Not Normal

Last week, while I was getting a facial (yes, I am that spoiled), I opened my eyes while the mask was on my face (because it is impossible for me to sit still for ten minutes). And, since the mask covered my eyes and only left small openings for my nostrils and mouth, the only thing I could make out was a small patch of white ceiling and a dimmed fluorescent light.That's when I realized that if I were in an accident and woke up in a full body cast or was like one of the characters on my soap operas who ended up with a completely bandaged face (usually because the character "died" and the original actor is about to be replaced by a new actor who will look nothing like the first actor but will be playing the same part so this must be explained by a "disfiguring accident"), that's all I would be able to see of the world when I woke up.So, like any rational person, I immediately added a new anxiety to my list of fears.

I Miss School

I think yesterday was one of those days when I could actually feel myself getting dumber. (Actually, the trend might have started Wednesday night when I said "Lance Bass" instead of "Lance Armstrong" while touting my celebrity gossip knowledge/skills. Oh, the irony...)First, I couldn't solve the medium level of sudoku in the morning paper(which normally isn't a problem).On my lunch break, it took me almost twenty minutes to find the fire extinguishers at Target. And, when I went out to the parking lot, it took me another ten to find my car, and later at the car wash, I was literally impressed/near giddy as the different colored soaps covered my windows.Then, when I was back at my desk, I tried to roll my chair away to visit a co-worker's, but I still had my headphones around my neck, so instead I yanked the headphones out of the computer and knocked over all of my notes and a book while the office watched with pity.But, what truly frightened me is that on the way home from work, I found myself doubting how to spell "wrapping paper." I started to wonder if "wrapping paper" was the same as Saran wrap or wrapping a film. It started to seem odd that Christmas wrap would be spelled with a "w." And, much like sometimes saying the same word over and over again can start to make that very word seem odd ("hotdog" does it to me every time, and yes, i do use the word "hotdog" often enough for this to happen), the more I thought about "wrapping paper," the more perplexed I became.Eventually, I reasoned with myself that it certainly wasn't "rapping paper" as "rap" defines a genre of music and probably wouldn't apply to other objects. (Not to mention the fact that you are actively engaged in the act of "wrapping" when you cover a present in paper.)But, I really don't think the thought process should have gotten to such dire depths. Maybe I really do need to start eating breakfast.

Strange Encounters

I tried to watch "Haunting" on the Sci-Fi channel tonight. (You know, they interview families who have lived in haunted houses, had encounters with poltergeists, etc. I thought it would be like "Unsolved Mysteries," and "The Office" wasn't on.)But, tonight, the family they interviewed would only be on the show on the condition that the producers would "protect their anonymity." They were in the dark, and you couldn't make out anyone's facial features.And, I still don't understand - protect their anonymity from what? The ghosts? Do they think the dead confederate soldier in the basement will retaliate because they "testified against him"? Are they worried about being sued for slander by spirits? If there are ghosts, would they even watch television?It just doesn't make sense, and, truthfully, I'm relatively speechless.

Goodness Gracious

Interestingly enough, my horoscope yesterday said that I should not change my routine in any way, shape, or form. (Normally, I don't get too into this kind of stuff, but yesterday's was so adamant, I was rather intrigued.) It read that I shouldn't change the way I drive home from work, propose new ideas to my boss, attempt even talking to strangers, etc.Truth be told, even though I was intrigued, it was also kind of nice because "keeping to my usual routine" also means avoiding the gym, indulging in too much celebrity gossip, and eating frosted strawberry pop tarts right before bed.I love life.Anyways, last night, I was sitting on my couch, watching TNT and doing sudoku puzzles on my computer (after all, it was all pre-destined by the stars) when my smoke detector started to go off. I got up, but, having mostly lived in older apartments and homes, I'm entirely accustomed to smoke detectors that go off when a Lean Cuisine gets too warm in the microwave or water boils.So, you can imagine my surprise when I went to grab a broom from the kitchen (to hit the smoke alarm and keep it from beeping in that oh-so-grating fashion) and discovered a small fire on my stove.Being the highly intelligent person that I am, it seems that instead of turning down the heat on my pot of pasta, I turned on the heat for a different burner. And, since the lid to the pot was sitting on that burner, flames ensued. (It appears that the downside of doing all your shopping at the Dollar General is that not all of your purchases are "high quality" or "flame retardant.")Luckily, a lot of my dishes were on the sink (again, fate didn't want me to put anything away or clean), and I grabbed a bowl and doused the fire in water.My kitchen is messier than before (which really shouldn't be possible), but at least the crisis was averted.I have two little lessons to offer from my evening's adventure: 1) Astrology is important. Is cooking part of my normal routine? Certainly not. If I'd driven through Krystal on the way home, none of this would have happened. 2) Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes an event to "break up the mind-numbing monotony of the evening" is a fire, and that's not good.And, as important as these morals are, perhaps the most important info to take from yesterday is that I will be spending today's lunch hour at Home Depot buying a fire extinguisher.

Cautionary Tales From my Youth

The other day, as I was driving to work, I spotted a hitch hiker on the side of the road.I have to say that it's been a really long time since I've seen a hitch hiker. I kind of thought all those reports about serial killers and stories on "America's Most Wanted" destroyed the enterprise, but I suppose I was wrong. Anyways, my main point is that hitch hikers always remind me of my father.And, right now you're probably thinking, "How in the world could that possibly be?"Well, no, it has nothing to do with the time my father thumbed a ride to the Auburn/Alabama game when his car overheated halfway through the drive, and he didn't want to miss the first ever match-up between the two teams at Jordan-Hare Stadium.You see, back in the day (i.e. the 70s) my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Now, he has told me plenty of times that hitch hiking was much "safer" and "more acceptable" back then, but I still can't imagine anything at all fun or American-open-road-romantic about being in incredibly close quarters with a transient you just met, but bygones.So, my father used to pick up hitch hikers. Of course, that was all until one day when he picked up a particular hitch hiker who pulled out a knife about twenty minutes into the ride. Here's a little something of what the conversation was probably like:Hitch Hiker: So, you like this knife of mine? (He proceeds to sharpen said knife on the sole of his shoe.)My Father: (With obviously raised anxiety) Yeah, that's a nice knife.HH: It's a real nice knife, don't you think?MF: Uh-huh...HH: Yeah, it's a real sharp one too.MF: (Just silence and nervous gulping.)HH: It's a real good knife.MF: (Wide-eyed staring and fear.)HH: So, do you think you might want to buy this knife off me?MF: YES! Yes, I do! Let's do that right now!Obviously, this was the worst and best deal my father ever made. Financially speaking, you really don't have any bargaining power when you're the one not holding the knife, but, survival-wise, it's always better to be the one who's armed in a two-seater Volkswagen beetle.The moral of the story - don't pick up hitch hikers. Otherwise, not much has been going on over the past few days, and I've had to revert to telling my father's stories rather than my own.Hopefully, more to come...

Sexual Politics

The other day, as I was getting in the elevator, a man called from down the hall asked me to hold the door for him. Of course, I had no problem doing this as it is the polite and courteous thing to do.But, when the man approached the elevator, he wasn't interested in actually getting on. Instead, he handed me his card, introduced himself, and invited me to lunch.Now, while this is flattering in many ways, I really wasn't at all prepared for a date request at 9:00 AM on a Monday. (Meaning, I responded with general awkwardness, avoided eye contact, and stammering.)But, what really bothers me is that when he asked me to hold the elevator for him, I wasn't facing him. The only thing he could see when he decided to approach me was my back, and he hadn't even seen my face.So, I'm pretty sure he decided to approach me based solely on my backside, and I really don't think I'm comfortable with that. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I really do think you should at least examine both halves of a person before asking them out. (As for this "halves policy" of mine, I can see not checking out the back, but not checking out the front? It makes me feel a bit like a piece of meat. After all, it's not like he's ever spoken to me or heard me talk.) Face time is important.It kind of reminds me of when I was living in D.C. Men on the street would occasionally make comments to me and it was usually on the days that I hadn't showered. It's very hard to feel special when you know that if I man will give a compliment to a greasy-haired, dirty person, he probably gives every woman on the street a shot.Plus, now I have to avoid the elevator at high traffic times of the day because I don't want to have a second awkward, stammering, avoided eye contact kind of moment.We all know how little I like overt objectification - and taking the stairs.

The Perfect Audience

In many ways, I am the perfect audience.

I am more than willing to give up all pretense of plausibility or rationale in the name of being entertained. Aliens want to attack all of the U.S.'s major metropolitan areas? Of course. A serial killer who won't go down despite two rounds in the chest? Terrifying. Chris Klein as someone women are sexually attracted to? I'll give it a shot. (Please, I still think Rupert Everett and I have a chance at lasting happiness.)

Like I said -- I embrace the fourth wall.I will even get caught up in the most formulaic of plots. (Unfortunately, this led to a very uncomfortable moment for my friends when I started crying in the middle of "The Wedding Planner" and repeating the phrase "these two just aren't going to make it" -- in reference to Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey -- as a mystified theater crowd watched and shook their heads. I'd like to blame my reaction on a break-up, but I know that it just isn't true.)

I want everyone to survive the horror movie. I believe characters who say "I'm sure it's nothing" in reference to their health are right. I am genuinely surprised when my favorite soap characters either reunite or break up during sweeps.

Truth be told, if I'm questioning the logic of a movie, there's big trouble. (For this and many other reasons, the makers of "Basic Instinct 2" should be ashamed.) After all, I saw "Kangaroo Jack." (Actually, at least I watched that one trapped on an airplane. My paying to see "Reign of Fire" on its opening weekend is a whole different story...)

While my all-consuming spectator-ship means I have a much higher tolerance for television and movies than most, it also means that I get way too involved in what I'm watching. I watched years of "Who's the Boss" actually thinking that Angela and Tony were going to finally get together every single episode. (If you want to blame that on my age, trust that I did the same thing with Ross and Rachel on "Friends.")

And, while I thought I at least knew my own limits, I've discovered a whole new level of frustration in "The Office." Why can't Jim and Pam be together? Why? Of course, I know that the tension keeps me tuning in every week, and I know that crowds get bored when couples are happy, but I'm starting to worry that I really can't take it anymore. Jim is just too cute. Pam is just too sweet. She's not engaged anymore. I don't like the girl from the closed office. I need Jim and Pam together, and I need it now. (This might even be worse than my Pacey/Joey obsession. It's that bad.)Seriously, this time it's for my sanity. Let the letter writing campaign begin.

Too Sensitive?

Some of my friends keep telling me that it's time to "get back out there" (i.e. dating).But, then I have days when I feel like the Mailer-Daemon return service on my e-mail sounds like it's breaking up with me. (After all, it does say, "This is a permanent error. I will not try again.")And, on those day, I think I'm not quite there yet.

A Word Please...

We all know that I love my celebrity gossip. In fact, one of my favorite gifts this year was a subscription to US Weekly magazine. (Of course, considering my somewhat severe addiction to celebrity gossip websites, I usually know everything in the magazine before it arrives - excepting, obviously, stars and how they're "just like" me, but bygones.) Even if I have all the details on Britney's divorce and Kingston Stefani's hairstyle, I still read it. (I know, I know - between the repetitive play of Lindsay Lohan's shenanigans and soap operas, my brain is well-fed.)And, by most accounts, this Monday was no different from most: I came home from work, I changed into sweat pants, I spent time actually talking out loud to my dog about how my day was, and then I sat down on the couch with my recently-delivered US Weekly.That's when I noticed it. It was right there on the cover, staring up at me. That's when I saw that this particular US Weekly was, in fact, a Collector's Edition. That's right - a collector's edition. A collector's edition of a those-of-us-who-read-it-pretend-it-isn't-but-deep-down-we-all-know-it-really-is-one tabloid.My obvious question is, WHO THE HELL COLLECTS US WEEKLY?!?! Is there someone laminating TomKat's wedding album as we speak? Does it get a special place on the coffee table where it stays - forever? Do you pull it out when people come over for dinner along with slides from that last trip to the Grand Canyon saying, "Now I don't know whether you've seen this before or not...but we've been saving something really special for after dessert"?It's US Weekly people! Everyone has seen it! Anyone can have it! Collector's Edition or not, there's nothing that special about it.I really don't think it will be worth more if they break up, if that's what people are hoping for. I'm pretty sure mainstream copies of celebrity rags don't appreciate in value like baseball cards or discontinued, sexist Barbies. Sure, when my grandmother held a garage sale years ago, her National Enquirers sold out and sold fast, but they went for ten cents a piece. She couldn't exactly retire on rumors. (Hey - do you think that phrase could catch on? Maybe like "living on love"? "Retiring on rumors"? Huh? Ok, I realize it doesn't work and barely makes sense, but I've been dying to slap something on a needlepoint pillow and make my fortune for years. After all, if people like collector's editions of mediocre magazines...)Of course, when I consider that some people amass Precious Moments figurines and clocks shaped like trains from the Time Life corporation, none of this seems that bad, but, as I've said before and will say again, when people are thinking inside "the crazy box," I don't dive in there with them trying to work with their logic. If you're taking "the train to crazy," I'm not hoping on board with you. I'll stay in "reason-ville," and we can have any discussion you want there.Holding on to an US Weekly just because it says "Collector's Edition" on the top is a little bit crazy. I can't help but thinking it's the same mindset that leads to one day far in the future when EMT technicians have to fight their way through a maze of years-old newspapers and empty cans of Le Sueur green peas to find your body.In short, throw it out. Get out of the crazy box. You'll thank me in the long run.

Labels: pop culture rantings

Crank Yankers

Right after I graduated college, I went to work for a small non-profit firm in Northwest D.C. My title was Assistant Director of Marketing and Development, but since it was a small firm and a non-profit, I usually ended up "wearing many hats" so to speak. And, since the non-profit I worked for operated a CCRC (that's Continuing Care Retirement Community for those of you not in the know), those many hats could be quite interesting."Assistant Director of Marketing" actually meant that I spent a lot of time talking to the elderly and their family members about whether or not it was time for a retirement community, an assisted living facility, or the nursing home. (Yes, it was a crazy good time every day.) I answered a lot of phone calls (including a 1-800 number that did not have any sort of screening process) and a lot of people who called me tended to get my number confused with someone else's (after all, they were pretty old).Also while I had this job, my roommate would call me every day so that we could plan dinner or discuss who needed to pay the gas bill, etc. (You know - the general joys of domesticity.) And every day when I answered the phone, he would try to prank me in some way.Sometimes he pretended that he needed to find retirement housing for his grandfather, sometimes he wanted to sell me bed pans, and other days just had him screaming "she's fallen and she can't get up" into the phone.And, while this behavior of his is somewhat interesting, what is much more fascinating is that he got me every single time. Despite the fact that the person I lived with called me daily with pretty much the same joke, I never caught on. Every time, I would try my best to answer his questions ("Has your father said anything about being ready to move?" "Sanitation devices aren't really my area," "Should I call 911 for you?") until he would start giggling and tell me for the umpteenth time that he wasn't actually one of my clients.It was more than ridiculous and had him believing I might be the most gullible person on earth.But, you see, the truth is that it was nearly impossible for me to catch on because the "normal" phone calls I got were so weird to begin with. (Remember - old people.) One morning, I got a call asking if I was ready for "the 700 pound man on route to my facility." (I know what you're thinking, but could I really make this stuff up? I'm not that creative.) After many frantic calls to the nursing staff who told me we were in no way prepared for this arrival, and they had no idea what I was talking about, the woman on the phone and I finally worked out that she had the wrong number.And, as bad as that was, no call was as uncomfortable as the one when I picked up the phone to find a very angry, Katherine Hepburn-sounding lady loudly asking "when on earth are you going to get over there to bathe my husband?!?!"I'm pretty sure I stuttered as I answered that that wasn't my job, but she wasn't willing to back down for another five minutes as she continued to ask why I wasn't already at her house sponge-bathing away. (I'm still not sure how those numbers got confused.)As stupid as I seemed for all those times on the phone with my roommate, that was the sacrifice I had to make for not being ridiculously unprofessional at the office. (I sure know that if I had laughed in the face of the woman with a 700 pound patient, I would have been called insensitive and a fatist, and that wouldn't have gone over well with the boss man.)These are the lessons about the working world they don't teach you in school. And, this probably explains some of why I never lasted that long in the customer service field.

Labels: story time

My Confession

I could have been disappointed last night. After all, Sunday is usually my "Cold Case"night, and I don't like it when I can't watch "Cold Case." (I like blending the fictional closure of their cases with the close to my week. It completes me.)So, the fact that "Cold Case" wasn't on last night could have really bugged me. But, fortunately, "Cold Case" wasn't being shown for one of my other greatest guilty pleasures - the Hallmark made-for-television movie. Sure, I usually can't find the raping, stalking, abusing men of my Lifetime choices, but, there's something to the heartwarming cheesiness of their stories that just kills me.If I can't have a murderous secretary out to steal her boss' job and man, I want a disheartened widower who learns to love again or an emotionally scarred old maid who finds peace in caring for an orphaned child.Plus, as a crier, there is rarely anything that offers me as much catharsis as a Hallmark movie. You don't even want to know how much tissue I went through when Rosie O'Donnell played the mentally handicapped woman who just wanted to ride the bus.And, as we all know, a crier tears up over both the commercials and the movie. So, in the spirit of the season, I will now share with you my favorite Hallmark commercial.The shot opens in the Principal's office of a high school. A young brunette girl is sitting in a chair in front of the desk and asks why she's been called into the office.The principal, an older woman who looks like one of those "loving on the inside/tough on the outside" ladies, hands the girl a card.The girl opens up the card, reads it, and says, "You're proud of me?"The principal nods and then tells the girls she needs to get back to class.Now, I'm sure that you're thinking that up until this point, this commercial sounds like the most boring thing in the world. A principal who's proud of a student - how bland.But, as the teenager is leaving, the principal looks up and says, "Now, Laurel, don't forget to close the door behind you."Maybe it was my mood. Maybe it was the lowered defenses created by the movie. Maybe I was having a low self-esteem day, but I'm slightly embarrassed to admit that I felt like Hallmark and fate were talking directly to me that night. I was a little overcome, and I cried - a lot.In fact, I kind of creepily hoped that they'd show that same commercial again last night just so I could have another one of my mildly pathetic, warm, fuzzy moments.What can I say? I'm sick, and that gold crown really is something special.

Black Friday

Now, normally I'm not one to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, usually I'm such a wreck about getting ready for the holidays, I've finished my shopping by the end of October and don't even need to get near the mall for the last two months of the year. (Except, of course, for my trips to Forever 21 and The Great American Cookie Company, but that's personal and not really "gift-related.")

But, last year, I couldn't sleep and thought that I might as well see what it's like to be in a department store at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, being with the rabid bargain-hunting crowd taught me two things:

1. Something about being in the presence of a "doorbuster" completely destroys my rational sensibilities. I was loaded up with seven $12.00 digital cameras (as if a $12.00 digital camera could be any good) before I realized that just because everyone else was grabbing at the boxes under the "special sale" sign didn't mean I had to, too.

2. I should not be unleashed on the world in a situation that involves both early mornings and slashed prices.After the doorbuster incident, I found myself at Old Navy in search of discounted performance fleece. I had picked up two jackets that I thought were ten dollars a piece and proceeded to the check-out line.

Now, being the day after Thanksgiving, the line at Old Navy lasted for 45 minutes, but I was willing to wait it out because of the cheap jackets. (I'd also like to add that I don't think waiting in the line was nearly as bad as the "waiting entertainment" dreamed up by overly-peppy retail gurus. I think it's fair to say that I never want to play "purse and pocket raffle." I don't care who has tweezers in their purse. And, having to watch the "sudden death" as to who would win the holiday motif stickers when both middle-aged woman A and middle aged woman B had Q-tips in their purses nearly made me impale myself on a coat hanger.)

When I finally got to the register, the salesperson rang up my items and informed me that I owed $27.80.Unfortunately for all involved, this is when I became incensed with rage. After all, I was there at that ridiculous hour for $10 performance fleece and nothing else. So, that's what I told the sales lady.

"Well," she said, "you pulled out different jackets. One is $10. The other is $15."

Staring at what I considered to be two identical jackets, I was baffled. "But," I countered, "I got both of these off the rack over there that has the huge sign saying '$10" above it."

"OK," she said, "but they're different."

"How are they different?"

"This one has a tab on the zipper, and this one doesn't."

Of course, I thought to myself -- I see why a zipper tab costs $5.

"Fine, then," I said, "I'll take that one and not the other." I then pointed to the one that she just told me was the cheaper jacket."

"Your new total is $16.95."

"But, you just told me the jacket with the tab was the more expensive one. That's why I told you to put that one back."

"This one is the more expensive one. That's why it ran up as costing more." (And she said it as if I was too stupid to understand this basic leap of faith.)

"But, you just told me that wasn't the more expensive one."

"The scanner doesn't lie."

So, by now, I was no longer arguing about $5. At this point, I was angry about misplaced tags, misleading signs, false advertising, UPC scanners, incompetent salespeople, consumerism, corporate America, overly-commercialized holidays, the injustices of the purse raffle game, and the fact that life just isn't fair.

The morning ended when I practically threw the fleece back at the check-out woman and informed her that I was having none of this and never wanted to shop at Old Navy again.

At least I can admit that I think I overreacted.Despite the fact that I can be somewhat dramatic at times, I usually save my more grandiose antics for boyfriends and my siblings. Really, I rarely pitch fits in stores or at restaurants. And, actually having a hissy fit over performance fleece taught me that I just shouldn't shop with the masses.There is more peace in the world when I stay home on Black Friday and use the Internet for absolutely necessary last-minute purchases.

Movie Picks

Well, since nothing particularly zany has happened to me in the last few days, I suppose I'll be forced to revisit a story from my childhood. So, I figured I'd tell everyone about the movie that scared me the most as a child - "The Neverending Story."That's right, I was most terrified by "The Neverending Story." Nothing about the Wicked Witch of the West in "The Wizard of Oz" got to me. I was cool with the Big Bad Wolf in "Little Red Riding Hood." Not even the title to "Nightmare on Elm Street" bothered me. (I say the title, because, obviously as a four-year-old I didn't see "Nightmare on Elm Street." But, I did know it existed, and I grew up on Elm Street. Kind of freaky, isn't it?)"The Neverending Story" was the big baddie of my nightmares.When I was little, I really liked going to see "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" at the movie theater in the mall closest to our house. In fact, I liked "The Smurfs and the Magic Flute" so much, I saw it in the theater four times.So, you can imagine the pain my father felt one Saturday afternoon when he asked me what I wanted to do for the day, and I answered, "Watch 'The Smurfs and the Magic Flute!'"On go number five, my father finally put his foot down. He had had enough of the those little blue creatures, so he made me pick another movie, and, since G-rated movies are hard to come by, we had to settle on "The Neverending Story." (Well, truth be told, I stook to my guns. There wasn't really any "settling" involved. I wanted to see my smurfs, and I wanted to see them tout de suite, if you know what I mean. This whole "other movie thing" was really a tyrannical parent choice.)We went down to the theater, and settled in for the show. But, unfortunately, we didn't really make it past the first half hour. As soon as Atreyu lost his horse Atrax to the Swamps of Sadness, I was done. (How could anyone be punished for crying with death? I don't think it's difficult to understand why such dire circumstances for tears would terrify a small girl.) As soon as the horsey was gone, I started to cry. (And, of course, considering what I had just watched, this only elevated the level of upset, leading to - you guessed it - more tears.) I was crying in a way that meant my father had to escort me out of the theater.In the hallway, I calmed down. My unsuspecting father took this to me that we could go back to watching the movie, but he was very wrong. I refused to re-enter the theater. I was having none else of that movie. (As a small aside, my father does not like to waste money, so you can imagine how strong my objections must have been for us to leave right then and there without him seeing the rest of the film.)And, truth be told, I have never seen the end of "The Neverending Story" since walking out of that theater over twenty years ago. (Is there irony in that?) I avoid it in the video store. I switch the channel when it's on TV.It freaked me out once, and I'm not willing to give it another shot. (If only I would remember to apply this same rule to my dating life...)But, more importantly, do you know what the moral to this story is? When I want to watch some German-based cartoons fight evil, it's best to let me have what I want.

Aging

Well, I'm officially a year older.I was going to attempt a post about the "craziness of this past weekend" that sounded like I was talking about TomKat's wedding when, in fact, I was talking about my own birthday - (do you see what I was going for there? what kind of crazy twist would that have been?) - but, then I realized that I don't have much of anything in common with TomKat, and that creative well ran dry. (Why could I really do? Talk about A-list guests? Exotic sights? An incredible, designer gown? I think we all know my birthday party's classiest moments occurred sometime after I (loudly) shared my theory on olives and their lack of necessity in the world and sometime before I spilled red wine down the front of my shirt.)Then, I thought about writing about my presents. But, since I got "House" on DVD, a book by Amy Sedaris sub-titled "Hospitality Under the Influence," and cash, my gifts were pretty much perfect and, for anyone who knows me, completely expected. I mean, I already get a lot of topic mileage out of Hugh Laurie, alcohol, and running out of money, so I don't want to over-mine, if you will, and find out that the well has gone dry one day.Plus, this is one of the rare weekends I didn't spend eight hours watching Lifetime, so I don't even have cheesy movies to mock and re-hash for the anti-made-for-television crowd. My dog didn't get any new outfits. My landlord has stayed out of sight. And, I haven't run into a single vagrant wanting to predict my future or sell me a dead pigeon.Why am I telling you about everything that wasn't funny enough to write about, you might ask? Because it all leads me to my new worry that turning 27 has killed my storytelling mojo.Normally, weird stuff happens to me all the time - especially on my birthday. At twenty-two, my crazy ex-roommate caused a scene in front of forty people before throwing a beer against the wall and storming out, and I coined the phrase "crazy like a loon and not like a fox." For twenty-three, there was literally dancing on the table. And, last year I threw an 80s prom.Even before I became of legal age, this stuff happened. I spent half of my tenth birthday in a horrendous girl scout camp where an obese camp cook tried to make me eat my weight in spaghetti before a homeless man stole my duffel bag as it was sitting on the front steps of my school when the troop got back and unloaded the van.I usually like to go big.Yet, this past weekend was tame. Some might even say "drama free." I can't help but wonder if I've come to the end of the road for zaniness. Will I stop having the experiences that make for my future anecdotes? Will I have to start writing about food or social issues or what kids will be wearing in the spring to get by? Will I have to embrace gardening or evaluating toaster ovens just to have topics of discussion?I don' think anyone wants to see the day I'm planting crocus bulbs from all the different Home Depots in town to see which one bears the brightest bloom - especially me.All I can say is that if my family gets through all of Thanksgiving dinner without incident, I'm really going to get scared...

My "Real" Job

For anyone who's interested, the website I work for goes live today, and you can check it out at:http://www.rezoom.com

More on the Thunder-Stealers

If ever there was proof that a certain "religion" must be a bar bet that got way out of hand, and L. Ron Hubbard is laughing his ass off from somewhere beyond the grave, let's examine the much-publicized-of-late wedding vows:"girls need clothes and food and tender happiness and frills, a pan, a comb, perhaps a cat"While I am willing to get behind clothes, food, tender happiness, and a comb, I'm not sure what the "frills" are unless that's an antiquated way of saying "diamonds and Marc Jacobs" (in which case, hell yes), but if "frills" has anything to do with doilies, very small buttons, or accessories that would impede my drinking, then that's a big NO.As for a pan and a cat - well, those are just silly.Don't get me wrong, but wasn't L. Ron Hubbard born in the twentieth century? Therefore, I assume he learned to talk pretty much the same way the rest of us did. I mean, it's not like these Scientology texts date back centuries. It seems to me that someone (L. Ron, I mean you) was trying to make himself sound smarter than the rest of us, and doesn't realize that he really comes off as being a bit pretentious and sounding more like the friend you grew up with who picked up a fake accent after a week of watching too much BBC America on extended cable but told everyone else that they "couldn't help it" when they were "exposed to new cultures."I think I might rather go through a silent birth than have to watch an over-priced wedding video of me standing near five or six of my satin-clad friends as I promised to "remember his follies."

Labels: pop culture rantings

Buyer Beware

This evening (yes, this evening, I work late now which is kind of an unsettling phenomenon in my world - especially when it makes me miss my weekly date with Hugh Laurie), I got into an argument with a co-worker as to who has the worse apartment.Apparently, he thought he had me beat because somehow my hardwood floors were such an improvement over his carpeted ones despite my list of complaints that includes an unattractive bricked-in fireplace, textured, brown bathroom walls that actually resemble poop, and a very inconvenient lack of hot water.Luckily, that false sense of victory only lasted until he heard my trump card.As soon as I mentioned the slanting floors - and, by "slanting," I'm talking about a slope that actually prevents me from putting glassware or other valuables on tables or shelves for fear that they will immediately slide off to the floor - he conceded.But, somehow this minor triumph doesn't do a lot for me as I'm sitting in the possibly-in-need-of-condemnation hovel I call home.

Who Knew?

Now, I'll admit that I've never watched "The Game" on the CW. Not only that, I've never wanted to watch "The Game" on the CW. Nothing about a situational comedy based around the lives of the wives and girlfriends of professional football players starring former child actors from other mediocre comedies like "Sister, Sister" and "Sweet Valley High" does it for me.So, you can imagine my surprise when I caught the end credits of "The Game" today (while somewhat impatiently waiting for "Smallville" and my hour-long ogling of Tom Welling to begin) and realized that the executive producer of that show is one highly-respected, Emmy-winning actor by the name of Kelsey Grammer.What bet in hell did he lose?Seriously, if Mr. Grammer is willing to spend his "highest paid sitcom actor in history" dollars on something like that...I've got some stuff I'd like to float by him. My musical loosely based on the life of Britney Spears isn't my only winning notion - I've got a million of them. Why aren't there more serial comedies based around the prison system or probation officers? Chia heads of your favorite celebrities - specifically Napoleon Dynamite? Necklaces that go from silver to gold with a remote control button? Edible safety pins from the dry cleaners? Chairs with adjustable heights? More movie with alternate endings (that you can choose by vote when you're in the theater)? Yet another remake of "The Poseidon Adventure?"Mr. Grammer, when you've got that kind of cash hanging around, I'll be waiting for your call.

Labels: pop culture rantings

Lunch Hour

On Friday, a co-worker and I had lunch at a place called "China Hut," and, as I'm sure you've already figured out, it was indeed a Chinese restaurant.Lunch was good. And, of course, I always love being able to eat soup, an eggroll, some cashew chicken, and fried rice for under $5.00.In fact, my only complaint about the whole experience was how it ended.Truth be told, I love fortune cookies. Obviously, it's not for the taste because we all know that fortune cookies kind of taste like crap and have a truly surprising number of calories for what you're actually getting, but I just love knowing that a new little saying or bit of info is waiting for me. It's the same reason I read my horoscope everyday - it gives me a nice little rush of hope and excitement to think about what might lie ahead. It's not that I think my fortune will come true, but I like thinking about whether or not I'll meet someone that day or week or how much fun I might have that weekend. Plus, the really self-involved part of me likes reading that I am "adored by those who know me" or that my "charm wins many friends." I'll take a compliment from anywhere I can get it and, sadly enough, that even includes inanimate bits of dough.However, when I cracked open my fortune cookie on Friday, I found the following words of wisdom inside: You love Chinese food.What is going on fortune cookie writers!?!? I mean, seriously, I don't care how bad your day was or how burned out you were on scouring google for things that Confucius said - this is just pathetic.First of all, it certainly can't fall under the heading of a "fortune." What am I supposed to do with the fact that I love Chinese food? Look forward to knowing I'll eat more Chinese food at some point in my life? Was I supposed to realize that I didn't just like Chinese food, but I really was ready and willing to take our relationship to the next level and bump our infatuation up to the love stage? (Sure, I can make a commitment like that to burritos, but Chinese food? I just don't know.) I sincerely doubt that my fortune cookie writer put that much time and effort into considering the angle of my fortune, but even if he did, it still sucks.But, perhaps, more importantly, it's not even a stretch. We are definitely in the "stating the obvious" territory. Would I be eating a fortune cookie if I weren't in a Chinese restaurant? No. Would I have driven to the Chinese restaurant if I didn't like Chinese food? Probably not. Would I be willing to put the cardboard-like cookie in my mouth if I was indifferent about the taste of the food? I think not.And, I realize that when I address "fortune cookie writers," I'm probably talking about a soon-to-be-revealed illegal child labor ring or some sort of other horrible third world working condition, but I need a little more thought and creativity in my fortunes. And, isn't any job worth doing, worth doing well? Is this really so much to ask?Let's try a little harder kids. I know you can do better.

Labels: everyday life

Sorry

Well, I wanted to write something really fun today, but I think that my brain is just too tired to think. Life is kind of exhausting when you don't spend most of your time indulging a love of daytime television. Who knew?Also, as we all know, I am not a morning person, and now that I have to keep my showers to under 3 minutes (because otherwise the hot water runs out in my new apartment and I'm in an ice bath), I'm really not a morning person.I worry that my new office mates will be afraid of me because of the stern, obviously displeased look on my face and odd hair style (due to my inability to wash all of the conditioner out my hair before my body goes into convulsions from the cold), and while the facial expression tends to fade after my first Diet Coke, the cowlick is in it for the long haul.