and fiction i've ever read. It was 12 recipes accompanied by the story of the somewhat-supernatural events in the life of Tita De La Garza. Each story begins with a recipe, and unfolds during the directions to prepare it.

Tita was born to a woman, Mama Elena, who ruled her household with an iron fist. She was raised by the cook, Nacha, because Mama Elena couldn't breastfeed. Nacha raised Tita in the kitchen, passing on generations of recipes and general kitchen know-how, developing Tita into a marvelous cook in her own right.

Mama Elena had two other daughters before Tita, and it was Tita's fate, according to an ancient family tradition, never to marry and to stay with her mother to take care of her until she died.

Tita discovered this fate on the day her boyfriend, Pedro, came over to ask Mama Elena for her hand in marriage. Mama Elena instead offered her middle daughter, Rosaura, whom Pedro reluctantly accepted as his bride. "If i cannot marry the one i love, it is best to marry her sister, so that i can be near her always," he told his father, who chided him for his broken promise to Tita to love her forever.

Tita then proceeded to ruin her sister's wedding by cooking the wedding feast with tears and bitterness in her heart, which gave all of the guests a nasty case of food poisoning. Unfortunately, the feast also killed Nacha, who after eating the cake infused with Tita's tears, dies of the heartbreak Tita feels.

After that, unable to express her love any way except through the loving preparation of food, Tita and Pedro began their 22-year unconsummated love affair.

I loved this book. It had everything- food, romance, intrigue, unrequited love, prostitution, rebellious teenagers, and the purest form of hatred: the love of a daughter turned sour toward her overbearing, abusive mother.

The one thing i struggled with was the relationship between Pedro and Tita. After his marriage, Pedro continued to court Tita, when he should have released her to find her own happiness. She was never truly free to seek the love of someone who could love her back freely and openly, and the one time she did almost find that love, he treated her badly.

I disliked him for his hypocrisy. He couldn't bear the pain of seeing Tita with another man, though he had no problems with inflicting that very same pain on her by marrying her sister. I felt like if he couldn't bear to see her with someone else, he should've waited for Mama Elena to die.

I loved this book. You should read it.

The Language of Fear, Book 1.5 of Angie and Christie's Reading and Blogging Project

2009-09-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

I'd like to start off by saying how annoyed i am with the fact that the blog categories can include something dumb like podcasts, but not one about books and literature. HINT, HINT, Tom!

Now, on to the book.

I called this book "1.5" because it didn't quite qualify as #2. I read about 2/3 of it, and put it down for good. It's a book of short stories that i suppose are intended as horror, but simply came off as repugnant to my less-than-delicate sensibilities. I felt like Mr. James' goal was to shock and offend his readers as much as humanly possible; bravo, Mr. James! *golf clap* Mission accomplished.

The first story was about a heroin addict who tried to sell his prostitute girlfriend's toddler for drugs. He almost succeeded, but his girlfriend went over to the drug dealer's abode and got her back. This story was the best one i read, and i had high hopes for the rest of the book.

From there, those hopes were dashed against such subjects as incest, to-the-death cage fighting, wife killing at a phone prostitute's behest (actually that story wasn't bad either), more incest, teen suicide, some more incest (wtf?!), and finally, a guy killing his own dog. The guy killing the dog was the last straw for me, and i had no interest in reading any more after that.

I wouldn't call myself easy to offend. I wouldn't call myself sensitive. However, i simply don't enjoy a read where i feel like the author's entire intent is to gross me out on some level (usually more than one). If this is your bag, then this book is for you!

A Long, Rambling Story of the Midget Who Accosted Me At The Mall

2009-09-06T01:27:00.003-05:00

Click Here to Read The Longer-Than-Necessary Prelude to the Story of the Midget Who Accosted Me At the Mall

(Unless you've already read it, then nevermind.)

I stood there, my hand still holding the door open, knowing that no good could come of this. The Useless Hallway was empty, as usual, and i stepped inside, bracing myself for another round of fake smiles and enthusiasm in hopes of landing employment.

Once i felt sufficiently braced, and i made the decision to walk into the Den of Corporate Evil, i was momentarily distracted by the opening of a door i hadn't noticed before. It was a normal, innocuous looking white door that blended very well with the rest of the white wall; it was no wonder i hadn't noticed it.

The person who opened the door, on the other hand, was not normal or innocuous at all. It was a midget with the worst duck's ass hair do i'd ever seen in my life! In case you don't know what duck's ass hair looks like, let me provide you with a visual:

This guy's hair was greasier, and had an obnoxious little tail dangling from the bottom in a spiral. The whole thing was really just a particularly clever, but completely ineffective comb-over. Or maybe it was effective. After all, i was completely absorbed by the hideousness of the remaining hair, which distracted me from the bald spot it was designed to hide.

He turned to look at me, and his face lit up like the Marshall Fields Christmas tree. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that was opened up down to his hairy navel, displaying some gold chains that were busy tangling themselves up in a very fine chest-lawn. He smiled a wide smile at me. . . and it was the icing on the cupcake that was this little man. His mouth was full of yellowish brown teeth that jutted out at the most unimaginable angles, with one single, solitary straight tooth encased in gold.

He was generously ignoring what i can only imagine was a cross between a horrified and fascinated look on my face.

"Hello, my friend!" he greeted me, "Would you be interested in taking a market survey?"

I took a minute to marshal my expression and smile back at him. I mean, i know staring is impolite and all, but this guy HAD to be used to it. He was dealing with my unintentional rudeness like a pro. I took another minute to realize he'd asked me a question, and was patiently waiting for an answer. Yup, this guy was definitely used to it.

I told him i didn't have time, as i had to be at work in a few hours, and was here to apply for jobs. He assured me it'd only take about ten minutes of my time, and that i'd get twenty bucks for completing the survey. I had to think about it. I really needed the money, but i really needed a job, too. But what's ten minutes out of my day? And, more importantly, how do you say 'no' to a midget with a duck's ass comb over?!

When you get down to it, the answer is simple: You don't. I followed him through the innocuous door in the Useless Hallway.

We emerged unscathed into a brightly-lit, windowless office. We walked through the office and through another doorway that led into what appeared to be a conference room. There were two other people seated at the long, rectangular table, pencils and forms spread out before them. There was an empty place in front of another pencil and set of forms, and the midget gestured toward the seat. I sat.

At the head of the table was one of those TV-VCR combos, and the midget informed us that he would play a series of commercials for us, and then stop the tape so that we could answer one section of questions. The line of questioning was one of those Which Commercial Was Most Memorable sort of things, and as it turns out, the market survey was being given by Olive Garden.

The midget then put in another tape, and told us to watch a series of Olive Garden commercials and fill out the rest of the questions. From the other office, we heard a door slam, and a high, screeching voice.

"JEROME!! GET YER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

A look of irritation crossed Jerome's features and he hit play on the VCR before excusing himself into the next room. One of the guys i was left in the room looked at me with barely suppressed mirth.

"Jerome??" he said, incredulity and snickers escaping his clenched teeth.

"Yeah, i had him pegged for a Leeroy or something," the other guy chortled. It made me wonder if there was even an appropriate name available for a duck's ass combover-wearing midget.

From the next room, angry murmurs escalated into muffled shouting. The muffled shouting rapidly evolved into full-fledged shouting; the midget and the unseen woman were having it out in the next room. I felt a pang of sympathy for Jerome, being harangued almost-publicly by this harpy-voiced woman. I wouldn't even want to be harangued privately by a voice like that.

The tape ended, and i supplied answers to questions i couldn't even focus on, not that it would have mattered since i didn't hear a word of the commercials anyway. It's hard enough to resist the urge to flip away from a commercial on a normal day; when there's a shouting-death-match happening between Jerome the Midget and Harpy Voice next door. . . well. You understand.

As the battle raged on, the three of us sat there looking uncomfortably at one another.

"Should we interrupt them?" the Snickering Man asked. The Chortling Man coughed one of those fake attention-getting coughs as Jerome re-entered the room, smiling as though nothing at all were wrong. He collected our questionnaires, collected our names, and then handed out twenty dollar bills to us. We began to shuffle out of the office.

I felt something tug on the sleeve of my shirt, and i turned around to see Jerome standing there, watching the other two guys leave. As soon as they were out of sight, he slipped an envelope into my hand, winked at me, and turned me loose. I strode out of the office, glancing over at Harpy Voice, who looked exactly like she sounded. I smiled wanly at her and she scowled at me in return. I tried to bolt for the door without looking like i was trying to bolt for the door.

Once i was safely back out in the real world, i decided not to go applying for jobs in that mall after all. I exited the mall through the door i entered, suppressing an irrational fear that i wouldn't be able to find my car. Remembering the envelope, i opened it up and found $75 worth of Olive Garden gift cards inside. I recalled my earlier feeling that no good could come of my visit here today, and was happy, for a change, to be wrong.

A Longer-Than-Necessary Prelude To The Story Of The Midget Who Accosted Me At The Mall

2009-09-04T01:27:00.001-05:00

First, i feel the need to disclaim- I do NOT frequent malls. In fact, when i find myself faced with the undeniable necessity of going to one, i need days of mental preparation. The over-aggressive middle-aisle-kiosk salesfolk; the snotty teenagers with the shrill, ear-rupturing laughs; the oblivious Me People who walk against the flow of traffic; dodging the power walkers who will NOT stop or slow down on account of my unhappy ass. . . they all make me want to torch the building once i've concluded my sordid business.

But there was a point in time when i needed a second job, and i was desperate enough to seek employment in the vast Temples of Capitalism. After weeks of railing against the dire financial straits that required such an unthinkable act, i put on some khakis and a polo shirt (two of my least favourite things to wear in the world- polo shirt material is SO itchy!) and made my circuit of the three area malls.

After spending most of the day looking like a complete tool in my khaki-and-polo attire, requesting applications in two malls, i realized that i did not belong to the demographic desired by any mall retailer. I wasn't goth enough to work at Hot Topic, i didn't have enough tattoos or piercings to work at Spencers or any of the eclectic shoe stores or the music stores, i wasn't old or conservative-looking enough to work at any of the knick-knack shops, i wasn't thin or pretty enough to work at the lingerie stores or the thin-people clothing stores, i wasn't fat enough to work at the plus size stores, and my desire for medical benefits pretty much ruled out every restaurant in the food court. Needless, to say, i was feeling more than a little dejected when i entered the third and final shopping Hell.

I should have known something was going to happen to me when i was driving around the parking lot, looking for the Sears. For some reason, i have an OCD need to park near and enter a mall through Sears, but this mall did not have one. Instead, i parked near the Dillards, and entered through one of those doors at the end of one of those hallways with nothing but benches, vending machines, and lighted free-standing advertisement obelisks. Those hallways always made me feel kind of uneasy- they're always abandoned, no matter how packed the place is, and they don't really serve any purpose. Teenagers don't even hide down them to make out on the benches; it's like they sense the wrongness of the meaningless hallways, too.

But what was i going to do? THERE WAS NO SEARS! It was an unnatural, disfigured mall i was steeling myself to enter, against my better judgment.

Random Snippets

2009-09-03T01:28:00.000-05:00

I went to put the cap on my marker when he stopped me.

"Wait," he said to me, reaching for the marker in my hand. I pulled the cap back off for him and held it up so he could see it better. He grinned and pulled the cap off of his marker to reveal a nib that was at least an inch longer than mine.

"Oh, great, now i have size issues," i harumphed at him.

*****

"WHO FUCKED UP THE ST. CATHERINE BOXES?! AND WHAT'S FOR LUNCH, GODDAMN IT?!"

"I don't know, Scott! Jesus! And how are those two questions even related?"

A moment of tense silence ensues, and everyone bursts out laughing.

*****

He grasped my hair and yanked my head back. A gasp of fear escaped my lips as his eyes probed, and then saw right through me. His stony expression melted slightly, confusion beginning to colour his pallor.

"Just a little taste then. I have to know, i have to taste," he murmured as his fangs protruded. I went limp in his arms. There was nothing left to fear. He slowly bent his face down to mine, and he began smelling me behind my ears. Then down to my neck and up my chin to my lips. He touched his fangs to my lips ever-so gently.

"Just a little taste," he assured me again, and i felt the smallest pricking in my lower lip as he carried out his promise. He retracted his fangs like a cat sheathing its claws and began to lick my lips, and then to kiss me deeply.

*****

I dialed the number to bring the elevator up from the secret basement. I knew they were monitoring, and that when i did this, i would confirm their suspicions. But i had no choice. I had to get away, and where else could i go?

*****

I felt it eating its way through me, the burning, gnawing pain in my stomach broadcasting its progress. I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach, thinking that this isn't how it was supposed to be.

Supernova

2009-08-29T09:35:00.001-05:00

It's happening!!!!! she thought excitedly, hunkering down a little more securely into her paper cup as the rumbling underneath her confirmed her cause for elation. She looked up at the violet sky and the twinkling stars, admiring their beauty and brightness as she felt the pressure building beneath her. Her paper cup rocked on waters that were steadily and swiftly becoming less gentle.

Without warning, jets of water shot up beneath her cup, hurling her vessel toward the sky. Higher and higher she surged, her giddiness threatening with every passing second to overcome and consume her. She turned her eyes back to the violet firmament, which seemed closer and more inviting.

Her giddiness peaked into ecstasy as the heavens opened its arms and gathered her to its breast, spilling her cup and sending it back to the sea empty. She sailed ever higher, head thrown back, eyes wide open, and heart beating against her ribs. She had no thoughts for her discarded vessel or the water that propelled it.

The violet deepened into black as she ascended, the moment when she, too, would twinkle down at the earth rushing to meet her. As she and her moment collided, her heart, no longer able to contain this bliss, ruptured. She smiled beatifically and threw hear arms open to surrender her body to the supernova. Her soul blazed brightly among the stars, joining them forever.

I've made it.

Fire

2009-08-26T21:36:00.000-05:00

I let my head roll back, and around, stretching out the kinks. Relaxing. Preparing. The fire burnt small and bright before me, waiting. Relaxing. Preparing.

I felt the emotion draining out of me in rivulets; tiny, slick drops like beads speeding their way like quicksilver to the fire. Feeding it. I directed my attention to the small aperture they'd found, widening it, slowly turning the rivulet into a raging torrent. I felt surprised for a fleeting moment that i could be such a vast reservoir of conflict. Surprise dropped into the rapids, running out of me with all the others, and rushed toward the fire.

The fire took me in greedily. It became more vivid, more itself without changing at all. It gained in presence until the few meager flames felt like they were taking up the whole world, and pushing against its confines. It was wrong to immure a fire this way.

My empty vessel sat before this tiny everything. I opened myself up to it, and took it in, catching an evanescent glimpse of the fire's trueself and scale. I recognized myself in the fire, and wondered at my immensity as it rushed into me, first in rivulets, then a raging torrent. It entered and filled me easily, but didn't burn. It was only me, and i was imprisoning myself.

Madame Bovary, Book 1 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

2009-08-17T10:45:00.000-05:00

The story is about Emma Bovary, married to a dull-witted, doting doctor whom she despises. Emma becomes heavily depressed and disillusioned by the banality of married life, due to her ideals of love and passion that were heavily influenced by romance novels she read during her upbringing in a convent.

As if daily life weren't already depressing enough for her, she is given a brief glimpse into aristocratic life when she and Charles are invited to a ball at the Marquis' chateau. Life only becomes more dismal and boring after the ball, and Charles relocates them to Yonville, which he believes will cure his wife of her malaise. He does not realize that she blames him for her boredom and depression. A few months after moving to Yawnville, Emma gives birth to a daughter, Berthe, whom she mostly ignores after birth.

She then embarks on several flirtations, and eventually two affairs in order to fill the loveless void in her life. As she grows bolder in her adultery, she begins incurring massive amounts of debt, which she struggles to hide from the poor, unsuspecting Charles. When the debts are called in and judgments are made against her, she opts to commit suicide by ingesting arsenic, rather than face her husband and suffer his forgiveness.

I found Emma difficult to sympathize with at times. No matter what she's given, and whom she is taking it from, she always wants more. Her appetites for love, spirituality, and material possessions are insatiable, and eventually bring about her ruin. I watched her make her inexorable march to her destruction, and it was painful to watch her sink into that kind of inevitability.

Charles was the one i had the most sympathy for. He always supported and loved Emma, no matter how badly she was treating him at the time. He did his best to ensconce her in the sort of lifestyle she expected to live in, though she was never quite happy with what he provided her with; and she never loved him nor appreciated his devotion toward her.

I love classic literature, but this one was a challenge. It took me over a month to finish it, and it was the only book i was reading at the time. In the beginning, i found it difficult to become interested in. But after sitting down with it, i found i could read it for brief periods of time, and that it was enjoyable if read in this fashion. In spite of this, i would definitely recommend reading it.

I Think My New Puppy Is Half Cat

2009-08-04T06:36:00.004-05:00

She crouches and lies patiently in wait, knowing Bean will be coming around the corner at any moment; the clicking of his too-long toenails gives his position away. The poor, unsuspecting Bean walks right past her, oblivious to his impending danger- a mistake he is about to regret. Her patience rewarded, she springs up from her crouched position and pounces onto his back! Bean thrashes around, dislodging her easily, and she lands on her feet, strafing a little to the left. She wheels around on him and rears up on back legs, batting at his face with her front paws. Now that the element of surprise has been lost, he beats her back easily with short jabs of his rapier-like nose to her exposed belly, growling and baring his teeth at her. She arches her back, looking as though she's going to redouble her efforts at subduing him, but darts off instead.

With the infinite patience of the habitually bullied, Bean turns toward the couch, which she is both too small and too uncoordinated to jump up on yet, and makes good his escape. She watches him, unable to contain her frustration, and throws herself repeatedly at the couch, her protesting whines sounding remarkably like, "No fair!!" to my ears.

Regaining her composure, she stalks off to lie in wait again. The battle may be lost, but the war is far from over.

When Men USED To Be Men

2009-08-03T06:18:00.004-05:00

When someone says "rodeo" to me, the scene that pops into my mind is clowns dashing around a dirt ring, trying to distract a living Mack truck from making ground beef of a fallen guy in a pair of chaps, a hat, and a shield-sized belt buckle. Rugged, Skoal-chewing, filterless cigarette-smoking, dust covered, five-o-clock-shadow-sporting manly men daring the wrath of the beasts they ride. Stetsons and lassos, testosterone and dung, accents and animal noises. And, of course, country music. This is what i remember the rodeo being like.

Sometimes ESPN plays the rodeo, and i watch it. You know, just to satisfy that East Texas itch i sometimes get since i left. My husband found it today when he was flipping through the channels, and we watched it for a few minutes. . . and i have to ask-

What in the blue FUCK has happened to the rodeo?!

When did the manly men get replaced by umpire-mask, padded flack-jacket wearing Nancies?! Elbow pads?? Seriously?? Now, i'm not saying i enjoy seeing guys get hurt. This is why i don't watch the rodeo regularly (well, one of several reasons). But it seems to me if they didn't want to risk suffering injury they should be sitting behind desks or giving PowerPoint presentations or something. I mean, when it comes down to it, is an elbow pad really going to save you? No. You just look like your mom said, "Not without your elbow pads, Bobby, you know how nervous i get," and you meekly submitted to her demands (and by this, i mean handed her your balls to keep in her purse).

But that wasn't the worst of it. The final insult: in place of the country music we all associate with cowboy-oriented sports, they were playing "Tricky" by Run DMC. Now, under normal circumstances, i'd pick Run DMC over Waylon Jennings any day of the week. But it doesn't make a suitable sound track for a manly sport like the rodeo! Even for this watered down Rodeo Lite, i would expect to hear some sugary-pop Carrie Underwood type country music. Run DMC is just. . . well, inappropriate! It'd be like showing up to the X-games and enjoying some nice Phil Collins in the background. It just isn't right!

And that about sums up the whole few minutes i was able to stomach before outrage set in: It just isn't right.

My Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plan

2009-08-02T09:58:00.003-05:00

1) Get myself to a Walmart and fortify it. (Why Walmart? Because Walmart has everything, including food, camping materials, guns, ammo, any other survival tool i'll need, plus entertainment for those inevitable lulls in action.) Preferably one with an attached gas station, like the one in Merrillville.

2) Bring a few friends and people i dislike who are slow. The slow jerks will distract the zombie masses while my friends and i make our getaway. Friends are key to avoiding LMoE Syndrome.

3) Practise, practise, practise before the attack! Ammo doesn't last forever, and each head shot scored is bullet saved!

4) Do not plan for rescue. If I can't count on my government to rescue its citizens from fuck tons of toxic water in one relatively small city after a storm, I can't trust them to bail me out out from under mountains of the living dead.

5) Do not plan for escape. Escape to WHERE, for fuck's sake?! Sure that van in the parking lot's big enough for all five of us, but where would we go that's safer than a Walmart? Nope, this will be Christie World for the forseeable future.

6) For the love of God, man, don't grant access to stragglers who've come upon my safe haven! Chances are, they've been bitten and they're hiding it from me! Besides, they're probably douchebags who'll think that once they're inside, they should have a say on how shit's run. This is MY house, fool.

7) If a member of my party is dumb enough to try to leave the safety of my Walmart, i will not grant them re-entry, as they will likely get bitten, and try to hide it from me. I won't consign the rest of my party to a future of zombie buffethood, after working so hard to avoid it in the first place.

8) Start stockpiling now. Notify those you plan to bring with you now. Get organized now.

Getting It Off My Chest

2009-07-16T07:59:00.000-05:00

Housebreaking a puppy makes me doubt the wisdom of getting said puppy in the first place. I'm a bad person for sometimes thinking that.

I'm sorry you don't like our boss. Bosses suck, welcome to real life.

You don't have the fucking swine flu, you contemptible sympathy monger! You're always sick ~~in the head~~.

Who're you trying to convince? Us, or yourself?

Say what's really on your mind, and *maybe* you'll get the results you're looking for.

I need them. I don't need them, but i want them. It all amounts to the same thing in the end.

People think you're a backstabbing bitch because you are a backstabbing bitch.

Of course it's inappropriate! That's why it's so damn funny!

At least this face is the only one i've got.

You're making that shit up, and we all know it. Just stop.

I really thought you were smarter than to listen to her.

I suggest you do what your parents did! Get a JOB, sir!

We're not friends. We're coworkers.

The mess i'm in is my own fault. I know. I don't need you to tell me, nor do i need you to list the contributing events.

The mess you're in is your own fault. You know. You don't need to blame them, nor do you need pretend you don't know the contributing events.

Honestly, i don't understand because i don't want to.

20 Questions, By Layne

2009-07-13T23:38:00.000-05:00

I was browsing around random blogs today when i found this guy's survey. It's one well-thought out survey, too: no "What's your favourite colour" type questions here! Always a sucker for a good survey, i nabbed it, and now post it for your filling-out pleasure. If you'd like to see the original post, or share your answers with him (which would be a nice thing to do, since it's his survey) click here
20 Questions, by Layne

Here's my survey. I ask each of you to fill it out and post it either as a comment on this blog or on your own blog.

With one exception, these aren't yes or no questions. Most of them will require thought and introspection. It might not be a fun survey, but I make no apologies. I'm trying to get to know you better.

I'll post my own answers sometime this weekend.

1. Of everything you've ever done in your life, what one accomplishment makes you most proud?

I lost fifty pounds :)

2. If the person you are today could meet the person you'll be ten years from now, do you think the two of you would be friends?

I'd have to say probably not. I'm both advice-giving and advice phobic, and i'm sure Future Me would annoy Present Me to no end, even though i'm well aware that Future Me knows better. I've just always done better with learning from my own mistakes.

3. If calories, carbohydrates, and nutrition were of no consequence, what would you love to eat?

Bread, fruit, ice cream and cheese. I could live on these four items (and, in fact, tried to once, which is why i look the way i do).

4. What is your very earliest memory?

I was living in Germany, in an apartment rented from a German land lord. There was an apple orchard out back, and i really, really wanted to go back there. I thought i had my chance when i saw the land lord leading his grand children out there- i tried to follow them, acting like i was supposed to be there. They saw through my scheme, though, and didn't allow me to tag along. I was very disappointed.

5. Everybody has a silly way to waste time. What's yours?

If i'm at home, i browse blogs. If i'm at work, i walk around and tell everyone their daily horoscopes. If their horoscope is boring, i make stuff up instead.

6. What one incident do you think is most responsible for making you the person you are today?

I left. I will not explain further.

7. Do you believe you've reached your potential in any area of your life? If so, which area?

This is an incredibly difficult thing for me to think about, as most of my life, i've been told that i'm wasting my potential. I've learned on a cerebral level that this is just another way of saying, "You're not doing what i want you to be doing," but emotionally, i still feel i've disappointed those who had expectations of me.

8. If you were President of the United States, and Congress agreed to pass any one law you wanted, what would it be?

I'd like to see a plan for the complete legalization, taxation, and regulation of cannabis. I don't smoke it myself, and probably wouldn't even if it were legal, but i'd like to see the criminal aspect of this disappear. It'd also be a welcome source of income our economy desperately needs.

9. Name the aspect of your character you most wish you could change.

I would have to say my tendency to make situations that have nothing to do with me, all about me. I Know It Isn't All About Me . That should sum it up.

10. Do you believe in fate?

To a point. I think fate brings us opportunities, but it's up to us to seize upon them and make something of them. I don't believe that fate is an enabler of laziness, to avoid taking responsibility for our own happiness.

11. Life never turns out quite the way we plan it. Try to remember who and where and what you thought you were going to be. What's the single biggest difference between your current reality and what you thought would happen?

I've never really been one for planning (hence the whole 'wasting my potential' thing). I never had much in the way of My Life Is Going To Be Just So thinking, so it's hard to say what the difference between my imagined reality and my current one is, as my imagined reality didn't really exist. I can, however, say that i never thought i'd have kids in my life. I never personally had any, but step kids is something i didn't see coming.

12. Some people tell stories. Some people design clothes. Some people paint landscapes. Some people sing. Some people make up survey questions. What's your creative outlet?

I write :) I always wished i could create something tangible, but i'm just not very good at things like that.

13. Does the future hold more promise or fear for you? Why?

I'm not sure. I don't plan much, which staves off fearfulnes to a degree, i suppose. I don't fear that my plans will fall through, at any rate. I guess i fear for the future of my industry at times, for reasons that're far too uninteresting to go into.

14. Please describe an imaginary person who is your exact opposite.

He's tall and confident. He makes friends easily and is well liked immediately by those who meet him. He's comfortable in crowds, and one-on-one. Along with his obvious charisma, he's very shallow and care-free. Though he generally isn't a hurtful person, if he did hurt someone, it wouldn't bother him too much. As easily as he makes friends, someone else would take their place, and he'd forget the injured person before long anyhow. He's also a picky eater.

15. Everyone knows the blockbuster movies, the billboard music hits, and the best selling novels. I want to know the obscure, the overlooked, and the forgotten.

A. Your favorite unknown movie.

I don't know if it's unknown or not, but most people i know have never seen it.

B. Your favorite unknown book.

Again, not sure if it's unknown, but i don't know many who've read it.

C. Your favorite unknown song.

Om, By The Moody Blues

16. Please tell me about the best day you've ever had.

I've had a lot of REALLY good days, so i'll just pick one of them.
I was wearing a white dress, walking down a narrow aisle with my dad. At the end of it, the most wonderful man in the world was waiting for me, smiling, and sweating because it was hot in there. I passed from my dad's side to His side, knowing that i had found my place in life. I felt my soul click with his, and i felt the life flowing into a part of me that hadn't realized i was missing. And i was happy.

17. What foreign culture interests you the most?

Indian culture (not to be confused with Native American culture) is incredibly interesting to me. The religions, the food, the dress. . . It's all so exotic and beautiful to me.

18. How much of who you are is because of the decisions you've made, and how much is a result of circumstances you did not control?

I'd say an equal mix of both. After all, a lot of my decisions have arisen as a response to circumstances beyond my control, and many of the circumstances i could not control were generated as a result of decisions i made.

19. What's life about, anyway?

I think it's different things for different people. For me, it's about being happy as much of the time as i possibly can, and being with people who make me happy (whom i can, in turn create happiness for). It's like the opposite of a vicious cycle.

20. What's your country's greatest gift to the rest of the world?

Refrigeration.

The Trouble With 4 am

2009-07-13T19:34:00.000-05:00

It just comes way too fucking early. You can't adequately prepare for 4 am. You can go to bed at 8 pm, and if you can manage to fall asleep at a ridiculously early hour like that (i mean, come on! That's when all the GOOD shows air!), you still kinda fall bonelessly out of bed, wondering why it's still so DARK out there. After you realize that the alarm buzzing in your brain is actually your day starting three hours early, not part of your dream, it does get a little easier. The worst is over.

*sighs*
*trudges off to begin the day*

Amazingly Awesome

2009-07-13T08:00:00.000-05:00

I have a fairly decent vocabulary. It's something i take pride in, though i don't normally mention it, as it makes me feel like i sound self-centered. I like language a lot, and word origins interest me. A pleasant side-effect of knowing where a word comes from is that it helps keep it on the front of the mental shelf, stored and ready for convenient future use. Helps a lot in crossword puzzles, too.

So why is it i find myself falling back on the words "amazing" and "awesome" about eighty percent of the time i'm trying to compliment someone or something? I cringe every time i hear myself refer to something as amazing, or say "awesome" in response to someone's weekend. I sound so insincere, even though i don't FEEL insincere. I think the only reason i get away with it is that everyone else is currently in love with those two words, too.

So! My personal goal: not to use either word for the rest of the week. I endeavor to make use of more meaningful compliments and more creative affirmations. I want to really think about the things i'm saying to people, rather than to fly on verbal autopilot.

Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

2009-07-06T22:03:00.001-05:00

It started with an email, a link and a question.

The email was from Angie, the link lead to a reading challenge (hosted by a blogspot person neither of us knew), and the question was: "Wanna do this?" I followed the link, perused the description of the challenge, and replied, "I'm in!"

Being the busy people that we are, her moreso than me, we let the subject lapse for a couple of weeks. When we got around to looking at the challenge again, together this time, we realized there were a few aspects of the challenge we just weren't interested in. Damn it.

But did we give up? Of course not! This was a CHALLENGE, after all! So we did what any pair of raging control freaks would've proudly done in our places: we took the bits that we did like, and made up stuff to replace the stuff we didn't. I mean, when it comes to uninteresting subjects, there's only so much challenge we can handle. At this point, it evolved from a reading 'challenge' to a cooperative reading effort. Once we read our book, we'll write our thoughts about the book before moving on to the next one.

These are the topics we picked, and how we selected our material (bear in mind, some of the topic selection methods were not our idea). We limited our selections to things that neither of us has read before:

1. Random Book Selection. Go to the library. Position yourself in a section such as Fiction, Non-Fiction, Mystery, Children (whatever section you want). Then write down random directions for yourself (for example, third row, second shelf, fifth book from right). Follow your directions and see what book you find. Check that book out of the library, read it and then write about it. (If you prefer, you can do the same at a bookstore and buy the book!)

Selecting this book was my task. I decided before i went into the store that i would walk straight to the back wall, and pick out the last book on the bottom shelf. This is what i found there:

2. Random Word. Go to this random word generator and generate a random word. Find a book with this word in the title. Read the book and write about it.

Angie and i both followed a link to a random word generator and generated a word. We agreed to decide on who got the cooler word, and use that to determine what book we read. I got 'anthology', and she got 'bowl'. The book we ultimately decided on has neither word in the title (cheaters!)

but it IS an anthology, so we figured it was applicable. Angie picked this one.

3. Classic Girl. Choose a sexy classic, read it, and write about it.

Classic literature is, in my opinion, forced on people too young to appreciate it. I HATED classic literature when i was required to read it, but now i like it rather a lot. I chose Madame Bovary as our sexy classic, because i've always wanted to read it.

4. Judge A Book By Its Cover. Pick out a book based SOLELY on the cover. First, write about what you expect the book to be about based on the cover art. Then read the book and write about how the book was different from and/or similar to what the cover art led you to expect.

Again, this was my task. I wandered around a bookstore, just looking at covers. You have no idea how tempting it is to pick up a book and read the back cover before deciding to read it! I caught myself going to do just that several times, but when i saw this beauty, i knew i had to read it regardless of what the back cover said:

Seriously. How can you turn down a book with a cut-out disguise as a cover?! You can't!

5. Phoning An Author. Pick a random last name out of the phone book. Find an author with the same last name and read a book by them. Write about it.

Angie and i picked up our respective phone books, which was cool, because we got two towns' worth of names to select from. We flipped open to a random White Page, closed our eyes, and poked our fingers down at a spot on the page. I got Huff, she got Mayfield. We ended up going with her name, and this is the book she picked:

6. Random Bestseller. Go to Random.org and, using the True Random Number Generator, enter the number 1950 for the min. and 2008 for the max. and then hit generate. Then go to this site and find the year that Random.org generated for you and click on it. Then find the bestseller list for the week that would contain your birthday for that year. Choose one of the bestsellers from the list that comes up, read it and write about it.

We both went to the site and entered in the parameters specified. I got 1955, and she got 1993. Her list had a better selection, so we combined the requirements and chose her list year, and my birthday week. We ended up picking

7. A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words. Go to the picture book/art book section of the library or a book store. Select a picture (or several) from an art book, and write a story about what's happening in the picture.

Angie picked this one. She didn't say how she picked it, but i'm dying to read it!

8. Help Yourself! Read a self-help book, and write about how it helped you.

Initially, we picked something entirely different. It was a spiritual book that looked incredibly interesting, but then we saw this

We're both feminist literature fans, and clearly we didn't already have enough on the list, so we added another. What's better than self-help? Feminist self-help, of course!

9. Story Book Ending. Watch a movie based on a book, and then read the book it's based on. Write about how it's similar and different, and which you liked better.

It was hard to pick something we'd both never seen or read. I ended up picking a short story and a movie based on the short story.

It's got Vinnie Jones :D

10. Public Spying. Find someone who is reading a book in public. Find out what book they are reading and then read the same book. Write about it.

Angie picked this one. One of the parents at her daughters' softball games was reading this book

Her daughter has already read it, and gives it a shining endorsement.

And that's our reading list! We'll blog about them as we read them; we don't have any particular time frame we're aiming for. I think Angie picked The Language of Fear as our starting point. See something you're interested in? Feel free to join us as we broaden our literary horizons :) I'll start as soon as Amazon.com sends The Postal Fairy to visit me!

Small Rant About The Makers Of Movies

2009-07-02T23:40:00.000-05:00

Moviemakers can do absolutely amazing things with films now-a-days. CGI, special effects, "magic". . . Harry Potter movies take my breath away everytime i see one. There's literally only one thing cinematographers haven't seem to have mastered yet:

Making the voices the same volume as (or a little louder than) the goddamn music and effects.

It happens every time! I'm sitting there, watching a movie, and i have to turn the volume WAY up to hear the conversation, only to have my ear drums ruptured when someone fires a gun, or music starts playing. I go from this:

to this:

and it drives me insane! They spend all that money on developing newer, better explosions, realistic looking fire. . . hell, they can even make it look like someone's missing limbs! How bout spending a little time on sound research, eh?

My Wife The Jerk

2009-07-02T19:36:00.000-05:00

This is my attempt to rise to Stephanie's Challenge Here it is, in a nutshell: The challenge is to write about what it is like to date or live with you from the other person's perspective. It's about putting all of your flaws out there for the world to see.

So here's my story, written from the point of view of my husband.

You ever try living with a girl with bipolar disorder? It's no picnic, lemme tell ya. First off, not to state the obvious or anything, but she is moody as FUCK! One minute, she's in a good mood; next minute, she's crying about something. Or nothing. Or both. "But the super-good mood's the pay out, right?" you may be asking right now, and the answer is no. When the super-good mood comes, she goes out and spends up all the money. Usually on bullshit like tea. Because she really needs another flavour of tea.

Second off, she's OCD about the stupidest things. Must wash the hands for the five hundredth time today. Must find the gas station that's one cent cheaper than all the other ones (nevermind she just blew half her tank looking for said cheaper gas station). Must measure EVERY serving of food she puts past those pearly whites, down to the gram. And forget a spontaneous trip to the movies or restaurant. She's gotta investigate the points value of every menu item, pop her own popcorn, and pack her own snacks. Inevitably, carrots is one of those snacks. Carrots are loud and embarrassing.

Third. . . she shuts down emotionally when she's mad. Don't EVEN expect an explanation regarding what you've done wrong anytime over the next three days.

Don't want to hear about her shitty day and her shitty coworkers? Too bad. Prepare to hear about it, in great detail, at great length. And don't let her catch you not paying attention, or see "Third". And don't offer solutions. It's like she prepares her reasons they won't work out in advance, before you can even suggest them.

Ever wonder what it's like to live with an Alzheimer's patient? Move in with my wife. She'll tell you the same story three or four times, because she didn't remember telling you the first two or three times. And then she'll leave out something important, and swear up and down she already told you about it three weeks ago. Chances are, she told someone else three or four times.

Enjoy a messy house? She's your gal. Whininess about how no one ever helps her clean the messy house? She doesn't disappoint there, either. If you're lucky, she might even wash your clothes along with hers.

I could carry on, but for brevity's sake, i won't. I don't mean to give the impression that there're no redeeming qualities about living with her. . . i mean, she can make a mean box of Hamburger Helper (when she bothers), and she's affectionate (when she's not pissed off). But i often wonder what i got myself into when i said, "I do."

Making Believe

2009-06-30T19:38:00.000-05:00

It was cold. Or maybe it was just the way the bright day didn't match the way she was feeling. Somehow, it felt like it should be raining; that the sky should share her sorrow and shed the tears she was unable to shed herself.

She'd not come empty handed to this bitter reunion. In her mind, she brought all the things she'd wanted to say. In her hands, photos of their time together; in her heart, the despair that'd taken root when he exited her life. Flowers would have been more appropriate, she thought idly, but he'd never been one to sentence beauty to death as a token of affection.

She lay down on top of him to be closer. She closed her eyes and remembered his hands in her hair, heard his whispers in her ear. She murmured to him, and imagined his teasing replies. Her lips began the ghost of a smile, when her eyes opened, shattering the brief sanctuary her mind had created for her. Grief welled up in her, dry as her eyes, and she released her grip on the photos, leaving their memories on the grass beneath her.

Arrhythmia

2009-06-27T19:40:00.000-05:00

my
heart
beats
irregularly
but
not
falteringly

No Justice for Jada

2009-06-27T19:38:00.000-05:00

I've had difficulty this week focusing on the deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett because of a local piece of news that's been unfolding over the last couple of weeks, the tragic culmination of which occurred the same day as the King of Pop's demise. The investigation is ongoing, but this is what we've been told so far:

Jada Justice's parents left their two year old daughter in the care of her cousin, Engelica Castillo and her boyfriend Tim while they went out of town for a couple of days. During some potty training issues, Engelica beat Jada to death, and then placed her in some plastic bags. She and her boyfriend then tried to set fire to Jada's body, but succeeded in burning Tim instead. Then they placed her body in a plastic tote, poured concrete into it, and dumped it in the place where Tim's father had killed his mother and then himself six years earlier. Three days later, Engelica reported Jada missing, claiming to have left her in her car while she went into a convenience store to buy milk and cigarettes. She told police that when she returned to her car a few moments later, Jada was gone.

The search began. The convenience store in question is on my route home from work, and for days, i passed volunteers handing out flyers with Jada's face and description, begging for information and prayers. I felt sad for these people, and for Jada, whom i was losing hope for as time went on.

Engelica has a long history as a troubled child, including drug abuse at an early age, running away from home with older men, and run-ins with the law, including commitment to a mental facility. I wondered what sort of parent would voluntarily leave their child in the care of such a person. I felt that finding Jada alive was probably not going to happen, but i tried to remain hopeful.

Then late Thursday afternoon, news that the Hobart police department had found the burned remains of a toddler broke. Police were sure that it was Jada's body, and were only waiting for forensic confirmation. Over the next couple of days, we learned that while Engelica stuck to her initial story, her boyfriend Tim is the one who told police where to find Jada, and the real events leading up to the little girl's death. He told the police that after they put her in plastic bags, the two of them put her in the car, and went out to buy drugs and got high before attempting to conceal their crime.

I've been incredibly sad since learning that Jada is dead. I can't make sense of the violence someone could do not only to a small child, but a relative. Engelica is the worst kind of thief there is- she's stolen something that can never be repaid. She's stolen seventy five years of triumphs, failures, love. . . she's stolen an entire future, and pieces of the futures of the people who would've shared Jada's experiences with her. A whole life wasted by a complete waste of life.

Engelica will go to jail, and so will Tim, but where's the justice in that? We live in a capital punishment state, and as far as i know, neither will be charged with ultimate punishment. But it doesn't matter- detaining or killing these thieves won't bring Jada back or avenge her. It won't restore missing years or her presence to her family. Where murder is concerned, i don't think the concept of justice exists.

Sponge

2009-06-21T06:36:00.000-05:00

I lay in my room the other night, waiting patiently for Sleep to come and lay with me. My mind does funny things when i give it free reign to go skipping in whatever direction it chooses, and that night, it made nonsense of the English language.

Sponge. Sponge, i thought. Spun-j.

"Sponge," i whispered out loud.

I rolled it around in my brain. Around the twists and turns, down into my mouth. I poked at it with my tongue, tasting it and feeling the texture of it against my palate. Sponge. I opened my mouth and released it in a soap bubble and let it pop. Sponge. It rained back down on my face, seeped into my pores and bored its way back into my mind.

Sponge.

It stopped sounding like a real word. It felt wrong in my mouth; the shape was amorphous, the consonants didn't match, and the j-sound was positively obscene, because it was the end-sound, but not the end-letter. The e at the end was like a third nipple: freakish and unuseful. I averted my mind's eye from it.

Spongespongspongesponge.

I couldn't anchor it to its definition anymore, or even to a picture of it. It was disconnected, floating around in the ether, an amnesiac word that lost its meaning in a freak collision with my uncomprehending intellect. I worried at its purpose with my restless thoughts, and unraveled it, slowly and methodically, like a poorly knitted afghan.

Sponge.

I reduced it to gibberish. Mere linguistic ruins.

I was concerned about the destruction i wreaked on that word. Could i empty any word? All words? Could i unmake language as easily as it was created? By being too mindful, i think i could. I could dissect them into alphabet soup and swallow them, with comprehension broth, and fathom no more.

Howie Mandel is NOT Your Friend

2009-06-16T06:37:00.000-05:00

Lucky Contestant: Number 11, Howie! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Case-Holder [to Lucky Contestant]: It's a low number, i can feel it!
Howie [to Case-Holder]: Open the case.

[Queue the suspense music as the Case-Holder slowly opens the case, shoving his huge, impatient head in the way in the attempt to glimpse the amount before everyone else. The Disappointment Sound Cue tells us to "AWWWE!" as the $500,000 is revealed, and the Lucky Contestant loses the $81,000 deal she opted not to take.]

[Cringing] Case-Holder: I'm so sorry!
[Keeping a stiff upper lip] Lucky Contestant: It's okay, it's okay!
Howie: It's okay! The $100,000 is still in play, and you only have four cases to open! You could have that $100,000 right here!
[Howie takes a call from The Banker]

The mistake Lucky Contestant most likely made here was listening to Howie Mandell. The banker called up, offered $81,000, and Lucky Contestant probably leapt on the inside, thinking of all the improvements that money could bring to her life. Then Howie craftily put in his two cents. He said little things like, "Do you BELIEVE the half million is here?" (as if belief had anything to do with the amount in her case), and delivered the Banker's taunts. He emphasized the odds of opening small amounts,making them sound almost guaranteed.

Lucky Contestant is too distracted by large sums of money to realize that Howie is not on her side. Howie's whole job is to keep her slamming that cheap little plastic box, yelling out "NO DEAL! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Even when things go south, Howie's there to make her feel better. When she loses her $81,000, Howie is there to help her get over it as quickly as possible, probably by convincing her she actually has a good chance at the hundred grand. Howie is there to conquer her inner voice of reason.

She's falling for the old Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. Is Howie really that good at his job? Or is she really that greedy? They probably wouldn't even televise my episode if i made it on that show. I'd take the first deal they offered and run. I would defeat you, Howie!

DEAL!

General Ramblings About Dental Hygiene

2009-06-14T06:46:00.000-05:00

From Urbandictionary.com:

Flossin':

1. Showing off an object which usually possesses great value.
2. Rolling in a fine ride with the general intent to enjoy ostenstation, prestige.

But that's not really what i'm talking about. I'm talking about flossin' in the dental context of the word. That's right, the piece of string, the bathroom sink, and a prayer that it really is just a mirror, and not a pane of two-way glass concealing some asshole with a video camera and too much time on his hands. Nobody likes to be blackmailed.

Since early childhood, i've heard them say it to me at the beginning of every checkup, "Have you been flossing after each meal?"

"Yes," i would lie. I'm sure they knew, and they knew that i knew that they knew. You really can't bullshit a dentist, especially at ten years old.

Besides, what self-respecting ten year old has the kind of time to blow standing in front of a mirror, yanking a piece of string back and forth between their teeth?! Not this one, i asssure you (or would have assured you, if i were writing this when i was ten). There were frogs to be caught, dirt to be made into mud, and mud to be made into pies, for Biff's sake! Taking time out of my urgent plans to further explore the wheat field across the street (against the express wishes of the owner of said wheat field), just for basic hygiene every day was distraction enough- that dentist better be glad i spared fifteen seconds to push a brush across my teeth at all.

Priorities, man.

My oral hygiene life went about like that until i got my first cavity when i was. . . fifteenish. I was mortified. Inevitably, the dentist asked the question i'd been sweating since he first pronounced the dreaded C-word (no, not THAT C-word, stay focused!):

"Have you been flossing after each meal?"

I hung my head, and finally confessed my life-long lie: the only times a bit of string ever passed through the between-parts of my teeth were when i had celery and peanutbutter packed in my lunch, and when the dentist himself did it every six months. The dentist frowned with a surliness any Catholic school marm would have been proud of, and gravely told me that this cavity could have been prevented if i'd only taken a little time out of my day to floss.

Oh, fine. Rub my nose in it, why dontcha?

Then he delivered the REALLY bad news- if i didn't start flossing, i was going to be wearing full dentures before my senior prom.

I was fairly sure he was making this up, but he DID have that dour countenance, and all those frightening pictures of gingivitis and rotting teeth festooning the walls like the disease wing of a periodontal art gallery. Before i could stop it, a vision of my top dentures coming loose in my boyfriend's mouth when he kissed me for our prom pictures popped into my head. I could already see the revulsion in his face, and the corner of pinky-fake gums and back molars hanging out of his mouth, immortalized on celluloid. Making shit up or not, this was not a vision i was willing to risk seeing become reality, and i gave in. I resolved to give this flossing thing a try.

Flash forward to the present day, i now go insane if i don't have any dental floss available right after i eat. I can just feel my teeth starting to decay right in my head; i can envision all the bacteria swarming and descending on my undefended enamel with their little jackhammers and hard hats, trying to get under my gums and rob me of my ease of mastication. I will even ask random strangers if they have any floss, to escape this feeling. You'd be surprised at the number of people who sympathize with my paranoia, and break me off a bit of waxed, mint-flavoured oral salvation before going on their way.

Or maybe it's their way of distracting me in order to make good their escape, like a wolf gnawing off a paw stuck in a trap.

Either way, I will not succumb to a life of polident and sea bond so easily. I'd like to thank that nameless, faceless dentist of my childhood for assisting in the birth of one of my first OCD fixations.

Late Again

2009-06-13T06:47:00.000-05:00

I tossed back onto my other side again. My neck was starting to get stiff from the effort of craning around and looking at the clock. 11:45. He's late again. You should move the clock where you can just see it, my neck protested at me, my hand moving to gently caress the kink that'd developed there an hour ago. I reached toward the clock, thinking that my neck definitely deserved a reprieve, but stopped. If i moved it into my line of sight, then i'd just stare at it. 11:47. Damn. I let my hand fall uselessly back to the bed.

I turned over again and drew the shutters on my eyes, resolutely thinking of something else. We're out of bread and eggs, which means a trip to Wise Way. I do hate their prices, but they're the only ones around here who carry that whole grain Aunt Millie's bread that my husband likes so much.

I promised myself i'd never wait up for him again.

Ryan asked to go to Illinois to see his girlfriend this weekend, but he has yet to find a job, and i know damn well he's used up the gas money his mom sent for his birthday.

Where is he???

It's all fine and good that he decided not to make friends here in Indiana since it's so close to his old friends in Illinois, but damn it, that does NOT mean i'm responsible for financing his long-distance social life.

I've been lying here for two hours now.

Why don't THEY come out HERE for a change?!

I've been lying to myself for two hours now.

I jerked over onto my my back, abandoning my attempts at marshaling my mutinous thoughts. Angry, unshed tears stung at my eyes with their sharp, spiteful little fingers as i teetered on the blade-thin, blade-sharp edge between anger and despair. Why was i always the one left waiting up for him?! I let myself fall over the edge of despair, gliding gently downward on gossamer wings of self-pity. It just wasn't fair.

I felt my limbs grow heavy, and heard the nonsensical tangent of an unrelated thought whisper through me and did my best not to get excited. He was coming, after all. Weightlessly, i felt him press me down into my bed, and then out of myself. I felt him tether my arms to my body, wrapping me in his warmth, kissing the thoughts out of my mind and scattering them into the night air. I heard my husband snoring quietly next to me, and felt a vague, half-pang of jealousy that sleep always visited him first. I forgave them both, and let my consciousness slip out to go and play amongst my thoughts swirling around over my head.

I Know It Isn't All About Me

2009-06-07T06:48:00.000-05:00

I have lots of annoying personality traits. I mean, when my parents conceived me, it's like they intentionally waited until my mom felt like this particular egg contained five eggs' worth of irritating personality traits. That way, no matter which swimmer reached the prize, the result would be an individual guaranteed to make people want to get away from it within moments of having met it. Those dumb enough to befriend it would wish they'd heeded their first instincts.

Yes, indeed, folks, you are reading the ramblings of just such an individual. Save the "Awe, you're not that bad" type sympathies (and if you're having a "You sure the fuck are!" antipathy, save that too, because i don't want to fucking hear it), because i'm about to tell you about one of my least favourite flaws. I think most people have at least one aspect of their personality they'd be willing to undergo an exorcism for, if it meant they'd quit being like that, and mine is the habit of making everything about me, in conjunction with my habit of interrupting people.

Half the time, i don't even realize i'm doing it. Someone will be telling a story or sharing an experience, and i just cut them right off to tell them about my similar experience. Sometimes i don't interrupt, but i still tell them my experience after they're finished. After half an hour with me, i come off as a one-upping Been There Done That bitch who can't shut the fuck up for five minutes.

I think about it later, and i just can't figure out what it is about me that can't listen to someone's weekend recounting without putting in my two cents. Why can't i just say, "Oh that sounds like fun" and ask questions? I mean, they didn't ask about my weekend, i asked about theirs; now i look like i only asked as a segue to my own weekend activities, when i genuinely was interested in their weekend.

I'm thinking it must be because i have difficulty relating to others, and that's my pain-in-the-ass way of compensating. I want that person to know that i understand, and here's why [insert my similar situation here]. I don't mean to make it all about me. I really don't.

Resting On Your Laurels

2009-05-31T06:49:00.001-05:00

My boss has one of those cheesy motivational-style posters on her wall that says "Don't Rest On Your Laurels". It's a large poster, in a frame, with no accompanying picture. It's just written in script across a nice mountainy cloudy scene. I was never quite sure what it meant, and without a picture to explain it to me, it was just one of those quasi-mysteries i always meant to investigate, but never remembered to do so until the next time i was sitting in her office looking at the poster.

I rather discovered the meaning the hard way.

Back around October of last year, i hit my 50 pound weight loss milestone. I was intensely proud of myself, and was just beginning to not mind the way my body looked in the mirror (i wouldn't go so far as to say i liked how i was looking, but i was getting there), when something happened. I'm not sure what it was, or how it happened, which means it must've crept up on me gradually. I do remember how it began, though. It began with a piece of pie. Lemon supreme, in case you're wondering.

There it was, sitting on a smallish dish in front of me, flaunting itself in all its tangy, lemony goodness; daring me to eat it. I was eyeballing it, and it was returning my gaze steadily, good old fashioned Western show down style, right there on the table.

"Eat me," it reasoned, "You deserve it after how hard you've worked. I'm just one piece! You even know i'm only ten points! Cut me in half, eat half of me for five! Come on, i'm your FAVOURITE!"

The pie was right: it WAS my favourite. What's not to love about a tangy blanket of lemon, gently snuggled over a thin mattress of cheesecake, with a button of whipped cream sitting like a little semi-sweet pillow at the head of the wedge? I had worked hard! I'd lost FIFTY pounds! And it took me almost a year to do it! If anyone deserved a piece of lemon supreme pie, my friends, i was most certainly that person! And if i only ate half of it, i could enjoy the flavour without the guilt!

Did you see that? That was a prime slice of rationalization i was having as an appetizer to the pie. Because if i had the pie sitting on one shoulder, whispering this insidious bullshit to me, then there was a bound and gagged miniature lump of fat sitting on my other shoulder, pleading with me not to go there, desperately trying to remind me what pie looked like once it'd found its way to my thighs. That "angel" on my other shoulder knew good and well that there was no way i was only going to eat half of that pie. As soon as i put the first forkful onto my tongue, that pie was as good as eaten; and if i hadn't been in public, i probably would've licked the plate. I was a good girl, though, i counted the ten points and faithfully crossed each one off of my bank of thirty five weeklies.

Over the next couple of months, that fifty pound milestone justified all sorts of bad eating behaviours. I completely ignored the fact that the milestone was starting to pass over the horizon back into unseen territory. Several months, and fourteen pounds later, i was sitting back in my boss's office, pondering the laurels. It occurred to me that i knew what laurels were, and that they were given out in wreathes as a prize in ancient Greece. I'd rested on mine, and the extra fourteen pounds was crushing them.

Success isn't a destination, it's a process and it requires a bit of effort to maintain. My problem was, though i hit a nice milestone, i was still miles away from my goal. If i was a marathon runner, it would have been the equivalent of hitting mile twenty, and then going home. So now i'm sitting here, pondering the lesson i've opted to learn the hard way. I've already been down on myself about it, and now i'm going to stop, dust myself off, and start looking back toward the horizon. The goal may no longer be in sight, but i've been there before, and i remember what it looks like.

Exacted Revenge

2009-05-16T23:33:00.000-05:00

I was reading Loren's blog about pranks and such (just gonna put the url here, since I seem to have lost the ability to link in a blog http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=44817143&blogId=489194671), and i was putting some thought into one of her questions: Any stories in which you pulled a prank or were prank'd?

And i realized there hasn't been much pranking in my life. It's kinda weird to think that i've managed to dodge acquaintance with pranksers all my life, and that i, myself, am not generally given to such behaviour (not because i frown on it or anything, but because i'm really not a very funny person). But nobody lives an utterly prankless life, so i dug deep and finally remembered one! Unfortunately, it's going to require my going into specifics about my job (sorry for that, but do try to bear with me).

I work in a nuclear pharmacy. The drugs we dispense are radioactive, for use in different kinds of organ imaging, mostly cardiac (if you've ever known someone who's had a stress test, then chances are they've received drugs from one of our pharmacies). The tricky part of working in a nuclear pharmacy is that EVERYTHING has to be shielded in lead or tungsten, and we work in fume hoods that have lead and leaded glass blocks to protect our torsos and faces from receiving too much exposure to radiation. Here's a photo of a hood similar to the ones we use, to assist your imagination:

Ours have less glass and more lead than this one. Anyway, on with the story:

A few years ago, we had a pharmacist we'll call "Bob". Bob was your typical know-it-all, you're-just-a-tech-so-you'll-do-all-my-work-for-me kind of schmuck we all love to hate; the kind of professional who liked to plant his ass in the chair, and let those who collected less than a third of his salary see to the proper running of his profession while he dicked around online. This guy literally thought the sun rose and set on his pharmacist greatness. Unfortunately, due to his dodgy work ethic, he fucked up a lot because he was hoplessly out of practice. In short, all the technicians hated him because he had no idea what sort of cock-up he really was.

But we did!

One Friday morning, after one of his more relentless weeks, we decided we'd ruin HIS day for a change. He was running about 20 minutes late, as usual, so we went to the hood he liked to work in and began our plots.

Bob was a tall fellow. He had difficulty looking through the tiny shielded window on a good day, so that's where we decided we could inflict the most inconvenience. The shielded glass area is pretty small, maybe twoish square feet. We started taping strips of lead to the inside of the glass shield, which is standard procedure for covering up contamination. We managed to obscure all but three or four inches of viewable space with lead, down at the bottom of the shield. Plenty of visibility to get the job done. . . if you're 5'3.

Then we hung more lead in random places on the inside of the hood, strategically covering up the more convenient working areas, and on the bottom, so that it was nice and bumpy. We stood back and surveyed our handiwork, but something seemed missing. We needed a final insult, the proverbial cherry on top. A stroke of genius on my part: a note taped to the glass, explaining that a vial had ruptured during the previous shift, guaranteeing that he wouldn't attempt to remove any of the lead.

We took up our places in the other two available hoods, so that he'd have no choice but to work in the "contaminated" hood. He finally strolled into the lab and began preparing for third run (and by "preparing", i mean delegating everything but the actual drug compounding to us). He turned to his hood and his jaw literally fell open.

"What the fuck is this?!"

One of the techs, "Jane", pointed at the note and said without the faintest trace of the smile that was threatening to crack my face in two, "Didn't they teach you to read in pharmacy school?"

He snatched the note off the hood and read it quickly. "Who did this?! Was it 'Joe'?!" ("Joe" was rather famous for being sloppy in the hood, and luckily, had already left for the day). Jane nodded and turned back to her hood and continued pretending to work. I had the other hood turned off, and i'd taken out the HEPA filter and was tinkering around with the motor. I probably don't need to mention that there was nothing wrong with it.

He tried to bump Jane out of her hood, but she wouldn't move. He told me to quit fucking around with the motor and put the hood back together. "I can't work in this shit," he griped, gesturing at the lead-draped hood we'd so lovingly prepared for him.

"Find a way, this one's got a busted belt," i retorted.

After about twenty minutes of haranguing and trying to throw his authority around, my boss finally came in to find out what the hold up was. He showed her the pharmacist hood and told her he wouldn't be able to work in it. She told him she payed him a rather nice salary to figure out shit like this, and that if he couldn't, she'd be perfectly happy to hire someone who could.

We spent the next hour snickering at this 6'8 guy hunkering down to his little eye hole, cursing and sweating up a storm as he struggled to get the run out the door. Every "Fuck!!!!" and "Goddamnit!!!!" brought a fresh fit of silent laughter and belly clutching. My face was literally sore from too much smiling xD

My boss thought it was hilarious, but she still wrote us all up for it. It was COMPLETELY worth it, though i doubt he learned his lesson: do not fuck with the people you rely on to make you look good.

Dear Tom,

2009-05-10T23:36:00.000-05:00

You've been toying around with the blog interface off and on for a few months now, and i just have to say that i cry a little on the inside every time you put out the latest incarnation of Blog Home.

There's one feature i enjoy, and that's the one at the end of the current blog i'm reading that says "Previous blog title" and "Next blog title". I do enjoy that for those days when i don't get the chance to read my favourite blogs, and that person's posted multiple blogs.

The cosmetic look isn't much different from the old Blog Home, so i have nothing positive nor negative to say about it.

But here's the internal tear-inducing thing about the new Blog Home. It may be a simple thing, but it still just bugs the crap out of me: clicking on a blog title no longer spawns a new tab. So here i am, reading a blog, minding my own business. . . Okay, so i'm not minding my own business. If i was, i probably wouldn't be reading the thoughts of someone else, right? But i think you know what i mean here. Anyway, i'm reading along, i post my comment/kudos, i close out of the tab from force of habit, expecting to go back to the blog list and select something new to read.

Only now i can't, because the blog didn't spawn a new tab, and i just closed it, and now i have to log in all over again! Annoying, annoying, annoying! Sure, it's only one thing, and i did list a positive and a neutral aspect, so statistically speaking, that'd give you a solid C if this were a letter grade; a three out of five stars, if you will. All in all, not bad, right? Well, let me tell you, the crappiness of this far outweighs the occasionally-used previous-next blog feature you gave us to compensate.

So what exactly was the goal here? You messed with Blog Home, but didn't really DO a whole hell of a lot; certainly not enough to justify messing with it at all. So here's a list of features i'd like to see, since you're already fucking around with the interface anyway:

1. More font options, please! I know i could probably browse around and find a bit of code to change it to what i want, but i'd much rather select from the ole drop down menu, seeing as how there's already one there.

2. It'd be nice if you could access a sortable index for each person's blog. For instance, right now you can click on a person's blog title (if you're subscribed) from the Blog Home list, and it takes you to that particular blog. Wouldn't it be nice if you clicked on a blogger's name on this list, it would take you to a table of contents for that blogger? It'd also be nice if i could sort it by category, date, time, mood, whatever. So if i'm reading Bob's blog and i wanted to read all of his political blogs, i could click his name, and i would be taken to his blog table of contents. At the top would be something like a title column, date column, category column, etc. Maybe the category column could contain a dropdown box, and i could select news and politics, and it would show me all of Bob's political blogs. Or maybe there could be a side box containing all the categories underneath the box that has Bob's picture and details, and clicking one one of those categories would display everything Bob's written in that category. You've got several options, plus, you're a creative guy. You could make that work.

3. My Preferred List. This thing isn't really easy to use. Instead of searching through all the Myspacers to add someone to my preferred list, how bout starting a little more locally? Why not pull up a list of my friends, and i could check the ones i want to add? Or click their face and select add to preferred list? I mean, chances are, if i'm looking to put someone on my preferred list, it isn't gonna be some random schmoe, it's going to be someone i already know.

4. My Readers. I should be able to decide if i want someone to be subscribed to my blog. Right now, i can't edit that at all. If JohnBoy and i have a falling out, and we can't mend fences, i should be able to remove his subscription to my blog in the event he chooses not to unsubscribe just to irritate me.

5. My Subscriptions. Some people here (i'm not one of them, but i figured i'd bring it up anyhow, seeing as how ideas are being bandied about) have literally thousands of subscriptions. Let's pretend for a moment that i'm a top blogger, and i'm a nice girl and try to subscribe to everyone who subscribes to me. Now let's say i stopped enjoying some of the blogs i've subscribed to, some have stopped posting, and some are those irritating post-dating assholes who put their stuff up at the top of the list for the next eight fucking months, and now i want to clean house. It sure would be nice if My Subscriptions had a search field so that i could just type in the names of the people i no longer want to read, and i could unsubscribe from there. Yes, i know, i could always just click on the blog and hit 'unsubscribe', but what about those people who've been struggling with estalkers and now have private profiles? I'm not on the friends list, and now i've got no access to the blog, because everytime i hit the blog, i get the annoying "This Blog is set to private and only their friends can read it. Sucks to be you." message. I can't ditch their subscriptions now, even though i REALLY want to. So consider a search field in the My Subscriptions page.

6. Speaking of irritating post-daters, please disable the ability to post blogs in the future. It's Myspace, not time travel, for fuck's sake.

7. "Rich text is editor currently disabled. We're working on a fancy new one". I call bullshit here. You've been working on a fancy new one for the last twoish years, and from what i can tell, you've either stuffed it on the back burner and turned off the gas, or you've hired some really incompetent fucks to work on the rich text editor. How bout instead of mucking around with the Blog Home interface for no discernible reason, you deliver the fancy new text editor? Personally, i don't care if it's fancy and new or generic and old; i'm just sick of the message. So please, Tom, don't be a cocktease with the promise of better things to come, and then leave us hanging with the same old crap.

I think that's a good enough list to start with. I hope to see some actual improvements with all the muckings about happening with the blog interface. After all, what good is changing things simply for the sake of change? If it's not you, but one of your code monkeys you've hired, then i'd look at how that guy spends his day, because it looks suspiciously like he's jerking off and trying to look productive at the same time.

Love,

Christie.

"It's An Acquired Taste"

2009-05-10T23:19:00.000-05:00

Smoking. Coffee. Beer. Red wine. Dissonant music. Dark chocolate. Raw Oysters. Someone ever convince you to try something that you ended up disliking? You look at them enjoying their nasty, slimy globs on a half shell, and wonder what it is they're getting out of it that you're not. Ever ask? I bet the answer was "It's an acquired taste".

I wonder about acquired tastes. I wonder what it is about something a person could place in their mouth, hate, and then think, "Hey, i gotta get me some more of that! I gotta get more, and continue forcing myself to eat it until i like it". Typically, the more i try to force myself to do something i dislike, the more disinclined i am to do it in the future. It becomes like an anti-habit for me.

What motivates a person to want to do that? Maybe it's a palette broadening thing? Smoking's an obvious one: you just do it till the addiction kicks in. Maybe it's a social thing - someone wants to appear sophisticated, so they choke down the wine until they don't mind it anymore. Maybe it's to learn to find something pleasing in things we find distasteful. It seems like that'd be a good skill to be able to apply to people ;)

I don't usually do the question thing, but i think i will this time. Do you have any acquired tastes? What made you want to acquire it? Do you have anyone in your life right now that's an acquired taste?

My Random Bits

2009-05-03T23:20:00.000-05:00

My Random Bits:

1. People fight with me to get things done. If someone asks me to do something, and i answer that i will, then i will. But i will do it in my own time, which frequently doesn't coincide with the time frame of the person who asked me to do the thing. But the more someone bugs me to do it, the less inclined i am to do it. So if you're going to ask me to do something, be advised that you're best off asking me WAY in advance, and then not mentioning it again.

2. I am a closet lover of "chick flicks". They have to be good ones, though. Nothing starring Jennifer Lopez or Julia Roberts.

3. I think it's tragic that orange is a Halloween colour...It looks great but cheesy with black all at the same time.

4. At this moment, i have a paper cut on my lip. I have no idea how it got there, seeing as how i haven't licked an envelope or mogged down on a ream of paper any time in recent memory.

5. I think Diet Coke is superior to Diet Pepsi, not because one tastes better than the other, but because i can crack open a can of Diet Coke, let it sit over night, drink it the next morning, and that shit will STILL be plenty fizzy! Diet Pepsi, on the other hand, starts losing its fiz almost immediately, and an hour later, i'm pouring the damn thing out.

6. Every morning when i first wake up, for the last several years, my brain picks up on the exact same spot in Michael Jackson's "Beat It". Specifically the part where he says, "No one wants to BEEEE deFEEEated!". Then i have to fight for the next hour or so to banish it. My goal is to have this done by the time i exit the shower, but it seldom works out that way.

7. I consult my Magic 8-Ball on matters that're probably too important to be consulting a Magic 8-Ball on.

8. I'm fascinated by palindromes.

9. I recently donated all of my boring, generic looking mugs to the Salvation Army. Then i set out on a quest to replace them all with interestingly shaped cups from thrift stores.

10. I really like big, unattractive looking purses. My prize purse is a purple bowling bag-looking aberration. It's awesome.

Bitter?

2009-05-02T23:23:00.000-05:00

A girl at work came in yesterday and gave me a bunch of her black tea. She said she wasn't going to drink black tea anymore.

Why not?, i asked.

I'm only drinking red, green, and herbal teas now.

. . . But why?

It's too bitter for me, she replied. Then she took a big ole swig of her convenience-store coffee.

I didn't understand how black tea could be too bitter, but coffee was just fine. I personally don't drink coffee because it's too bitter. But i didn't probe too deeply, because she'd brought some really good flavours, and i really wanted that tea.

Pawn Shop

2009-04-28T23:24:00.000-05:00

"Have you got any bullets for this gun?"

He looked over at me and the gun in my hand with a puzzled expression.

"What gun? You've got a wrench in your hand."

I looked down at the instrument of death in my hand. Huh, he was right. It WAS a wrench. I was dismayed.

"How the fuck am i supposed to rob a pawn shop with a wrench?!"

"Just stick it in your pocket and point it at them. They'll just THINK it's a gun."

I groaned at him. "That's so cheesy! Only some asshole in a movie would do that!"

"Well, you're stuck. They don't make bullets for wrenches. Here, put this on." He handed me something that looked like a shower cap with a face mask attached.

"What's this?"

"It's an anti-DNA identity protection device. They won't be able to identify you, and you won't leave any DNA at the scene."

"It looks like a shower cap with some eye-holes cut out."

"It is. I made it myself."

I had to admit, i was impressed. "Good idea!" I put it on, and i instantly felt like no hair or face skin would be left on our victims' counter top. I looked over at him. He had put his on too, but i could still discern his ethnicity. I opened my mouth to point this out, and then closed it, as it couldn't really be helped anyhow. I hoped the pawn shop people weren't getting suspicious of us. We'd been sitting outside in this car making our preparations for quite some time now, after all. I thought i'd be nervous if i were a pawn shop person watching two jerks in a car outside putting on masks and conversing as long as we had been.

"Ready check," he said to me.

I took a deep breath and nodded to him. We got out of the car and rushed inside the pawnshop, him brandishing his gun, and me poking my wrench as far forward in my pocket as it would go, hoping it looked like a gun, and glad they couldn't see my face painted with embarrassment. It really was a cheesy thing to do. So cliche.

He approached the counter, looking rather like a badass who'd done this before. He thrust a Walmart bag toward the clerk and demanded the money. The clerk looked apprehensively at the register, and back at my partner, like he wanted to say something. He decided, at last, to do so.

"Er, you won't need the bag. I can just put it right in your hand." He proceeded to open the register and dump the contents into my partner's outstretched hand. I looked at his hand and did a mental tabulation that was probaby far off its mark, as badly as i suck at math in my head. Anyhow, it looked to be about thirty eight cents in nickels and pennies.

"What the fuck is this?!" i demanded.

"What, you think you're the only one having a bad economy? People pawn their shit, take my money, and then don't pay on the loans. Then i'm stuck with all this bullshit no one wants to buy!" He gestured around at the shop. I looked at the items for sale and realized he was right: it WAS a bunch of bullshit no one would want to buy; the place resembled a picked-over thrift store more than a pawnshop.

"Well why the hell are you lending people money for shit you know you can't sell?!"

He glared at me. "SO SORRY for making business choices that would impede your score!"

I menacingly thrust the wrench farther forward in my pocket. "You'd better be glad i don't shoot you out of frustration!"

His lip curled. "You can't shoot someone with a wrench, moron."

Moron?! This wasn't even my fucking idea!! I pulled the trigger and shot him twice in his bad-business-decision-making head. He stood there looking at me, the surprise slowly draining from his face like blood from the wounds i'd inflicted. He fell to the ground behind the counter. I pulled the wrench out of my pocket and looked at it. Huh. Guess it was a gun, after all.

Lavateria

2009-04-22T23:25:00.000-05:00

I'd begun to feel like a stalker, but i couldn't help myself. I was back at the Lavateria again, sitting on the floor slumped against a washing machine, staring at the one on the corner directly opposite me.

To the casual observer, it was nothing special; just the average, every day coin-operated Speed Queen- super capacity. To the slightly-more-observant observer, it was the only machine in the place that still only cost seventy five cents. The rest had been raised to a dollar twenty five.

To me, it was our washing machine. Ours. I said it aloud, to taste it in my mouth. Ours. Saying it didn't bring back the taste of him.

I pretended to wonder if he ever came here to look at this machine and reminisce the way i did, knowing damn well that he didn't. As often as i found myself sitting in this spot with a lit, unsmoked cigarette slowly burning itself to ashes between my fingers, i'd have seen him if he did.

I pretended to wonder if he ever tried to recall my taste in his mouth the way i did his, knowing damn well that he didn't. I was just temporary. I was an amusement. A distraction to occupy the fortyfiveish minutes it took for his clothes to dry. I was a magazine, lying on a table top in a dentist's office: there to pass the time, and then to be discarded and forgotten once the time had been passed. I wondered briefly if the magazines recalled every person who caressed their flimsy, gaudy jackets, however briefly.

I stood up, stubbed out my cigarette, and the thought along with it.

A Brief Rant About People Who Reprhase Questions

2009-04-20T23:27:00.000-05:00

Has someone ever asked you a question you didn't know the answer to? Did they then turn around and rephrase the question so that it sounds a little different, and then ask you again? That's a practice quite a few people i encounter in daily life engage in, probably without even realizing what they're doing.

I don't get it. Recomposing the same question in a different format generally isn't going to cause me to suddenly know the answer. My boss is particularly fond of this tactic.

"How many boxes of syringes did we get?"

"Not sure."

"Do you know how many pallets there were?"

". . . no. . ."

"How many did the invoice say there were?"

ARGH!!! It doesn't matter HOW you ask me about the quantity of syringes that came. . . I still don't fucking know how many we got in!!

"How much longer on that viable particle monitoring?"

"I didn't know i was supposed to do that."

"Did you start it?"

"No, i didn't know i was supposed to."

"When do you think it'll be done?"

"I don't know, i haven't started it!"

"Well how long is it going to take?"

This line of questioning makes me want to brain myself with a package of Trypticase Soybean-Casein agar plates. Only then i wouldn't be able to use them to do viable particle monitoring.

Who I'd Like To Meet (Myspace Blurbage)

2009-04-19T23:28:00.000-05:00

Now there's a field of text on my profile that's given me pause for quite a long time. Who I'd Like To Meet. I've always wondered if it means celebrity-wise? Or just a type of person i may feel i'm lacking in my life? You know, in case that type of person happens to be browsing my profile; then that big, overhead light bulb could go on, and that person could clap their hands together decisively, saying aloud, "Why! That's me! All that's missing is my name!" It's more possible than the former, i'm sure. After all, this IS a social networking site.

But if it's a rhetorical question, asking me if there were any particular person of fame i'd like to meet (you know, just to see what type of person i am), then i'd certainly have to say no, for a couple of different reasons. People judge you based on the answer to that question, and i'm going to pretend for the moment that i care what The Random Masses think of me.

Let's say i proclaim wanting to meet a long-dead poet, or famous peace maker, or philosopher. Let's say i put in that field "Gandhi", and then i make my case for why i want to meet him: great man, want to pick his brain, ask him what he thinks of modern society, all the usual blah-blah. Now i look stuffy, possibly a little snobby, and certainly more than a little trite. While it may be 100% true that i want to meet Gandhi, saying so has the quality of a fake answer, and gives the appearance that i'm trying to impress someone.

Since i want to avoid looking boring and trite, i decide instead to be modern and trendy. Let's say i enter "Miley Cyrus" in the Who I Want To Meet, and then i briefly make my case for why i want to meet her: omg, so cute and talented and her dad is SOOOO hawt! Now i'm putting off a vibe that clearly says Not To Be Taken Seriously (unless i'm a guy, then it puts out a vibe that clearly says Stalker-Creep with a Lolita Complex).

But in truth, it's not the judgment aspect that prevents me from putting a celebrity into Who I Want To Meet. There are a few movie stars and musicians/singers that i truly enjoy. I will go and see a movie of dubious potential if Samuel L. Jackson is in it. I love that guy, and generally even when the movie itself is sucking like a strung-out crack whore, his parts are blissfully unsullied by the smut that is the rest of the movie (primary example: The Spirit). I love Bjork's music and her voice gives me those chills along my scalp and arms that generally accompany a soundgasm. MGMT takes me to a whole different plane of consciousness without chemical assistance. But i don't want to meet these people.

Well, why the hell not?!, you may be demanding right now. And even if you're not, i'm going to tell you.

In my own mind, Samuel L. is a brilliant, hilarious mixture of different tones of all of my favourite roles he's played. He's edgy like Jules, tough and resourceful like Neville Flynn; he cares, but brooks no bullshit like Lorenzo, and is an evil genius like the Octopus. Bjork is every bit the angel she sounds like. MGMT is a small group of wise children, with an insight into life that belies their youth.

But we all know it's not true. Samuel's got a personality that has nothing to do with the ones he portrays on the screen. Bjork is a bit of a nutcase, and MGMT is just a group of kids who like to get high and play music well. And i don't want to meet face to face with any of these realities. I guard my fantasies jealously, and i doubt any of the celebrities i enjoy could live up to who they are in my mind. No, i can't enter a celebrity into Who I Want To Meet.

That leaves real people.

But how real can this person be, if i decide to enter in all the qualities i'd like to see condensed into one human being? Let's say I'd Like To Meet a person with a sense of humour (not just any sense of humour, but the RIGHT kind of humour that would make everything that this person uttered a piece of comedic genius to my ears), not too tall, but not too short, of average build and level of goodlookingness, that enjoys online gaming, reading, movies (not just any movies, mind you, but the kind of movies i like), and casual dining. S/he'd have to be witty, but not so witty that i felt inferior in their presence; her/his social views would have to be moderately left; s/he'd have to be undecided on important topics like gun control, the death penalty, and religion, so that we could stay up late talking about their pros and cons.

And so on. It seems to me that even if i put all this into Who I'd Like To Meet, this person couldn't possibly exist. And if they did, and through some cosmic miracle, that person was on Myspace, tripping over my profile with the time to read Who I'd Like To meet, what're they odds that my personality matches THEIR Who I'd Like To Meet? Not that it matters, seeing as how it's my Who I'd Like To Meet we're talking about here, but those odds are looking a lot like lottery odds, therefore rendering the whole purpose of that blurb moot. And let's face it: even that level of compatibility could get old after a while. Small incompatibilities make friendships interesting.

Alas, after all this musing, i still have nobody to put in Who I'd Like To Meet. I guess i don't really want to meet anybody in particular.

Hello, it's nice to meet you :)

Sorry, What Was That?

2009-04-15T23:30:00.000-05:00

Over the years, i've become quite deaf. Not Christy Smith-deaf, you understand, but somewhat hard-of-hearing, especially for my age. I attribute it to all the concerts i've attended without protection for my ears, the volume theaters like to play movie sound at these days, and driving a Jeep for the last eightish years. Okay, the volume at which i play my music probably had something to do with it, too, but i digress.

As a result of this loss of hearing sensitivity, i've noticed two annoying things: one thing that i do, and one thing that other people do TO me. I never noticed the thing that i do until it was pointed out to me yesterday by a buddy of mine while i was at work.

People i work with are well aware that i can't hear worth a damn. Rather, that i have difficulty distinguishing what they say over the background noise. Sometimes, i just get tired of saying, "Huh?", and "What?" and "Sorry, what was that?", and i just smile and nod or say something noncomittal. So John was telling me something yesterday that i just couldn't make out. I nodded and said something like "Okay". . . i honestly don't remember exactly what i said, and continued with whatever it was i was doing.

All the sudden he got really annoyed with me and burst out, "Why do you do that?!" Well. THAT certainly got my attention.

"Do what?"

"Act like you heard me when you know damn well you didn't! I said, 'Line 4 is for you, it's Capintec!'"

Fantastic. I almost missed a call i've been waiting for for a week now. I took the call, and hung up to find John standing over me. Nope, he wasn't going to let this go.

"You've gotta quit doing that."

"I know, i'm sorry. I will."

"You don't even know you're doing it! Fucking pay attention!"

"I said i will!" Jeeze, i didn't mean to blow him off. I just get so tired of asking people to repeat themselves. I didn't realize how often i was i was Smiling And Nodding at people. I can see how that'd be irritating as hell. I resolved not to be irritating as hell in that fashion anymore, though i had a sneaking suspicion people were gonna get right sick of saying everything more than once.

Then he did the thing that irritates the hell out of ME: he started saying something, then he turned around and walked away while still talking. Now i REALLY can't hear what he's saying.

"Seriously? You harangue me for not listening, but then you walk away and expect me to hear what you're saying? I've TOLD you how much i hate that!"

He looked over his shoulder and smirked. Bastard.

Open Arms or Open Eyes?

2009-04-14T23:30:00.000-05:00

Over the course of the last few years, i've made friends with, and subsequently broken up with, a girl i work with (we'll call her. . . you guessed it, we'll call her "Jane"). I've blogged about this girl several times over the past twoish years, so i won't go into details about why she sucks so much, but her most unpleasant traits seem to be her tendency to lie compulsively, twist the things people say to her around and then tell everyone else about it, and general back-stabbiness.

The problem is, when she's being nice to me, she seems like such a warm, caring, genuine person. I mean, she's so convincing that after being burned by her repeatedly, i have to mentally remind myself when she's talking to me NOT to fall for her bullshit.

Luckily, she's also incredibly predictable. She's one of those people who can't seem to get along with everyone at once. So once she fell out with the other girl at work she was "friends" with (I suppose we'll call her "June". . . and, as an aside, June is the Not A Racist girl from a few blogs back), i figured it was only a matter of time until she started sucking up to me again.

She obliged on my expectations a few days ago, but her tactic has thrown me for a loop. She actually apologized for being cunty.

Normally when she tries to sleaze herself back into my good graces, she just pretends like nothing happened and that things've always been fine. I can't complain about this because i allow her to do it to a degree- i smile and am pleasant to her, but i don't actually tell her anything vital about what's going on in my life nor do i hang out with her outside of work. I hate having the awkwardness of a bad relationship while i'm AT work, so i go along with it most of the time. Spineless? Two-faced? Maybe. I don't pretend to be a perfect person.

But this time, she actually acknowledged some of the meaner things she did to me and apologized for them. I went through the motions of forgiving her; some of the minor transgressions i actually did forgive her for, and others i cannot find it in myself to be so magnanimous about. I probably don't need to say that she seems very genuine and heartfelt in her apologies, but i just can't help but think that if things were okay between her and June, this conversation wouldn't have happened.

I imagine i'll do what i always do: Smile and say it's okay, don't worry about it, and keep my back always facing away from her. I will remind myself daily that open eyes are appropriate when dealing with Jane, not open arms. After all, open arms would expose my back once again, and i'm all too aware of what happens when i do THAT.

My Dog The Liar

2009-04-08T23:33:00.000-05:00

Most people look at a dog, and and are completely disarmed by how cute he is. How fun, how sweet, how loving, how soft; and the adorability of his antics! People just melt in the innocent eyes of a dog.

But behind those innocent eyes lies deviousness, the depths of which we shall never fully plumb. Deceit and dubiousness cloak themselves in soft fur and doting attention, distracting you from their plots and intentions. Oh, yes, dogs have a hidden agenda. The agenda?

Acquire more food by any means necessary.

I was cooking supper yesterday (it was Taco Tuesday), when i noticed my dog standing wiltedly by his food bowl. He paced back and forth between me and his bowl, looking forlornly into its empty depths, and then wistfully back at me.

"He must be pretty hungry if he's standing at his bowl instead of scavenging for possible dropped food around my feet," i thought to myself. So i went out to the garage, filled the scoop a little fuller than usual, since it was a half hour past his normal dinner time, and dumped it into his bowl. He fell onto the food like a parched man into an oasis after a month in the desert.

Ry was sitting at the table, doing his homework, and he asked me, "Did you just feed the dog?"

"Yeah, i got it."

"I already fed him."

What! It was all an act, then. This dog, without a word spoken, outright LIED to me! He was a veritable Scammy McScammerson! And i fell for it; hook, line and sinker. He finished his food and waddled smugly by me. He looked up at me as he passed, and i could swear i could see his little Bean thoughts in his little Bean head:

"Sucker!"

Digital: It's Not Just For Watches Anymore!

2009-04-06T23:42:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been reading something (a book, magazine, blog. . . whatever; it isn't important) and encountered a word you didn't know? What do you do with it? Use the context to gather a ballpark meaning and continue on? Pull out a dictionary of some sort? Google/Wikipedia it?

Or do you ignore it and move on?

I'm usually pretty faithful about looking up words that i don't know the immediate meaning of. A ballpark definition isn't generally specific enough, in case i like the word and want to use it later.

Reading stuff on my Kindle, i discovered, has made me a bit lazy. There is a built-in dictionary in it, and all i have to do is highlight the line with the word in question on it, and it returns to me the definition of every major word on the line. Too much information? Maybe. But i kinda like it.

Recently, i was forced to put my Kindle down and read an actual, honest-to-grapes paperback book. It was an absolutely miserable experience! I was tethered to my desk while reading at home so i could have access to Merriam-Webster.com. Reading out? I had to try and remember words i wanted to look up. About halfway through the book, i surrendered looking things up altogether just to get through the damn thing. For the first time in my life, i got a glimpse into the life of someone who hates to read, though i'm sure the reading-hater wouldn't cite the lack of a good, ready dictionary as their primary reason. The result of this surrender: i misused a word and was called out on it.

Probably not the worst thing a person could do, but i was pretty mortified, seeing as how one of my pet peeves is when people bandy words about without knowing what the hell they mean. It just makes you look stupid (or, in my case, lazy).

Anyway, to get to my point, i have to say that i really hate actual paper books. I wish everything was published digitally.

I'm Not A Racist, But . . .

2009-04-01T23:44:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been involved in a conversation where someone dropped that line on you?

I was standing around at work the other day, bullshitting with one of my less-liked coworkers, who cornered me while i was making some tea. I asked her how the new girl, "Jane", was working out; my coworker glanced around, dropped her voice a few octaves (which didn't help, believe me), and told me that Jane's work ethic was sub-par.

I'm going to interrupt myself to give you a bit of background info on Jane: She's worked here before. She was fast, efficient, friendly, and a genuinely likable person, even if she did take twenty years to tell a story. She was fired for attendance issues, but this was all before my coworker's time, so she just assumed that Jane was fired for being a shitty worker.

Curious about what had changed, i asked my coworker what she meant by Jane's work ethic being sub par. I immediately regretted asking as my coworker launched into a long, rambling, incoherent diatribe about Jane's habits. She takes too long on her breaks. She takes too many breaks. She's too flirty with "John" (the other technician on the midnight shift). She leaves early. She doesn't check in packages right. She's moody. And so on.

Eventually her general complaining narrowed down to what her real problem was: John and Jane get along very well, and John and my coworker never have. John and Jane got along very well the first time Jane worked here, and their reunion was a happy one; now my coworker feels like she's on the outside looking in. Then she dropped the million dollar disclaimer on me:

"I'm not a racist or anything, but i don't come to this job so that i can get ganged up on by a pair of darkies. So sorry i don't live in the ghetto!"

And just as she said that, two of my other coworkers walked by and raised their eyebrows at us before walking on. Fucking great! I've just been privy to a racist remark, in front of witnesses.

What happened next was unimportant and unremarkable, but my point is this: when people say dumb shit like that, it makes the other person look like they're a part of the conversation, rather than the recipient of an unwelcome view point. The passers-by assume that the other person (in this case, me) shares that sentiment, and make judgments about both parties. If my boss didn't know me better, and if John weren't a good friend of mine, i could have been in a lot of trouble just for standing there when my coworker said that.

So the next time someone says, "I'm not a racist, but. . . [insert generalized racially-motivated comment here]" in your vicinity, walk away as soon as you hear the first four words. And if you're one of these people who says things like that, i got news for ya, Pal: That disclaimer doesn't make your racist remark any less so for having said it before making your statement. If you make derogatory comments based on someone's skin colour, you're a racist. Period. And fuck you for making the rest of us look like assholes for being polite enough to stand there and listen to you.