Both Hands

WSF

People, I have noticed, have varying levels of Weird Shit (aka the Weird Shit Factor, or WSF).

The WSF can be high or low in each individual. I had a roommate once who had an extremely high WSF. Upon moving in, he asked if I would mind if he walked around naked when at home. We worked together and he seemed relatively normal and I didn’t want him to think I was a prude, so I told him I was OK with it. I was a hard-core lesbian at the time, and he was gay, so it certainly wasn’t a sexual thing.

I mostly expected he would be naked in his room, but he was naked ALL THE TIME, ALL OVER THE APARTMENT, and even OUTSIDE OF THE APARTMENT. He would cook naked. He would garden naked on our (admittedly rather secluded) balcony. He would touch furniture with his naked ass. It got to the point where I just referred to his near constant nakedness as “THE NAKED.�

“I went home from work yesterday, walked up the stairs and there was THE NAKED, right there, in front of me.�

“We were getting ready to go clubbing and THE NAKED kept running into my room asking me what to wear.�

“Please let me come over--THE NAKED is everywhere right now. I don’t know where to look. I’ve gotta get out of here.�

Other than THE NAKED, he was a really sweet guy. But high WSF, for sure.

Boycott!

I’m starting my own personal boycott today. I doubt it will do much, as I’m choosing to boycott a local gas station that was just remodeled to accommodate the freakishly large motor homes and trailers (containing various off-road vehicles) that travel through my hometown on their way out to the desert quite frequently. However, I will be steadfast in my avoidance of my local MOBIL (that’s right—I’m not afraid to name names!).

I’m boycotting said gas station for their refusal to adhere to California law. This law, which I never knew about before today, will be the basis for my boycott. My adventures with low tire pressure this morning will help to better emphasize why this law is, suddenly, so important to me.

I was running late this morning, as usual. But I was also driving the truck to work today, which is rather unusual. I managed to make it outside of the house by 8:15 (15 minutes behind schedule), and noted that at least three of the four truck tires seemed to be resting a little low to the ground (don’t blame me—I already said I don’t usually drive the truck, ahem). Naively, I thought I would simply stop by my favorite gas station, located a few blocks away, and be wheeling along with full tires again in no time. I was so wrong.

Favorite gas station did have an air pump-thingy (no idea what the technical term is), but the air hose had been ripped out. No problem, I thought, I’ll just swing by the local Exxon station just a few blocks farther away (24 minutes behind schedule). I made my way to the local Exxon, to find it suddenly “UNDER CONSTRUCTION�. No access to air and water. I struggled to maintain my composure, and decided to visit the fancy-schmancy, newly redesigned (and very expensive) gas station on my way out of town (31 minutes behind schedule).

I arrived at the shiny new gas station and located the air pump-thingy. A large sign reading “50¢ FOR AIR� made me realize I had no change on me. I also had no dollars on me. Upon closer inspection, a very small sign could be seen reading, "CALIFORNIA LAW REQUIRES THIS STATION TO PROVIDE FREE AIR AND WATER FOR AUTOMOTIVE PURPOSES TO ITS CUSTOMERS WHO PURCHASE MOTOR VEHICLE FUEL. IF YOU HAVE A COMPLAINT NOTIFY THE STATION ATTENDANT AND/OR CALL THIS TOLL-FREE TELEPHONE NUMBER: 1 (800) ___ ____." I backed the truck away from the air pump-thingy, and reached into my wallet for my handy debit card—and found that I had left it at home. No problem. $2.00 in gas at our current credit card finance charge rate should only work out to $87 or so once we finished paying for it. I fueled up with $2.02 (less than a gallon of gas!!!) and moved my car, once again, to the air pump-thingy (33 minutes behind schedule), and ran into the mini-mart, waving my gas receipt like a banner.

Hopes were dashed moments later during the following conversation with the gas station attendent:

Me: Can you please turn on the air?

She: No.

Me: Why?

She: We don’t have an automatic turn on. You have to pay 50¢.

Me: But, the law…

She: Yeah. The owner doesn’t care. You need to have 50¢.

Me: So I can call the number and file a formal complaint?

She: Yep.

Me: Motherfucker!

She: What?

Me: Nothing! (as I ran toward the door—35 minutes behind schedule).

As I traveled the 24 miles to the next-closest gas station, two dollars and two cents poorer and still wasting valuable dollars driving on poorly inflated tires, I contemplated my next step. How late was I willing to be just for the sake of 18 lbs. (combined) of air?

Apparently, quite a bit later. I pulled into the first gas station (Chevron, for those of you keeping track), and found (FINALLY!) truly FREE air! No purchase required. I pulled up (53 minutes behind schedule) and leaped out, ready to pump air like a madwoman, and found that this particular air pump-thingy was lacking any sort of tire pressure gauge. If you’ve ever pumped air into your tires before, you know that air without a gauge is totally useless. Undaunted, I ran to the mini-mart and purchased (again with the credit card) a $3.00(!!!) tire pressure gauge, muttering under my breath about evil gas stations not adhering to the free air law (and getting weird looks from other gas station customers). I returned to the truck (57 minutes behind schedule), and triumphantly FILLED THE TIRES TO THE PROPER TIRE INFLATION RECOMMENDED FOR MY VEHICLE!

I had finally done it. And I was only one hour and 18 minutes late for work. Goddamn Mobil motherfuckers.

Look for me this weekend. I'll be the one marching back and forth with "BOYCOTT MOBIL" sign.

Poorly written, but at least it's written

Crapadoodle. I think I'm hitting that wall that all of my creative endeavors eventually hit. Since I'be been working such long hours at Bob's Hogs, coming home and having to sit down and blog has felt, well, like having a second job. And, since I'm inherently lazy, I've been neglecting my baby blog.

However, I promise to continue to blog, if at least a few of you continue to read. This story is dedicated to my friends Katie and Kyla, who reminded me of it while discussing their upcoming move to Colorado and the state of the house they are moving out of (messy!):

I was robbed on Christmas Day. Actually, Frinklin and I were robbed on Christmas Day, 2001. We were living in our crappy two bedroom apartment, located just a few blocks from where we currently live, and infuriatingly, just days before we were scheduled to move into our shiny new house. We had packed most of our belongings into large boxes that were stacked over much of the (limited) floor space.

The morning of December 25th Frinklin, The Jeffrey, and myself awoke early, as we had much cooking to do before heading to my parent’s house a few miles away. As the potatoes boiled, we opened our own presents and carried several bags of unopened gifts out to our truck for the trip across town. We went through our usual routine (plus some additional searching for last-minute items that had accidentally already been packed) and finished getting ready to leave. Just as we were walking out the door, Frinklin asked if he would need to carry his keys with him. After discussing it momentarily, we left his keys on the nightstand, as I would have both car and house keys for the day.

The Jeffrey thoroughly enjoyed his first Christmas with the entire family. He was remarkably well behaved, and we were all in a festive mood (receiving gift checks always does that to me) upon our return to the crappy apartment. We carted our new boxes and bags into the living room, and proceeded to turn on the light. I noticed that our cats had opened the kitchen cabinet where their food was stored, and I fed them while Frinklin made a second trip to the car.

And then we noticed. The sliding-glass-door was wide open and so were ALL of our cupboards, cabinets, and drawers. The Jeffrey wasn’t going crazy, so we knew there was no one in our house, but KNOWING someone had been INSIDE while we were gone—that sucked any feeling of safeness right out of that place. We noticed other things; the couch had been pulled one foot away from the wall, the mattress had been turned over, our clothes were pulled from the drawers, and my entire jewelry box had been stolen. The jewelry really killed me, as it was almost completely costume jewelry and items that had been hand-made for me by various friends. The only things of real monetary value were earrings and a beautiful Celtic bracelet my parents had purchased for me on their trip to Ireland earlier that year.

The strangest thing we noted as we called the police—not a single electronic item had been touched. We had a brand-new DVD player, along with several UNOPENED DVDs that had been left. The cop said it was probably kids who had left as we pulled into our parking spot. I have one thing to say—those kids were extremely lucky that we took The Jeffrey with us that day. He is one hell of a guard dog, and has no qualms about biting into any strangers with his pit-bull mix jaws.

And the keys! The keys! They were gone. A copy of our house key AND the truck both wandering the streets. We spent a very restless night in our apartment. We contacted locksmiths to change our locks immediately after our sad one to two hours of sleep that night.

The worst part of the whole thing—when we received the police report a few weeks later, the officer had noted, “Victims did not immediately realize that they had been robbed, due to the EXTREMELY MESSY state of the apartment.� Way to add insult to injury there.

Hey--Reality DOES Bite!

It really sucks to be poor. I mean, it really sucks. Now, I know I’m not living under a bridge strumming a 3-stringed guitar for pocket change. I’m speaking more about your run-of-the-mill poor—employed (often in retail), able to pay for life’s necessities, and usually able to pay all the bills (although some juggling may be required).

I hate that I can’t just go out and buy what I want. I’m not looking to purchase a yacht, I just want to be able to live without money-related panic attacks a few times each week. Currently we pay the following bills each month:

1. Cable Internet Access

2. Digital Cable

3. Phone

4. Electricity

5. Propane

6. Ensie’s student loan payment (good planning on my part—7 years of schoolin’ and debt and no degree yet!)

7. Car payment (from Hell)

8. Chiropractor

9. Car Insurance

10. Rent

11. Frinklin’s Cell Phone

12. Credit Card 1

13. Credit Card 2

14. Credit Card 3

That’s a fuck of a lot of bills. That doesn’t even include things like (the ever-rising cost of Southern California) gas, car maintenance, pet food, groceries, etc, etc, etc…the list goes on and on.

I decided some time ago that I just need to win the lottery. That’s all there is to it. Just one time. I’m not greedy. I don’t even need to win PowerBall. Just the state lottery would do it for me.

I know the odds of winning aren’t good, especially since I have to weigh the two arguments constantly going on in my head as I fill out the QuickPik bubble on the CA Lottery form. One side of my brain truly believes that I will win the lottery. I begin to dream about the things I will purchase, about quitting my job to stay home with my future children all day, of the friends I will gift with financial security. Just as I’m getting comfortable living in my dreams, a loud voice interrupts, The Lottery is just a tax on the Stupid! Don’t you KNOW the ODDS of WINNING the lottery?! Why did you waste a dollar for something that will never happen?�

Damn reality.

Addiction Is Never Pretty

I spend a lot of time writing about frivilous things that aren’t necessarily important to the world at large. And hey—it’s my blog, I paid for the Gold Membership (a good deal, by the way!), so I can use it as I see fit! But now, I feel it is my duty to address an issue that is effecting not just myself and my household, but others, as well. This issue facing us all—Caramel Hershey’s Kisses®.

If you have tried them, you know. Their power is overwhelming. No other Kiss ever had the power to make me eat a single bag in one sitting. Their little flags point directly at me, no longer reading “CARAMEL,� but instead “EAT ME!�

Even The Jeffrey could not resist their pull. After purchasing a new bag yesterday, I dropped it onto the kitchen counter while changing clothes. I left the room for approximately 14 seconds and when I returned, I saw the carnage: bag open, kisses strewn across the floor, The Jeffrey happily chewing. As I picked the foil from his teeth I reminded him that he is (contrary to his own belief) a dog, and that dogs MUST NOT EAT CHOCOLATE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? as it is poisonous and we lack the funds to pay for vet bills currently. Plus, this bag of Kisses was for Frinklin, and every Kiss that The Jeffrey ate was one I would not get to steal. Then again, I could blame it all on the dog, “I’m so sorry Honey, he ate them all! I was so mad. And these were all for you!� (you can see that honesty is the center-point of our marriage).

Instead, I collected the Kisses, eating just a few, and waited, panicky and Gollum-like, for Frinklin to arrive home from work. Eventually he did, and we feasted on a few Caramel Kisses together. I instructed him to hide the bag from me if he wished to eat any later. I covered my eyes, and the bag disappeared. But that didn’t mean I didn’t stop thinking about them.

And now, this morning, I type out my story with a guilty conscience and I think about how lucky I am to have a husband who is a crappy chocolate hider. As my fingers move, they gently brush against the empty gold and brown foil of many, many Kisses piled on my desk.

Incoherent Ramblings at the End of the Longest Week Ever

I really do love like my job. I swear, I do. Hand to God. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not totally in love with Fridays. I love Fridays. They rock. I go home. I wash my car. My parents take Frinklin and myself out to dinner for the best Mexican food in the whole wide world (no lie!). And then the best part—I sleep. I sleep until whenever I want to wake up. Which, technically, would be cheating on Friday with Saturday. Whatever. As long as I get to take a break from listening to the phone ring off the damn hook (what the hell people—we have six lines—why are they all ringing at once?!). And I get to take a break from talking, which I’ve done continuously for the last three days while training newbies.

And most importantly, I get to be the customer for a few days, goddamn it. I’m always right.

This is what I'm currently dealing with...

Taken as The Jeffrey paused momentarily while ricocheting off walls and various pieces of furniture.

Cuter Pictures to follow.

No autographs, please

I am the number one and two results for the word "chiropractor" for Google.nl (Netherlands?).

How famous am I?

I know!

Will this month never end?

Oh Lordy, I do love the 11 hour day. Technically, even longer, as I had a chiropractic appointment this morning at 8:30.

I was so looking forward to watching Colonial House, too. Dammit. We of the TiVo-free households must still rely on VCRs. The husband offered to tape it as I drove my 45 minute commute home, but I told him not to bother. That's how apathetic I'm feeling today.

As ericboy told me at Bob's Hogs and Weiner Pigs today, "Today totally sucks." I gotta be honest. It did.

Another movie review--Mean Girls. It was hilarious. We had a girl's day out at the movies yesterday including my Super Christian Mom, my rockin' sister Katie, my 12-year-old sister Nikki, and me. Even with every other word being slut, whore, or bitch, Mom kept on laughing. She did disclaimer it later on though, telling Nikki, "Just because you heard all those words repeatedly today, doesn't mean you are allowed to use them." Nikki looked at me. I looked to the ceiling. I don't know where she would pick that sort of thing up!

Mean Girls had a sort-of "Heathers" feeling. Or so I've been told. I've fallen asleep everytime I've tried to watch Heathers.

Mean Girls gets a Matinee/Full Price review.

I think I'm taking the 13-year-old brother to see Shrek 2 next weekend. What can I say? I'm a movie whore.

Until then, I will continue to struggle through this nightmare of a month that I never seem to be able to get caught up with.

PS-Go Massachusetts Go!

Is Orlando Bloom hott with two "T's" or three?

Frinklin, my 22 year year old sister Katie, and myself went to see Troy yesterday. “Not great but not bad,� was pretty much our collective reaction to it. Not something I have a burning desire to ever see again, but probably worth the $7.00 matinee admission. And it gave Katie and I chance to settle our “Who Is Hotter?� debate—Orlando Bloom or Brad Pitt. Just the random mysteries of attraction at work.

Katie says Brad Pitt, by far. She thinks he’s more manly looking, and I have to admit, he was nicely built for the role. However, his lack of acting ability can push me over the edge, and there was enough bad writing to emphasize that fact very well in places. Plus, his face is just so W-I-D-E. And his bottom lip is so large. It throws his face out of whack—I just don’t see it. I admit he’s handsome, however, he’s completely unattractive to me. And he was just so blond! It was a battle to see who could fade into the sandy background more—Brad Pitt or the (beautiful) woman who played Helen.

I am more of an Orlando Bloom fan. He’s pretty, almost beautiful to behold. His dark hair makes him smolder, as opposed to Brad Pitt’s golden blond washout. I admit he is tall and thin or as Katie says, “He’s so feminine!� Hey—I got no problem with that. He’s hot. And I got to see my Orlando Bloom the way I like him—shootin’ arrows. We ended up with a draw. Agreeing to disagree.

What we both firmly agreed on was that Eric Bana was incredible as Hector. He blew both Orlando and Brad out of the water. I hated The Incredible Hulk, so I was glad to finally have a reason to like Eric. And Sean Bean was very good as Odysseus. Yay Sean Bean! There were even inklings of a possible sequel (as always), which I would happily eat popcorn in front of, were Sean Bean to star.

Now, a quick run down of my rating scale:

· Worth Full Price = Must See. Not just entertaining, but a fine film as well.

· Matinee = Good. More entertaining than anything.

· Rent It = Bad and/or Stupid. Wouldn’t be caught dead seeing it in the theater.

· Cable = So Bad I Can’t Be Bothered to Seek It Out. If I happen to catch it, I might watch it.

I give Troy a Matinee rating.

A few nitpicks about Troy (and if you’re pissed about spoilers, too bad, I’m pretty sure The Iliad already ruined it for you a LONG time ago!):

· The wailing woman music. We get it. Bad things are going to happen.

· Brain Cox—I can’t decide if I loved his totally over-the-top depiction of Agamemnon or hated it.

· The condensed time frame of the film. These battles took years—crossing the Aegean Sea took forever. It’s all up and over within a few weeks in the movie.

· Totally skipping over the physical immortality of Achilles. WTF? It’s an integral part of the story! Instead, they opted to make Achilles’ search for his abstract immortality (“I want my name to be known forever…blah, blah, blah.� And, “Immortality! Take It! It’s Yours!�) his driving force. This really becomes obvious when Paris shoots Achilles with an arrow in the Achilles tendon, but then continues to hit him several times in the chest to actually kill him. I can understand adapting the written work for the screen, but it changes the entire character of Achilles. Which they had alrady done anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter (but I'm being nitpicky, remember?).

· Please casting directors—the women you are casting are freaking me out. With their bones sticking out, their giant lips, and their eyes emphasized by their gaunt faces, they’re becoming caricatures of beautiful women. Saffron Burrows can be beautiful, but not in this.

This is the end of the movie rant. Let me know what you all thought of it.

Total number of times the word "beautiful" is used: four.

Elect Ensie!

If you’ve never read The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro, you so should. This book made me laugh so hard I cried and I nearly peed my pants.

I would here and now like to make my bid for President of the San Diego Chapter of the Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club. I have lots and lots (and lots) of reasons why.

Example A:

Today I came home from work early and decided to wash and wax my truck. It hasn’t been washed for a month or so, and hasn’t been waxed since, uh, I bought it several years ago. I was feeling ambitious, and wanted to spend some time outside. You start to feel just a little claustrophobic everyday after sitting two feet from a lovely view of wall at your desk, y’know?

So, I speedily washed the car, rinsing several times, ‘cause it was 90 degrees out and the water kept drying in spots. Once clean (and in it’s full purple glory!), I began applying wax. About this time, I hear car brakes screeching. Looking up, I noticed that a neighbor from down the street was attempting to push start his (orange) truck. Feeling instantly bonded with this man over our unfortunately colored vehicles, I offer to help him push to get the truck going. He nods at me, and I grab onto the tailgate and begin pushing.

Before we go any further, please note that I was prepared for a hot day of car washing, appropriate attire included. I had on a T-shirt, cropped pants, and my husband’s old rubber flip-flops. Note the footwear, as this is a crucial detail of the story.

I started running, the truck started rolling, and I instantly realized it is a HUGE mistake to attempt to run in old rubber flip-flops at least 3 sizes too large for me. A few neighbors watched as I awkwardly flailed down the street. The same thought conveyed on each face, “Who is that girl valiantly training for the Special Olympics?�

It was just about that moment that I ate it, knees to the asphalt, and the truck’s engine shuddered to life. The guy didn’t even look back at me as he drove off to (presumably) purchase a new battery for that traitorous orange truck.

As I picked myself up off the ground I felt a stabbing pain on my left big toe and noted that I was now sporting some serious toe road-rash. I finished wiping the wax off my car and watched as my neighbors went back to their homes, shaking their heads with pity, or very possibly laughter. I couldn’t tell.

If I am elected San Diego Chapter President, I promise to continue to be a representative of the Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club at all times. Even when I don’t mean to.

Want to become a member of the Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club? Click the link on the left and get your own membership kit from Laurie Notaro herself!

Actually, It Is True

While reading The Advocate today I came upon something that made me laugh. Especially since I have the original Onion article cut out and hanging on my desk at work.

From The Advocate:

“Members of the London, Canada-based group Simple Truths Our Priority thought they were giving school officials solid evidence that a proposed safe-schools policy was an effort by ‘homosexuals’ to recruit children. A short time later the group also gave them an apology…’Anyone who is dumb enough to have those thoughts in the first place is dumb enough to believe this article,’ said Carol Kolb, Onion editor in chief.�

You can see their “evidence� here. It’s even better with the rainbow graph to show the steady incline of recruits which you can see if you are interested in paying to become a Premium Onion subscriber. Which I highly recommend.

Alternate title for today's entry: Homophobes are dumb.

Just a Waste of Space Today

Be prepared...this is going to be a pretty worthless post. Work today (while entertaining, chatting with the back office staff) totally sucked. I stayed late and was all growly upon my return home. I have since discovered the following:

Marie Calendar’s® Turkey Pot Pies are good for bad moods.

In other news, if you enjoyed the �live� Kenya clip in an earlier post, now see the original animated version (via Frinklin’s blog).

Lastly, in an effort to speed her along—Sara, get your butt in gear and get your blog started. I gave you the tools, now you must use them. Don’t give me those “my family was in town� excuses! I love you, and now the rest of the world should see why.

Hey—don’t be mad at me. I told you this entry would be useless. If you want funny you’ll have to read my earlier posts.

How To Get That Job Of Your Dreams

I’ve been needing a good (vague) name for the company that I work at…for now, lets just call it Bob’s Hogs and Weiner Pigs. This is actually painted on a real sign here in the town that I live in. In case you’re wondering where this sign is; it's on the road to my parent’s house (on the right).

Dear Unemployed Guy Who Came Up To Me At The Cash Register This Morning While I Was Clearly Working On Something Else,

The first rule of getting a job somewhere is DO NOT PISS OFF THE PEOPLE ALREADY EMPLOYED THERE. Other how-to-get-that-job-of-your-dreams tips include:

· Don’t stand at the customer service desk to fill out your application. And when I ask you if you’d like to sit down over there and fill it out, don’t decline and continue to fill out the application (while still standing) at the customer service desk. You just failed your fist customer service test.

· When I tell you The Big Boss Lady of Bob’s Hogs and Weiner Pigs is busy with a customer, don’t to ask if you can speak with her anyway.

· When I tell you that you can give your application to me because the HR Manager isn’t available don’t tell me you spoke to him and he wants you to give him the application directly. I know the HR Manager. He hates applicants. He hates you. He would never say that to you.

· Don’t come in and ask to speak to The Big Boss Lady about a possible job wearing a too small T-shirt, swim trunks, and flip-flops. If you want a job, dress up. You can dress like that once you’re hired.

· Don’t give me a dirty look after you’ve left the store and I’m walking out to my car. You’re already not getting the job. You don’t know how far my powers extend…I could come back to haunt you, sucka.

Sincerely,

Ensie aka The Shit

A Special Message!

To the guy in the green Explorer who would NOT let me merge in front of him this morning on my way into work, approx. 8am—I am so sorry. That’s right. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you were a GIANT PENIS. If I had, I would have eased off the gas, instead of fighting for my spot at 65 MPH around a scary curve in a truck with questionable tire tread. I never would have tried to follow the usual merging rules (in case you need a quick update it’s one car from Lane A, one care from Lane B, repeat indefinitely). Maybe you should think about getting a bumper sticker that states “I AM A GIANT PENIS,� just so people can recognize you in the future.

The Dating Game

After doing some housekeeping here at both hands, the comments are now ON, and should remain ON. They took a dive for a while with the new template design (OK—newish template design, it’s about 2 months old now), but I really do want to hear from all of you, so please, comment away! Aw, c’mon. You know you want to…

Since Frinklin and I are unbelievably poor at the moment, we’ve been spending a lot of time at home this weekend. No movie premiers or jaunts out of the country scheduled, so we’ve been staring at the computer monitor a lot. A LOT. Somehow in my internet travels I ended up here (don’t ask). This naturally lead me to check this out as well.

Just take a moment to compare the two images.

If I was a young, single, Republican, lookin’ for love—I would be outraged! Do you think the designers were Democrats?

Fortunately, I’m a young, married, Democrat, so it really just made me laugh. Frinklin, however, is a Republican, so he’s not too happy about how his kind is being represented. Yes, we're a mixed household, folks. We're like a miniature version of James Carville (Me) and Mary Matalin (Frinklin). Without the fanatic craziness, of course.

Only In Kenya (and Kentucky)

How can you not love this? It's SO worth the short wait for it to load. I especially love the guy. I really don't have any reason...the whole thing just makes me happy. And oddly disappointed, as I can't actually download the "Kenya Song" onto iTunes. Sigh.

Also, I just found out today that PBS, in the tradition of Frontier House and Manor House, will have a new show, Colonial House. The two-night "event" starts May 17th. My Mom will be so excited. When I was 14, we took a family vacation to Kentucky and visited an old Quaker village while there. She was so happy, and told my sister and I that she dreamed about living that type of life when she was younger. I really couldn't imagine anything worse. I mean, where did you watch The New Kids On the Block videos? They didn't have televisions, let alone MTV.

The Other Dog

If you’ve been paying close attention you may have realized that Frinklin and myself have more than one dog living in our household. I’ve written about The Jeffrey already, mostly because his personality is SO overwhelming I can’t escape him. Before I tell you about the other dog that owns us, let me give you a Jeffrey update. In case you’re wondering, The Jeffrey has eaten the following this week:

· 1 large couch cushion

· 1 Angels baseball visor

· 1 �The Rules Do Not Apply To Me� baseball cap (my second place award from Practical Penumbra!)

· 1 ponytail holder

· 1 paper bag from Henry’s market (not quite empty)

· 1 of my favorite socks

Now, onto the real star of this post, a possibly Labrador/Husky mix--Matchbox!

Matchbox was Frinklin’s dog, rescued before he and I met. About 5 or 6 years ago, Frinklin was going through a phase, living in Palm Springs, and went to the local pet store to purchase a companion animal. He was thinking a lizard (in case you didn’t think he was nerdy already, you read that correctly. A lizard. A big one.), but was sidetracked by the pet adoption day going on inside. Matchbox was the last in a litter of puppies that were found on a deserted road in the middle of the desert (redundant!), trying desperately to nurse off their emaciated and dehydrated mother. The abandoned doggie family was rescued and fed, their cigarette burns healed, and they were ready to find new homes. Frinkin was hooked, and he adopted Matches that day.

Little did he know that he was adopting the sickest puppy ever. Matchbox soon was diagnosed with Canine Distemper and Coccidia, both of which can be fatal to dogs. Enventually, Matches recovered, but when he lost all of his puppy teeth, only a few adult molars grew back in.

Most of the time this lack of teeth problem doesn’t seem to bother him. He can eat hard dog food just fine and he doesn’t chew dog treats so much as inhale them, so chewing isn’t really an issue. It does, however, present a couple of challenges for Matches. First, there is the tongue, and coupled with the tongue is the drool. Apparently a dog’s front teeth aren’t really for eating, they exist solely to hold a dog’s tongue inside of his mouth. Matchbox’s tongue sticks out at a jaunty angle, even when he’s sleeping. This provides a perfect highway for any drool searching for a way out of Matchbox’s mouth. It’s not unusual for Frinklin and myself to sit on the floor instead of the couch due to a large puddle of drool that formed under the sleeping Matchbox’s head.

In addition to Matches’ teeth/tongue/drool problem, is the fact that he is afraid of everything. You name it; Matchbox has run from it. It’s not that he wanders around cowering all the time. Quite the opposite. But he has a very set routine, and should any outside factors upset his routine, you will find Matchbox sitting bolt upright on our bed, smashed into the pillows, trembling. Things that can disturb Matches include (but are definitely not limited to): the noise ice makes when it forms in our refrigerator’s ice maker, the voice of our next-door neighbor, cats, hair dryers, flashlights, dog brushes, the computer, ceiling fans, any sort of unexpected noise, and most often, the television.

We have a 36� TV (that we are still paying for, thank you) placed near the door to the backyard. If Matchbox needs to go outside to pee, there are two scenarios we frequently experience:

1. Matchbox barks, asking to be let out. Frinklin or myself opens the door to let Matchbox out. Matchbox checks to makes sure all is clear (TV is off), and goes out.

2. Matchbox barks, asking to be let out. Frinklin or myself opens the door to let Matchbox out. Matchbox checks to make sure all is clear (TV is on), and runs into the other room to escape from the moving pictures! Cue Frinklin following Matchbox into the bedroom, attempting to bribe him out with dog treats, and eventually physically carrying the traumatized dog past the TV and out the door.

What really makes this odd is that he doesn’t notice the TV all the time. Sometimes he’s fine. Other times he freaks out. Lately he’s taken to climbing onto the back of the couch and perching on my shoulders to hide from the moving, speaking box. Other times he’ll drool over a dog toy contentedly while the TV blares in the background. For a dog that values routine, he’s maddeningly inconsistent.

For all his strangeness, Matchbox is part of our weird little family, and it just wouldn’t be home if we didn’t have to carry the dog out every few nights.

Yes, I do know I'm going to Hell

Stuff I have read on various blogs and profiles that disturbs me:

“Johnny Depp is pretty hot for an old guy…�

--That hurts.

“I once ate 6 Oreos and threw up, I was so full.�

--Six Oreos? Shut the fuck up. I could eat six bags. I hate girls like this.

“[Stephen King is] A DUCKIN (sic) GREAT WRITER,ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE NEEDS TO BE SHOT..! Quite homely though...�

--Aversion to the word “fuckin’�? Dunno. But the note that Stephen King is homely…I’m sure he appreciates it.

“My favorite music: 3 Doors Down-They rock!�

--Need I say anything?

“My favorite author: Eric Nylund-Writes Halo books�

--A true connoisseur of literature.

“Neptunese! I teach you how to speak Neptune! (Not Real)�

--Gees. And all this time I thought it was!

“If you don't visit my blog then you are missing out on a lot of HALARIOUS stuff. I talk about things that have happened to me in the day. They are so halarious that you'll be laughing hard.�

--Unclear if this is meant to be a purposeful "halarious" misspelling. Either way, it irks me.

“…why I am here, corrupt the normal minds of little kids surfing the net (uh, I sound creepy…)�

--Yep. Ya do.

“If anyone knows how to hack an AOL account, email me. It can’t be that hard.�

--Um, OK.

“i am a hardcore indigo girls fan. hardcore, i said. first of all, i am not one of those annoying new fans. i have loved them since 1989 and am still going strong. i have been to over 70 indigo girls shows, have over 300 IG bootlegs, have seen "the girls" in several states, met many of my friends through the IG fan circuit, and plan my vacations and holidays around their tour schedule.�

--While this one is a little long, you have read the whole thing to really understand how big an Indigo Girls fan she is. Hardcore. Really.

“Proverbs 17:17 "Let the women keep silent in the churches; for they are not permited (sic) to speak, but let them subject themselves, just as the Law also says"-1 Cor 14:34 Why don't some churches get that?!�

--Get what? Misogyny?

I’d like to thank all those people who wrote…ah…interesting bits and pieces in their blogs that I found fucking hilarious. All guilty parties will remain anonymous. To see more creepy, obnoxious, and stupid blogs and websites, check out Losers.org. Highly entertaining. Especially if you’re really judgmental. Which I am.

PS--I am well aware this is the saddest of all blogs, not even being able to come up with my own material...but see my earlier post about this crappy week and have pity on me.

A Slow Blog Day

If you would like to know more about Ensie.

Bad Week

I’m having a bad week. I know it’s only Tuesday, which might make it a bit early to declare it a “bad week� as opposed to “bad couple-of-days,� but I’m pretty sure it isn’t gonna be looking up any time soon.

Pressure at work has been mounting and is beginning to peak this week. Pressures include large numbers of freakishly huge orders that I am responsible for. While I appreciate the boost this will eventually give to my bonus and commission numbers, it doesn’t leave me with a whole lot of time to do anything else.

Pressures also include people (okay, specifically one person) demanding that I make time to do IT, which I don’t have time to do. When I note that I cannot fit IT into my schedule, this person takes decides that my supervisor must be contacted to force IT into my schedule. Supervisor agrees that I have no time to do IT, however, IT must still be done. Gee, thanks!

There are other pressures, but I’m noticing as I type that unless I can be more specific (which would make things more understandable/entertaining for you, but would likely make things more stressful/unemployed for me) there really isn’t much point in continuing to ramble on about work.

On the up side, I feel pretty lucky to have a kick-ass husband to dump my problems on. He’s more than willing to listen to me use every four-lettered word in existence, buy me roses, and then offer to go to the grocery store for me so I can obsess over the eBay items I’m bidding on (by the way, damn you mcandmc1—I totally need that Calvin Klein PEBBLE TEXTURE KING duvet cover, so I hope you feel good about beating me out with one fucking minute to go! The only reason you outbid me was ‘cause I had to go to WORK bitch!). Since Frinklin and myself have been rather lax in the wedding registry/announcement area, I still have to get my sheets from an affordable source.

And for all you people who are grossed out at the idea of buying sheets on eBay—I buy shoes on there too! Ha!

Parents Strongly Cautioned

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Winnah, Winnah, Winnah!

I had a pretty good Friday this past week. A work colleague (I've never described a single person I work with as a 'work colleague' until now--sounds official doesn't it?) invited me up to Angel Stadium for a networking luncheon and tour of the stadium.

The tour was fun (or rather, funny), and can be wrapped up in just one the fascinating stories the tour guide told.

"So I have a bucket of balls that I need to get signed by Mr. Famous Baseball Player, and I set my balls up on the table. Now Mr. Famous Baseball Player whacks my balls onto the floor. I'm like, 'Why did you hit my balls off the table?' And he just glared at me. I mean, I just wanted to get my balls signed. So, he leans down and starts picking my balls up off the floor." Insert childish giggling whenever the words "my balls" are mentioned.

The luncheon, well, it started with a story about newborn giraffes and how their mothers kick them across the ground to make them stand, and ended with someone giving their reasons why George W. Bush and Wal-Mart should be admired for being a visionary person and a visionary company, respectively. Or some other such bullshit. Our table countered by choosing Ralph Nader, which I don't really agree with, but it was funny just to see the other table get irritated.

More importantly--I won a gift basket! Apparently it's an "Angles baseball survival kit" full of chair cushions, sun block, a hat, a visor and DVDs(?). Frinklin was far more excited than I was. I'm a Padres fan, myself. Plus there was that "Angels In the Outfield" movie. Need I say more?

And, in a completely different event--I won second place in Practical Penumbra's stupid customer story contest! And I'd like to thank the stupid customers that I deal with on a daily basis...

"my balls" hehe.