...but I can always make an exception.
One day I was driving back to Bob’s Hogs and Weiner Pigs after a meeting with a customer. I stopped at a red light on a street I drive down regularly. There are often homeless men standing on the island in the middle of the street at this light, and when I have leftover food from a meal I’ll hand it over to them. I rarely give money, as I have stopped carrying cash almost entirely. I am the Queen of the Debit Card, and find it much easier to use than cash.
On this particular day, there was only one homeless man standing on the center island, holding a cardboard sign reading, “HOMELESS—NEED MONEY.” I took a moment to read the sign and give a tight-lipped, apologetic smile, as I didn’t have even a single coin in my pocket to toss out the window.
I glanced away for a moment to check the light (still red), and then back at the homeless man, doing a double take as the light turned green. As I accelerated I re-read the cardboard sign he held, “I UNDERSTAND--THAT TIME OF THE MONTH HUH?” Shocked, I looked at the face of the homeless man, staring back at me with a smarmy sneer.
I’ve seen him several times since then. I’m trying really hard not to hold his misogynistic creepiness against him. Sometimes I imagine having some sort of cardboard sign war with him. Driving by, he’ll remember me, and I’ll flash him a sign reading, “HEY PRICK! YOUR SIGN ISN’T GOING TO GET YOU ANY MORE SPARE CHANGE” or some other such bullshit. Then again, he is homeless.
Television advertisers NEED to be slapped. Most definitely.
A few examples that are currently irking me:
· The most recent Midol commercial is really getting to me. Picture girls on the beach, in bathing suits. Girl A is wearing a bikini and Girl B, looking shocked, asks, “You’re wearing a bikini during your period?!?” Girl A mentions that she is, and that she took Midol to get rid of bloating, cramps, and TIREDNESS (“irritability” also may be mentioned, usually I’m too busy yelling to Frinklin about the commercial to really pay attention at this point). Now, I’ve only ever taken Midol once, and it didn’t do shit for my nausea-inducing cramps. And it really didn’t have any effect on my energy level. Most pain killers don’t. Whatever—my point is, tiredness is not generally a factor when considering swimsuit styles. If it was, thousands of spring breakers would be covered in burkas each year.
· Why does the word “girthy” need to be used to describe hot dogs? And does this word need constantly repeated by a man eating a hot dog? Let’s be honest—he’s giving head to the hot dog, and I don’t want to see it. Or hear it. Or even hear the word “girthy” again. Ever. And I’m not the only one who sees this as a problem
· KFC needs to stop advertising completely. Right now. Do they really think we’re stupid enough to believe that KFC really stands for “Kitchen Fresh Chicken?” We all know it’s FRIED. We all know it’s bad for you. If you really want to get into what “KFC” stands for, why not this ? And if that weren’t bad enough…now they’re offering the NASCAR Dale Earnhardt Jr. Collectible Chicken Bucket! Ew. Then again, it’s easier to focus my hate when NASCAR and KFC are blended together into one awful focal point.
There are soooo many others. These are just the ones that come to mind immediately.
What is wrong with people? When did it become OK to take 5-year-old children to rated R movies? I fully recognize a parent’s need to leave the house and DO something, but do you need to take your toddler to see Terminator 3? Or your 7-year-old boy to see The Girl Next Door? I mean, boobs, people. Full on, naked boobs reflected in the eyes of your second grader.
I'm not even talking about babies at the movie theater...that's a whole other post. I'm talking about parents with no judgment skills, and no consideration.
I don’t think I’m that much of a prude. I mean, I watched Sex and the City and wasn’t offended. Hey—I watch Real Sex and spend most of my time laughing uncontrollably (did the you SEE the creepy RealDoll? But I cringe at parents that don’t seem to be able to judge appropriate material for the 5-year-old mind. Especially at the movies.
For those parents who can’t seem to leave their kids at home or realize they need to wait for the DVD—I have no qualms about shushing you. Nor do I feel bad about talking shit with my husband/sister/friend LOUDLY as you choose your seat near me. I am fully capable of controlling myself should I be at a kid’s movie (Shrek 2, Harry Potter, etc.). I recognize that I’m on their turf at that time and I need to be tolerant.
However, if I have to sit through one more clearly rated R film, seated in front of, next to, or behind any small child constantly asking, “Why he doing that Mommy?” REALLY loudly…I cannot be responsible for my actions.
Yay! I’m back. I figured if I’m well enough to sit at the computer play Zoo Tycoon, I’m well enough to sit here and type for a few minutes. But I really am (was) sick. I swear. I had the WORST sore throat and even contemplated going to the doctor for a day. I took the day off from work on Friday to go to the doctor, but then I started feeling better, so the doctor plans were scrapped! Still tired, but better.
You know I had to be feeling bad, because I almost NEVER call in sick to work. I’m that important. Heh.
The whole Weight Watchers thing kinda got scrapped this week in favor of comfort food and popsicles. I was sick. That’s all I can say about that.
Expect me to blog each day next week as penance for my lack of blogging this past week.
Sickness has taken me...sorry for the lack of new posts. Expect more soon.
If you haven't read Dooce's incredible tribute to her husband and father of their child you must immediately go now!
So good it brought tears to my eyes.
Have you ever been trapped…in your own pants? Seriously. I have a really cute pair of cropped pants I purchased at the Gap outlet (thrifty me!) that I just love. Except for one thing—the drawstring waist.
This particular pair of pants has a shoestring-like drawstring that ties in the front and isn’t really very efficient when it comes to drawing the waistband of your pants closed. But I tie it, just to be on the safe side. There are numerous other fastening on these pants designed to keep them up. These pants are equipped with a zipper, a button, and belt loops, in addition to the sucky drawstring. My pants won’t be falling down anytime soon. However, all of these contraptions can become a little bulky and awkward when you’re doing the really-need-to-pee dance in the bathroom.
The drawstring itself has knotted several times on me in the past. However, tonight was the worst. After consuming a large diet coke at the movie theater late this afternoon I drove to dinner with my parents, where I rapidly drank two ginormous iced teas. My first mistake was leaving the restaurant without using the restroom and driving home. My second mistake was forgetting to carefully untie the drawstring. Instead I yanked it, instantly turning the front of my pants into a wicked snarl, impossible to untie with mere mortal fingers.
Damn.
Fortunately, Frinklin did not see me do the really-need-to-pee dance while in the bathroom, wiggling around and cursing my rather large breasts (I’m sure I will regret using that phrase when I check out my referring statistics tomorrow) that blocked my view of the worst possible time and place for a knot to form. Also fortunately, I do have super-human fingers, and I was finally able to get the knot untied. Thank God for that. I don’t think I could handle Frinklin blogging about helping me to clean up a puddle of pee off the bathroom floor.
I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of time before I take a pair of scissors to a certain part of these pants.
How hard is it to make cookies? Not hard. Not hard at all. Especially when you’re getting PAID to make cookies, because it is part of your JOB. However, some people seem to think that they are exempt from making cookies each day. I am here and now telling those people that they are WRONG.
Today, like most days, I planned my meals to fit within my evil Weight Watcher’s Points plan. I am very careful because I want to eat lots and lots of movie theater popcorn on the weekends. Each week must be carefully plotted to allow for movie popcorn. Within my planning, there is room for a cookie with my lunch. A particular cookie I purchase each day at the Café located inside Bob’s Hogs and Weiner Pigs (for those of you who think it’s odd to have a café inside Bob’s Hogs—everyone need their espresso and Chai, OK?). However today, there were NO COOKIES.
NO COOKIES.
It’s not that they were out of cookies. It’s that they hadn’t made any. There was cookie dough in the refrigerator waiting to become cookies. But there were NO COOKIES. I asked the girl behind the counter if she would be making cookies today. She called down to the other girl behind the counter, “Are we making cookies today?” Other girl responded by saying that she didn’t know. Didn’t know? What the hell kind of answer is that?! Are you going to shirk your cookie-making duties for the entire day?
So I ended up with pear chips instead. Which are OK. But pear chips are NOT cookies.
I thought about the lack of cookies and the evil girls behind the counter as I walked back to my desk. Why would they not make cookies today? It’s not as though cookie making was an optional part of their day. It was part of their job each morning. How can you just skip that part?
What if I started skipping parts of my job? How about if I decide not to use the phone for a day? Or even an hour? What kind of uproar would that cause? What if I boycotted computer use? How much money would we lose? Maybe I should just begin informing my customers that certain services I usually offer were not available today, or tomorrow, or on other random days I chose not to offer them?
As I ranted on and on about cookies, I realized I was beginning to sound slightly crazy (or more than slightly crazy, depending on how well you know me). Apparently, that’s what happens when a person is only allotted a limited amount of food each day. When your selection is small, the selections you make take on a much greater meaning.
Since I’m sitting here typing my story, it’s obvious I survived my cookie-free day. Maybe I should try to go cookie-free more often. Just as long as I still get to eat my Carmel Hershey’s Kisses. Let’s not get crazy, people.
I felt an earthquake today. But more importantly, I remained relatively calm and didn’t react by screaming, becoming instantly paralyzed, or fainting—all of which I have done during past earthquakes. Yay me! Especially since I was at work, and running out of the building screaming would have seriously ruined my reputation as a bad ass.
I wondered how long it would take them to ask. I do live in an exceedingly conservative area of San Diego. Ok—and exceedingly REDNECKY area of San Diego. And last week, it finally happened. My scary dog-chopping neighbor wandered over while I was unloading groceries and asked the question I’ve been waiting for, “So, why does Frinklin have a rainbow sticker on the back of his truck?”
So, technically, that wasn’t the question I was expecting. The truck was mine before I ever met Frinklin and became involved with a boy. It’s MY rainbow sticker. Not Frinklin’s. I had to start by clarifying that I was the potential homo, not Frinklin.
The scary neighbor was polite about it. I’ve noticed that Lesbians don’t really tend to freak straight men, so I wasn’t all that worried about outing myself. Two things did strike me about our conversation:
1. The scary neighbor did that weird thing where you try really hard to connect yourself to the other person in the conversation. He told me that he knew a “dyke”—an old employer of his—and she was really cool. She went out to the desert and rode bikes with him. “Her name is Dana. Do you know her?” I almost told him I did. I see her at the monthly lodge meetings.
2. Our conversation ended with a statement alluding to the fact that the ENTIRE NEIGHBORHOOD had been discussing my rainbow sticker since we moved in (over two years ago), but no one wanted to offend us by asking if we knew what it meant. Oy.
When will that damn Southern California housing market crash come? We need to move.
I have always been a Democrat. But watching the world celebrate the life of Ronald Reagan this week has made me proud to be an American. Sentiment over such things is something I often am cynical about, but at heart I am just as sentimental.
I was young when Ronald Reagan was elected, but one of my clearest memories is of the Challenger tragedy, which my fourth grade class watched happen, as did most classrooms, wanting to see the first teacher in space. And just as clearly, I remember Ronald Reagan’s speech. He may not have written his famous words that night, but he spoke them, and I believed. It brought home the feeling of that moment.
Tonight, I cried for Nancy Reagan, as her great love also “…slipped the surly bonds of Earth; To touch the face of God.”
More linking fun! Thanks to my friend L for sending me the oddest of websites. Check out ThreeBrain.com's Weeeeeee!
Enjoy the squirrelly goodness!
If you haven’t checked out Angry Alien's 30 Second Bunnies Theater you so need to. It takes a few moments to load, but then you get to see Titanic, and this is the best part--re-enacted by bunnies! Really, could it be any better?
You can also see The Shining, and my personal favorite, The Exorcist. Odd, as I’ve never seen the original (I’m scared of horror movies), but I LOVE bunny re-enactment!
Red Rum!
PS-If you want to purchase Angry Alien merchandise, you can! Check it out here.
It still hurts.
I called Dr. Chiropractor this morning and told him of my pain. He asked me to come in ASAP. It turns out--it is his fault! He did some funky new maneuvers on my neck on Monday morning and the muscles in my shoulder reacted by spazzing out at a later hour. Of course, his way of putting it was, “I’m sorry, we must have done something more aggressive than your muscles were ready for.” No shit, Sherlock.
To help relive the pain and work out the knot now residing in the muscles connecting my neck and left shoulder he attached electronic pads that sent an electrical current into me. Instead of the owwwwww pain I had been experiencing, it became more owwwwOWowwwwOWowwwwOW. Not much of an improvement at the time, but better afterwards. I also was told that the heating pad I had applied the earlier evening was WRONG, and that I should have applied ice. My own logic that warmth would relax the tight muscles and cold would make it crampier is wrong. So much for the Vulcan thought process.
The best part of the visit (and by “best” I mean MOST AWFULLY PAINFUL) was after the pads had been removed and the doctor applied industrial strength ICY HOT® to my shoulder. He then proceeded to “strip” the muscles and attempted to work out the spasm. Tears were shed (by me). Guilt trips were laid (also by me).
The pain is somewhat lessened now. I can move my arm above shoulder level again. I picked up my own jar of ICY HOT® at the pharmacy for Frinklin to apply tonight.
That damn Dowager’s Hump better be gone soon.
Dr. Chiropractor is soooo dead. He did something different to my neck today, and on the way home from work I got the WORST neck spasm EVER. And now, 45 minutes later--it still fucking hurts!
Frinklin is currently preheating the heating pad for me and making me dinner.
Dr. Chiropractor will be seeing me in the morning.
Yay! My college roommate from many seasons ago, and all-around fucking awesome friend just started up her own blog. You can read it here. She’s constantly going on dates with odd characters and it’s about time she started writing about it. I, personally, think it’s because she now lives in the Midwest, and you know all those people are in-bred. Kidding! I’m kidding! Just a little West Coast snob humor!
Actually, I can’t figure out for the life of me why she hasn’t found someone wonderful. She’s incredibly smart (quadruple major in college), has a real career, is good with money (unlike some of us, ahem), and is incredibly cute! She also knows EVERYTHING about baseball. C’mon—what more could a man want in a girlfriend/potential wife? Potential dates—you may send your resumes via e-mail to ensie(at)cox(dot)net.
And lastly, in case any of you were wondering, I will NOT be attending my 10 year high school reunion (which I received an invite to recently). I finally decided that $100 per person is far too much to spend to see a bunch of people I haven’t thought much about in 10 years who probably haven’t gotten over their old high school bullshit. I’ll just be waiting for the 20 year shindig. Plus, I haven’t conquered the world or lost that extra weight yet. Wow—when I picked up my diploma all those years ago, I never thought I’d be sitting down the road 10 years late thinking, “Too soon! Too Soon!”
My sister, Katie, has the hots for Brad Pitt. Feel free to read about our ongoing debate over who was hotter in the movie Troy here.
I’ll admit that Brad Pitt is handsome, but attractive? Never. And he’s stinky. I’ve heard it from several sources. But now—proof!
I wonder if celebrities just think they’re so pretty they don’t need deoderant. I’m here to tell them—they do. And no natural crystal deoderant is gonna make that BO stank go away.
Go ahead—call me a hypersensitive American. I don’t care. I know what smells bad to me—and it’s Brad Pitt.
Is it wrong to use up all your daily Weight Watcher's points on Caramel Hershey's Kisses and movie theater popcorn?
I took the weekend off—caught up on all the things I’ve been needing to do at home that were ignored while I was working so much overtime. At least, that’s what I’d like to tell myself. I really didn’t get much of anything done, other than going to my first Weight Watchers meeting.
Yup. That’s right—Weight Watchers. I’ve been meaning to lose the extra hundred or so pounds that have been following me around the last several years, and I finally decided it’s time. Not that I’m happy about it. Nope, you won’t find me jumping up and down at Weight Watcher’s meetings with pom-poms. I’m a Weight Watchers member, and I’m pissed about it.
I’ve known for a while that I needed to lose some weight. It’s not like it’s a surprise to me. I was just hoping that I would magically do so, all while continuing to eat exactly what I want to eat, whenever I wanted. Unfortunately, the 27-year-old body I currently inhabit doesn’t allow for such things. And besides, I managed to find a husband—what good will it be if we both keel over from hear-attacks in 10 or 15 years.
My family history doesn’t bode well for me, either. You name it—we’ve got it—everything from high blood pressure and high cholesterol to heart attacks, diabetes, cancer, and strokes. Might as well get on top of this thing while I’m only 27. I did pretty much get to eat exactly as I chose for my entire life so far, so it’s essentially a fair trade.
Now, I promise not to turn this into some sort of weight-loss journal (as soooo many blogs are, I’ve noticed), but I may write about it from time to time. It is a major life change. And maybe writing about it will help keep me honest.
Doesn’t mean it still doesn’t suck.