Both Hands

I'm pretty sure Ted Koppel isn't the devil

The more I hear about the furor over Ted Koppel reading the names of over 700 dead service men and women, the angrier I get. What the hell? The idea that this is some sort of message meant to smear the President is absolutely ridiculous. Aren’t these the same folks that were in a panic over the (very highly publicized) death of Pat Tillman? Not that I am attempting to diminish his death in any way; but don’t the less famous troops deserve to be recognized and honored for their service and sacrifice? Every one of those people is Pat Tillman to somebody. Each one of them has friends and family that grieve for them. This is simply censorship at its absolute worst.

I think most people already have an opinion one way or the other on the war in Iraq. I know my personal opinion changes every day, with or without casualties on the nightly news. I don’t need some sort of “TV Nanny� to lord over what I can and cannot watch. As if we don’t know that service people are being killed every day!

I believe that it is crucially important that the people in the US are made uncomfortable by the images and names they see on TV. We need to be reminded of the truth and horror of war and the ripple effect it has on everyone. Please don’t take this as anti-war rhetoric. I firmly believe that war is necessary in some circumstances. But it is never clean and pretty.

So—whether you see this broadcast as propaganda or truth, please take a moment to think about the soldiers overseas. It is far too easy to focus on the start of the baseball season, the heat wave in Southern California, or Michael Jackson’s legal troubles. I, for one, will be making a point to watch and remember.

Just One Of the Perks

I have a galley of David Sedaris' new book Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim.

Just so you know--it's really fucking good.

High five to Meagan-you know who you are-for explaining 500 times to a phone customer why we can't get her out print book. Why? Because it's out of print. So, can I order it? No. Why? Because it's out of print. Oh. So, can I order it?

Meagan, you are my favorite today.

Confessions and Revelations

I can already feel the Wal-Mart post coming back to haunt me, but what is a blog for if not to spout my own political beliefs? However, I would like to add a couple of things. I do this because I was a vegetarian for a few years, and I remember what it felt like to be preached to and looked down upon by stricter vegetarians who felt I was not being "vegetarian enough" at all times.

First, I won't be mad at you if you shop at Wal-Mart. I'd love it if you decide not to, but I know you're doing the best you can, and that's the important thing. You try, you do what you can, and then you just have to let it go. Don't beat yourself up over it.

Secondly, please don't hold it against me if I shop at some large corporations and not others. Just because I dislike Wal-Mart doesn't mean I am on a one-woman crusade to destroy corporate America. I'm just doing the best I can.

In other news--quoted directly from my Chiropractor's brochure:

"On top of being a Chiropractor, [Dr. Chiropractor] is also an accomplished model. He has been featured in national ads representing Audi, Disneyland, Babies R Us, Puma, New Balance, and Nike."

I just...don't know what to say.

Evil In Its Two Most Common Forms

Number One: There is heat wave currently going on in Southern California. Downtown LA broke a 100 year old record high today, reaching a temperature of 102 degrees. San Diego has been a little cooler. I live in the “inland valleys,� so the temp here has been in the upper 90s, and my car said it was 100° yesterday. Since Frinklin and I aren’t millionaires we try to conserve energy when we can. Our air conditioner is set at 80° during the day, but we open the windows and use fans as soon as possible . It is currently warmer in my house than it is outside because my asshole of a neighbor is using the loudest generator on Earth to power his pressure hose and has the most God-awful music cranked to top volume so he can hear it over the generator. Can I just come home from work and have just a little peace and quiet—just once? Especially since it’s TOO GODDAMN HOT TO LEAVE THE WINDOWS CLOSED!

Number Two: I loathe Wal-Mart (said with the same inflection Molly Ringwald gives in Sixteen Candles, “I loathe the bus.�) And this is why.

And don’t come to my with all your “Wal-Mart helps communities� crap. I understand Wal-Mart is willing to go in and “help� underprivileged communities when no other corporations will (by destroying all competition and paying terrible wages). I’ve seen the commercials about how Wal-Mart provides exceptional medical care for one or two needy employees (each year for good PR). I know America is all about the free market and capitalism, and that if people didn’t want Wal-Mart around they simply wouldn’t shop there. But the truth of the matter is that Wal-Mart sucks. It eats communities up and forces not only competitors out of business, but also the manufacturers of their products. And when the resources are gone in the US (or they just can’t drop their prices any lower), Wal-Mart just heads overseas, and rapes the people of various other countries.

I’m not saying I haven’t shopped at Wal-Mart a few times in my life. Most people have. But I haven’t shopped there in well over a year, and I don’t plan to ever again. If you’re interested in stopping Wal-Mart, I highly recommend you check out How Wal-Mart is destroying America (and the World) And What You Can Do About It by Bill Quinn (the irony of linking to the Borders/Amazon.com page does not escape me).

My greatest convert so far—my 12 year old sister. When she received a $10 gift card to Wal-Mart from my Uncle and Aunt (that whole side of the family is a story for another time) she proudly marched into our local Wal-Mart and asked them to cash it out. When asked by the manager why she wanted the cash, she responded, “Because Wal-Mart is the devil.�

I love her.

Ya Try To Do a Good Deed--Part Two

We ate the Wendy’s rather quickly, and decide to contact Animal Control about New Dog. I called, and worked on negotiating the eight-gazillion voice activated prompts:

“What is your name?�

“Ensie�

“I think you said ‘Einseee,’ is that correct?�

“Kinda�

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand you, please repeat your answer.�

“Yes.�

“I think you said ‘yes,’ is that correct?�

All in that ever-so-pleasant animatronic voice. I finally was able to get through to a real person. She wanted to know what the dog looked like? Did he have a collar and tags? Could I get close enough to read them? Is the dog vicious? And on, and on, and on. I was able to get out the door, read the license number off New Dog’s tag and get back inside without incident. I thought at this point they would send one of those trucks with the compartments on the side. Probably one with extra-extra-large compartments, as New Dog was the biggest dog I’d ever seen. I hoped it would be air-conditioned. It was hot outside.

She threw me a curve by asking if I knew where Parachute Lane was. Nope, I didn’t, when would they be sending the truck, please? Her response sank my hopes for having a relaxing rest of the day.

“Oh, no. We aren’t sending a truck. The dog’s name is Lucky and here’s the name and phone number of his owners. They live on Parachute Lane. Did you write that down? Good. Bye.�

Gee. Thanks for all your help! (just a touch of sarcasm there)

So, I called Julie and Daniel to let them know their dog had come visiting and that they needed to hurry over and pick him up.

2:30pm: first message left with Julie and Daniel.

After hanging up the phone, I noted that Lucky could use some water. He was a large, black, extremely hairy dog, and he seemed to be panting quite a bit. This leads to the screaming.

Being a good husband, Frinklin had sneaked into the backyard via the side gate and gave water to the thirsty beast. Lucky was very happy to see Frinklin, and wouldn’t let him leave through the now un-secret side gate. Thinking we had learned from our earlier experiences with Lucky and doors, we prepared to fight off Lucky when he attempted to visit the interior of our abode. Do you know what it feels like to literally be mowed down by a large, black, extremely hair dog? I do.

While Lucky continued his earlier exploration of our house, The Jeffrey voiced his displeasure at full volume as I clung to his collar for all I was worth(I want to pause for a moment give credit to Bison Designs for making an excellent product). The thought of having to explain to Julie and Daniel exactly how their dog was killed flashed through my mind several times. And finally, as I said, the screaming:

Frinklin is running through the house chasing Lucky. I am yelling, “Close the door! No-the other door! Grab him! Get him in the garage!� After the longest 30 seconds of my life, Lucky is back behind the fire-proof garage door, and is attached to a leash and a one hundred year old, 300 lb. Oak desk, just to be on the safe side. The screaming continued for a few moments longer.

2:38pm: second message left with Julie and Daniel

We don’t open the garage door again.

5:00pm: third message left with Julie and Daniel.

At 7pm we fed our dogs, as well as Lucky.

After 10pm, we pretty much figured Julie and Daniel weren’t calling and gave Lucky a bed of old comforters to sleep on. We settled in to watch what promised to be the best battle on Iron Chef America: Batali vs. Morimoto.

11:47pm: The phone rings.

It’s Julie! And she’s concerned that we might have her dog, Lucky? He’s a runner and often gets away, although he usually comes home soon after. Why didn’t we let him go? She was so upset she couldn’t sleep, and then she realized that they had messages. She would be right over to collect him.

She was right over. Turns out Parachute Lane is only 3 or 4 blocks from our house. She unclipped our leash and he leaped into her car. Julie shook our hands and told us exactly where she lived, although she didn’t offer a word of thanks, or a single apology for calling so late.

I patted Lucky on the head and said goodbye. Even with all his door crashing, he’s one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever met. Can’t say such things about my own dog, who still doesn’t fully believe that the bear still isn’t out in our garage, waiting in hiding for him.

And Julie—you’re welcome!

Ya Try To Do a Good Deed--Part One

We found a stray dog yesterday. Frinklin was coming home from Wendy’s with my Chicken Strips (aka manna from Heaven), and this giant black bear tried to grab them and run when he opened the car door. Turns out it wasn’t a bear, but a gigantor dog; a Newfoundland, to be exact. If you are unfamiliar, please take a moment here, to familiarize yourself.

While Frinklin was outside wrestling with the beast, I was blissfully unaware. We had just returned home from Dog Beach with our own canine family members, and I was checking out new tan lines, keeping the freshly washed dogs off the bed, etc. I was busy.

Then the Jeffrey heard our truck door slam outside, and, as it does anytime one of us returns from anywhere (even the front yard), all hell broke loose. Dogs were leaping and barking, birds began shrieking. But we’re pretty much used to it, and one well timed “SHUT UP!� usually quiets down at least the birds. I corralled The Jeffrey and cracked open the front door to let Frinklin in.

My loving husband greeted me with screams of, “Close the door!! Close it!!� Lest The Jeffrey see that there was a large bear on his territory and go ape shit. Too late. I did get the door closed, but The Jeffrey had seen, and our day went to Crap City.

On the inside of the house, I’m clinging to The Jeffrey’s collar, trying to keep him from peeking out the window, thus sparking a new volley of pissed off, territorial barking. On the outside, Frinklin is chasing the new dog, holding out French fries to entice it closer. He finally wrangles new dog into the garage and assesses that new dog has a collar and license, but no other identifying tags. And on the other side of the door, I release The Jeffrey, as new dog is out of sight.

Then, we do a stupid thing. In an attempt to allow Frinklin into the house, we open the door between the garage and the house. While this has proved relatively harmless in the past with our 70 lb. dogs, when a 130 lb. Newfoundland wants to come in, he just shoves your legs out of the way and comes on in! The Jeffrey, who was already very much not pleased, is now raging at the end of my arm, spitting foam and hatred at this intruder who dare tread upon his kitchen tile! Fortunately, instead of lunging for my crazed dog, new dog calmly checks out the house and seems interested in climbing onto the couch for a nap. We bribe him into the backyard with dog biscuits and fasten The Jeffrey to the couch with a tie down approximately two feet long.

At this point, I have obtained a war wound approximately 4 inches long that is merrily bleeding. It’s on the top of my foot; a reminder that I have been lax about cutting The Jeffrey’s claws, which have now turned into cruel talons. With one dog attached to the couch, and another scratching at the screen door, we collapse upon the sofa and eat our hard won Wendy’s.

End of part one.

Why?

Are you familiar with PowerStripe deoderant? It's not a brand, but a new trend in the deoderant industry (which I'm starting to believe I have a freaky obsession with).

Anyway, PowerStripe (one word, of course) deoderant is pretty much your old deoderant (and possibly even anit-persperant, who knows how far this could go?) with a strip of super deoderant through the middle of it. PowerStrip deoderant is constantly marketed as the best deoderant ever!!, and our strongest deoderant ever!!.

My question is, if this is the best protection from odor and wetness you can get!!, why don't they just make the whole stick o' deoderant out of the PowerStripe stuff? I mean, is it just so powerful that if they made a whole stick out of PowerStripe material, would it suck all the moisture from your body through your armpits or something?

The Best Quiz ever!

Which Princess Bride Character are You?
this quiz was made by mysti

And...if are a retail slave, or have ever been one...check out Practical Penumbra. She's hosting a stupid customer story contest. Good luck beating me!

Lastly, for those who wish to view the horrible Axe Deoderant ad I wrote about earlier, here it is:
Thanks L!

You can read my thoughts on the ad here. Enjoy your nightmares!

Challenges

There are a few things in life that appear difficult to me. Now, I’m not saying that I can’t do these things, or that they really are hard to do—they just look complex from where I’m standing; which is inside my house with my windows closed and doors locked. Most of the time, I patiently take the long road around any obstacles that block the life-path I’m traveling down. I like my life relatively safe. Things I’ve managed to avoid so far:

· Taking over payments on my life insurance policy my Dad took out on me when I was 9

· Planning my wedding

· Traveling outside of North America

However, there are times in life when you are forced to do what you don’t want to. You must embrace the unfamiliar, and travel the darker paths. In the past few years I’ve done what I never thought I could do:

· Bought a cell phone and negotiated for the best deal

· Bought a slightly used car and negotiated for a really crappy deal (but I still love my car!)

· Went on a business trip to another state, where it snowed the entire time--forgive me--I’m born and raised in San Diego

While the above accomplished feats may not be so exciting to you, they were outside my comfort zone. Now, I’ve traveled into another area that I’m unfamiliar with: I’m married, and I have to change my stinkin’ last name.

While the last name change has gone surprisingly smooth so far, I can see it’s going to get a little bumpy from here on in. All smiles and newlywed excitement the weekend we did the deed, Frinklin and I emailed and called all of our credit card companies (many, many, many credit card companies) and were shocked at the lack of verification needed to change the last name on a credit card.

“Oh, you got married?�

“Yes.�

“Great, just tell me your new last name and we’ll put the card in the mail.�

Considering how willing credit card companies are to hand out free money to college students, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Plus, I’m sure I’m not the first person to get married and change her last name. But it’s new to me, OK?

While credit cards are all well and good (so good, and soooo evil), a new bride doesn’t officially switch over until the DMV and the Social Security office have been notified. And to officially notify these offices, one must complete official forms. Which requires appointment making. At the DMV. Did I mention I have to go to the DMV? Ugh. I tried to run in and out of the DMV a week or two ago. I forgot that there is no running in and out of the DMV. Especially since forms must be completed. And money must be paid (WTF?). So now I have to wait a whole month for my appointment at the DMV.

The Social Security office, while probably just as fun as the DMV, was much nicer (and quicker!) on the phone, so they’re already ahead in my book. They mail out forms to you and note that it only take a few minutes to get a new Social Security card issued.

For someone who sees each day as a series of hurdles, getting your last name changed is almost the Olympics of daily life. Thank you, Social Security office, for easing my fears as I slide gently into married life.

And screw you, DMV.

Thanks Axe!

I have a bone to pick with Axe Anti-Perspirant & Deodorant. I never really cared about Axe before. Their commercials were mildly irritating, sometimes almost funny, and I got along without giving too much thought to Axe, and how it related to me.

Now it has invaded my thoughts for far too long, and I can’t stop thinking about their creepy new print ad that made me throw my Rolling Stone across the room.

I searched and searched for an online version of the new Axe ad, because, while my description will give you an adequate vision of the ad, you really have to see it to be fully creeped out by it. If you’re near a Rolling Stone magazine (with Uma and Quentin on the cover), check out page 43 and you’re on it.

Picture, if you will, a romantic scene. A beautiful woman in a black dress sits in a gondola, holding a glass of red wine. City lights reflect in the water behind her. The beautiful woman is leaning into her date, closing her eyes in ecstasy? contentment? relaxation?

Or possibly her eyes are closed because her date is an armpit--literally. A naked, hairy armpit, complete with stubby, knee-less legs, feet, and even (gross) toes. Three on each foot. The tag line on the ad is “dry pits win�. So she’s dating the pit itself? Like she’s so hot for the pit that she said, “Screw the guy—I just want to hump his pit?� (with feet!)

And the hair. Really, people, could the pit look anymore like pussy if it tried? Before I noticed the tag line I thought that’s what it was!

Are you getting the picture? Do you see why this disturbs me? I’m thinking the next thing I type needs to be a letter to Axe asking them to make it go away (for the love of God!)

If the damage wasn’t already done, I’ve been staring at this picture as I type. Great. Can’t wait to go to sleep tonight. Just one more hellish subconscious image to choose from. Thanks Axe!

***Note--You can now see the ad here***

Unexplainable

The Viking Kittens are so way better than the Quiznos, uh, things.

What It All Boils Down To

Hm. Even with the hump I'm worth exactly $1,371,040.00. I love that it's exact.

Check out how much you're worth at Human For Sale.

Humpy

Yep, that’s what I am…humpy. And sooo not in a sexual way.

Let me explain…

So, through my fabulous business contacts, I was the lucky recipient of a free consultation with a new chiropractic office in town. I grudgingly made the appointment for last Wednesday, expecting to cancel the day before, tell them I’d call and make another appointment in the future, and then never call (yes, this was a mean plan, but what can I say? I was busy that day. If you continue to read, you’ll note that God has already begun to punish me).

For whatever fateful reason, I show up at the chiropractor’s office, as scheduled, and then feel really bad for even thinking about canceling. My soon-to-be chiropractor meets me at the door, welcoming me and thanking me profusely for coming. His practice is brand new and I’m sure he has a lot of doctor-related student loans to pay off, so he needs every patient he can get.

I read through a few pamphlets as Doc checks out my insurance card, and am ushered into his office. We chat about general health and how my family carries the genes for every major health disaster known (and probably some unknown). I get weighed (always a pleasure) and measured, and then I stand for the actual chiropractic part of the evaluation.

Doc notes immediately that I have bad posture. I am already well aware of this fact, as my mom spent most of my adolescent life telling me that I had bad posture on a continuous loop. Just as I was settling in for a chat about how I need to strengthen my stomach muscles to help my lower back, I hear two words that I will never forget: Dowager’s Hump.

Apparently, while I was zoning out Doc’s posture lecture, he was noting that my spine has begun to curve abnormally in between my shoulder blades. Are you all familiar with Dowager’s Hump? If not, please quickly check this out…and then imagine that you are 27 years old and your doctor just mentioned that you have it! OK, technically, I don’t actually have the full-blown hump (or even the slightest of humps), but even the idea of it is absolutely horrifying. Let me tell ya, there’s nothing like the words “Dowager’s Hump� to put the fear of God in you. I immediately begin listening to everything Dr. Chiropractor is telling me. I am first in line when he mentions that he can do X-Rays to check how far along my hump is. After the X-ray session ends, we make an appointment for the next day (today) so he can assess my bones. I’m sure he mentions some other things, but the word “hump� continues to repeat as I watch his lips move.

---Next Day---

I arrive at Doc’s office early this morning and am immediately brought into his office. We look at all the (bad) curves in my back, and he notes that the curvature of the hump is not severe, and it can be corrected with regular chiropractic care (of course), but that he’s found something else that is more important.

What could be more important than a huge hump on my back?

Apparently, although not as aesthetically important as a hump, having one hip 15 millimeters higher than the other is overall, physically more important. So, not only am I humpy, my off-kilter hips will eventually cause me to be gimpy. Terrific! I am so stoked I agreed to this free consultation that has now become my own personal hell!

“Fortunately,� Doctor Chiropractor says, “We can put a lift in your shoe to help correct the problem.� Oh, great! I’m equally horrified and pleased at the idea of large, thick-soled orthopedic shoes. I’ve always had a weird thing for clunky shoes. Looks like God heard my prayers—a warning to be careful what you ask for.

After being sufficiently cautioned by the doctor that without proper chiropractic care and supervised (can I not be trusted?) exercises, I could end up with a false hip at 35, I agree to come in for regular visits. Lucky me, he has time to do my first adjustment right now!

I shut my eyes when he brings out a strange gun-shaped object that thrusts back and forth “to move your discs.� To be honest, it isn’t that bad. I only hear my spine crack once, and it feels as though my backbone is being gently stretched. I’m only slightly bothered by Doc noting, “Future sessions will be a lot stronger, this is the first setting.�

Wish me luck on my next visit—bright and early Monday morning. In the meantime, just call me “Quasimodo�.

Awkward

Don’t you hate when things get…awkward? I’m not great in social situations as it is, let alone when I’m being inappropriately hit upon. Or not. Please read the below story and let me know if “Shirley� is, in fact, hitting on me.

I had a business meeting today that I completely forgot about while getting dressed for work this morning. Since I was planning on spending my day among various boxes and paperwork I was wearing the usual uniform--jeans and T-shirt. I was not prepared when Shirley called to remind me of the meeting, and asked if I was OK with taking some photographs as well? I think I managed to keep the panic from my voice as I assessed my old jeans and dust covered shirt.

I was smooth in my reply, “Oh, yeeeaaah, I completely forgot about the meeting and am rather dressed down today.� Shirley responded by explaining that she was wearing a black suit and would I like her to bring something for me to wear? Weird moment number one. (A little background info here: I’ve known Shirley for about a month. We’ve met twice in various meetings and I’ve had one (weird) phone call with her. She’s at least 15 - 20 years older than I, and I have not initiated any contact with her outside of structured business meetings)

I responded by telling her I would be able to find clothes on my own, “…but, uh, thanks for the offer…�

Since I live at least an hour drive from my workplace, I decided a quick trip to the mall was in order. Sales associates avoided me as I manically searched through racks of professional-looking clothes. Once I decided on my new outfit, I paid and asked if I could change in the dressing room. Bless the folks at Lane Bryant, they didn’t even look at me funny as I gnawed the tags off my new blouse and slacks.

Professional clothing never being as comfortable as jeans and a T-shirt, I arrived at my meeting on time, but sweating from the phone booth style change. I certainly didn’t feel very attractive, but at least I was presentable. Now comes the weird part; I entered the meeting location and spotted Shirley carrying flowers. Hello? I approached her and held out my hand for her to shake. She grasped my hand and pulled me in for a hug/kiss on the cheek. Weird moment number two. It didn’t help that I wasn’t prepared for this, so it didn’t come off very smoothly.

Then she gave me the flowers. Weird moment number three. I thanked her and was at a complete loss as to what else I should say at that moment. I suggested we get our photo shoot over with. She responded with, “You look really beautiful. Really nice.� I tried to play it off by explaining my panicked shopping trip, but she kept repeating, “…really pretty…� My weird-o-meter was pretty much shooting off the scale.

We finally got our pictures taken (“can you two get a little closer? Great…�) and finished the rest of the business deal without incident.

I fled the moment it was clear. “Niceseeingyouagainhopetoseeyouagainsoonbye�

The best part is that she left me a voice mail shortly thereafter letting me know she would stop by next week to say hi and “touch base.�

I can’t wait.

I'm OK, You're OK

God, I can’t wait for the season premier of Six Feet Under.

But, until then…

I’ve become aware that I am lacking a satisfactory label for myself. I know my husband is a “nerd�, and The Jeffrey is a “freak�, but I’m torn when it comes to myself, and especially my sexuality. If I list enough adjectives and identifying traits can the great label-maker in the sky help me out?

I came across a post on DykeWrite.com titled What Makes A Lesbian?. I was curious to find out what makes a lesbian, as I usually identify myself as such, except for that whole married to a man thing. This particular post says that self-identity as a lesbian isn’t enough, and that lesbians are really only lesbians when they serve the gay community politically. The author of the post notes that “Solidarity is essential to the continuation of the lesbian community.� Hm. Well, I self-identify as a lesbian, and I’m still active in the gay community (as much as I ever was when I was dating women exclusively), and I’m married to a man. What does that make me?

Some facts about me:

· I dated women exclusively for 7+ years

· I have a rainbow sticker on one of my cars

· I love The L Word

· I subscribe to the Lesbian Connection

· I got to the local gay pride celebration every year

· I check out women with my husband (not in a threesome possibility way, but in a “hey, she is hot!� way)

· My chosen life partner has a penis

Now, a lot of people would whip out their pointer-fingers and declare me a bisexual, or a hasbien (shudder), except that I don’t feel like I’m bisexual, and I still find women attractive. I’ve always felt closer to women and connected best with women (well, to be fair, I’ve always connected well with gay men, too). At what time is my lesbian status revoked? I’d really like to know. It’s starting to stress me out. Do I need to officially declare my change of status? Like when I change my last name at the DMV?

If you know what I am, and what I should refer to myself as, could you please let me know? Until that time, I will continue to identify myself as I always have. “Me.�

Excuse me now; I have to go catch the season finale of The L Word. And heads up--Queer As Folk starts next week!

A Most Random Post

First—another thank you, this time to eva-lon for listing me as a favorite.

Secondly, thanks to BUST magazine for putting me into their girl-wide-web. I'm a big BUST fan and am proud to be listed.

It’s been a rough week in Ensie-land. I’ve been working late all week and the Daylight Saving time change is messing with my circadian rhythm. I feel like I lost more than an hour this week. I don’t fall asleep or stay asleep easily most of the time, is there really a reason for screwing with my body like this? Apparently there are several reasons.

Some strange facts about Daylight Saving Time from the WebExhibits Daylight Saving Time page:

· Daylight Saving Time saves energy

· Daylight Saving Time saves lives and prevents traffic injuries

· Daylight Saving Time prevents crime

· Indiana, Hawaii, and Arizona do not switch to Daylight Savings Time

How incredibly random. But don’t you feel better now that you know? I certainly do.

Now for something completely different--In honor of Easter, check out this bunny cartoon. It’s highly worth it.

And in the spirit of including random links, check this out.

In other news, I picked up my brand-spankin’ new marriage license today. Then I thought I’d try my luck at the DMV and get my last name officially changed. As soon as I walked into the DMV office, I knew I had made a mistake. The “no appointment� line was at least 25 people long. While I won’t go into some sort of rehashed comedy routine about the DMV and their idiotically slow line system, I feel like I have to say something. So, I’ll just say, “pygmies�. See the movie Matchstick Men and you’ll understand. My last name is still in its maiden form, and will remain so until I am proactive enough to make an actual appointment to get it changed.

Speaking of movies, I saw The Girl Next Door today. It was surprisingly good. A bit choppy, not something I’d recommend spending full price on, but good for a matinee. It made me think of 80s teen movies a la Sixteen Candles and Risky Business. Please note that when I say that it made me think of 80s teen movies, I don’t mean to imply that it is anywhere near as good as Sixteen Candles and/or Risky Business.

Closing out tonight's blogging—send kind thoughts out to my mom. She inherited my late grandmother’s dog a few years ago and had to put her to sleep yesterday. Suzie, aka Adventure Dog, had chased a rattlesnake out of the backyard. While bravely defending her house, this 8 lb. Miniature Doxie took a snakebite to the nose, and the vet recommended putting her to sleep as opposed to going through a grueling routine of anti-venom and blood transfusions. Hope Suzie is having a good time sitting in Nana’s lap again.

Lots of thing are evil, especially puppies

(on a side note, this is the second time I've posted this, the orginal one disappeared from the page...weird)

OK, time to get rolling on a new entry. First though—thanks to ensvnskitiger for listing me as a favorite. You rock. I actually did a happy dance and ran into the other room to high five my hubby. I feel famous. And if anyone ever mentions this in my presence, I will completely deny it all.

It’s time to mention The Jeffrey. If you’ve checked out Frinklin’s blog, you can get the story of how we got The Jeffrey. I’ll summarize it here: Blah, blah…25th birthday…blah, blah…stopped to buy cat food…blah, blah…puppy adoption day at PetSmart. Need I say more? You animal people know how it is. You see the big eyes, notice the giant bat-wing ears (in this case)—once you see the bulging little puppy tummy and smell that puppy breath, it’s over. To make the picture of this 12 pound bundle of scraggly hair complete, the adoption organization, Baja Animal Sanctuary, had found him at the Tijuana dog pound just a few weeks earlier, where dogs are given three days to be rescued or they’re electrocuted(!!!) How could we pass up a story like that? Well, we didn’t.

We’ll forget the part of the story where both Frinklin and I lived in apartment complexes that didn’t accept dogs, or that I was a student and working, and that we lived 70 miles apart at the time and did a lot of traveling. Both Frinklin and I fell in love with The Jeffrey, and we told ourselves that it would all work out in the end. We did convince my apartment complex to let us keep him, and when I say “convinced� I mean “used my knowledge of various obscure laws to get his waggy butt in the door�. I also managed to bribe my (ever so generous and lovely) sister to come and take care of the new baby during my working and schooling hours. The Jeffrey learned to love the car, and kept me company on the lonely drives up and down the Southern California coast. He never did learn to enjoy our visits to the train station, and peed all over Frinklin the first time he rode down to visit us. We’ll never know for sure if it was because the large, loud train overwhelmed his little puppy brain, or that he was just really excited to see his dad. He was so dang cute, we would do anything for him.

That trend has continued to this day. Our mangy (we found out a month and several medicated bath later) little fur person is now 70 pounds of very large pit bull mix. He sleeps at the foot of our bed, and when I say “foot� I mean “under the covers and stretched out to cover the maximum square footage of the bottom half of the bed�. He tortures our previously pampered feline family members. He has contests with our Amazon parrot, Chicken; Jeffrey barks, Chicken screams, repeat 500 times per day. We have changed his food several times at the advice of our vet, hoping to find one that doesn’t cause his stomach to erupt out his back end in a wave of noxious fumes that are used to power those new Daisycutter bombs—his gas sucks the very air you breath from the room. Not a day goes by that I don’t lose some possession to The Jeffrey, and when he rips my __________ (choose from the following list: trash can, DVDs, books, CDs, side of the couch, bathtub drain stopper, pillow, various leashes, pens, antique chair from my late grandmother’s house, underwear, socks, many remote controls, etc.) apart, he does it for the sheer joy of destruction, he never eats any of it.

He’s just a weird dog.

That’s not to say that we haven’t attempted to fix his quirks. We’ve purchased clickers, spray bottles, a muzzle, and couple of anti-bark collars to in an attempt to mend his ways. Each one of these behavior correction devices met its doom on the jagged molars of The Jeffrey.

All this is not to say that The Jeffrey isn’t smart. He knows all his doggie commands. His butt hits the floor the second I point at him. He lies down and rolls over when I flick my eyes a certain direction. He shakes both paws quite happily. He can give the perfect impression of a Canine Good Citizen , as long as no one is watching.

As bad as he can be, one moment of having him trustfully climb up next to me on the couch and relax into a puddle of snoring brindle warmth reminds me why we adopted him in the first place.

I just have to remember that when I’m picking up shredded pieces of (yet another) paper bag distributed over the entire house in a fit of destructive glee.

These are the people in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neigh-bor-ho-ood

So proud of Frinklin (aka Mr. Ensie) for getting invited into the inner sanctums of the Mariner blogosphere. He's all about the M's (well, that and various other highly-nerdy activities). Now he has someone (acutally, many someones) to play with on the internet. Yay!

One thing I've been wondering about--how alarmed should I be that my neighbors accross the street put their trash cans out today and all I can see are empty cases of beer overflowing onto the sidewalk? It's only been 6 days since the trash was last picked up! As far as I know just one (apperently alcoholic) divorced woman and her 19 year old daughter live there. I must admit I haven't introduced myself and I'm rather afraid to. Lets give them the benefit of the doubt and say that the 19 year old is not drinking (so likely). Four cases is a hell of a lot of beer to go through. Especially Bud Light. Ew.

I heard through the neighborhood gossip chain that their (really large) house is the result of a civil lawsuit settlement resulting from her ex-husband choking her ("She actually died and came back!") and leaving her for dead. Apparently she recovered, sued the pants off her ex, and decided take up residence on my crazy-ass street.

Other strange neighborhood facts: Our next-door-neighbors (not the dog chopping) ones, are morticians. Their car license plate frames read "Embalmers are God's gift-wrappers".

This neighborhood is turning into some sort of freakshow. If I see the Mystery Machine parked on the corner I'm staying the night at my parent's place.

Julia Stiles-Centric Universe

It's been a hellish weekend, so I haven't had time to really sit down and blog to my heart's content. Saw a really bad movie on Friday, The Prince and Me. Wouldn't recommend it. Damn, I really like Julia Stiles, too. Although I can't really condone websites that are this obsessed. I mean, I'm not Ms. Newsie-News, but I like to know what's happening in the world-at-large before I find out how that news is related to Julia Stiles.

Whatever.

Just want to give big ups to he (she?) who controls Diaryland as well. Thanks for answering my questions! Now I can continue to blog in style.

Does the sign on my forehead say "IDIOTS LINE UP HERE"?

God, I hate stupid people. And they’re freakin’ everywhere. Sometimes I think they’re following me. You’ll notice that I work in a retail environment, and that many of the stupid people I come across are customers. Examples of recent stupidity:

At home this afternoon--

Neighbor stupidity: “Is my trailer blocking your driveway? Did you want to park now?� (see previous entry for more trailer information and irritation)

Me: “No, no. It’s just MY driveway. It’s fine! I’ll park a few blocks away.� (note the sarcasm in my voice as I continued to wait until he finally moved!)

At work--

Customer stupidity: “Is my order in yet?�

Me: “Not yet…remember three days ago when I said your order would be here in 7 to 10 business days?�

Checking the messages--

Answering Machine stupidity: (left earlier today, caller ID shows that this person has called 5 times in the last two days and left one message) “Hi, um, this is 5-S Communications, please call me back.�

Me: (I called back, curious as to why they keep calling and leaving weirdly anonymous messages) “Yes, you called me and left a message?�

5-S Communications(?): Oh, hi, do you have computer keyboards for sale?�

Me: “I’m sorry, who is this?�

5-S Communications: “Oh, I think I have the wrong number.�

Me: “Uh yeah. You may have noticed that our message says ‘Hi, you’ve reached Ensie and Frinklin, leave a message’, not ‘Random Computer Parts Store’. Please stop calling.�

At work, again—

Customer Stupidity: “Can I get the extra discount from the sale?�

Answer: “No, that sale actually ended 5 days ago.�

Customer (now irritated): “Yeah, I know, but can I still get the discount?�

Answer: “No.� (hello?)

Stupid customer approaches cash register—

Me: “Hi, I can help you here. Is that going to be all for you today?�

Customer (giving me the “duh� look: “Why would I have come to the cash register if I wasn’t ready to pay? Sheesh!� (He actually said “sheesh�)

I approach cash register at another retail outlet to pay for pajama pants ($10) ON MY BIRTHDAY—

Cashier: “I need to see your ID with your credit card.�

Me (showing driver’s license): “Okay, here you go.�

Cashier: “That’s not you!�

Me: “Uh, yes, it is. I had blue hair for several years. It’s grown out now.�

Cashier (grabbing wallet from my hand): “Are you sure?�

Me (grabbing wallet back): “Yes. I’m sure.�

Cashier (skeptically, the last part muttered under her breath): “Okaaaaay, if you say so.�

Did I mention that this occurred ON MY BIRTHDAY?? Is that even allowed?

This is just the tip of the iceberg. I have weird shit like this happen to me all the time. Do I have some strange magnetic field that makes people react stupidly around me? Or do I just unconsciously seek out the idiots in life? Only time will tell.

Shut the Hell Up and Go Away Already!

I really can’t express how much I hate my neighbors. Actually, how all living beings in our house hate our neighbors (husband, dogs, cats, and birds). It’s 5:45pm on an average Thursday evening, and the headache I began getting at work earlier has now blossomed under a steady diet of loud off road vehicles being driven up and down our street at high speeds. Before you ask if I live on a dirt road in the middle of the desert, let me answer you—no, I don’t. But I do live in a suburb in what used to be a rural part of San Diego, and it’s on the way out to the desert, where all my stinkin’ neighbors go on the weekend (it’s a lot more peaceful then). If you are not familiar with these “Desert Rat� spawns of Satan, let me describe: They’re the guys that wore those obnoxious “Big Johnson� T-Shirts in high school. They went to “The River� in the off-desert season. They drive trucks with 6 tires and decals on the back window reading things like “Dodge--Eatin’ Fords and Shittin’ Chevys!� And now that very truck is parked, towing a giant “toy� trailer, across my driveway, making it extremely difficult to park my own small car. What the hell is that about?

Why do I put up with it? you may ask. We have a (damned expensive) homeowners association made to prevent this sort of thing. Our curbs are painted red to keep people from parking anywhere but their own driveway. My simple answer is: because we are outnumbered. When we moved in we had no idea we were required to own at least one 3-Wheeled vehicle. I must have missed that clause when we signed the papers.

There’s also the question of just how I tell my freaky, often drunk, off roadin’ next door neighbor to shut the hell up and get his giant-ass trailer off my driveway. Was his story told to us shortly after we moved in about how he chopped up a neighbor’s dog (!!!) with an axe true? (Reason: it growled at his mother) I don’t want to find out. Nor do I want to have to check the backyard for dog food laced with arsenic anytime Jeffrey or Matchbox needs to pee. But I fear that my sanity is starting to suffer from the constant noise.

He mentioned last year that they would be moving “next year�. How soon do you think that will be? Tomorrow? The day after? ‘Cause I’m getting tired of waiting.