Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Sometimes I Say Nice Things About Other People

First, allow me to congratulate my sister Runtie for being offered—and accepting—her dream job earlier this week. She is in her final semester of nursing school and upon graduation she’ll be working on the pediatric oncology/hematology floor of a major hospital. I think I got the terminology right…hematology either means blood disorders or the study of lizards. Not only is she way cuter than I am, she is also a much better person. She will be treating children at every stage of their recovery from terminal illnesses. I stand onstage telling strangers about my ovaries and laugh when the elderly fall on icy sidewalks.

I know she’s going to be a stellar medical professional because the other night after the Chili Peppers show, I was absentmindedly singing “I got a bad disease/But from my brain is where I bleed”. She immediately diagnosed me with an intracranial hematoma then drilled a hole in my skull.

Another congrats is in order to MAV, one of my oldest friends and partial reason why I failed my freshman Italian final, for also scoring a new job this week. I can’t blame him entirely for my inability to learn a romance language. The largest share of that dubious distinction was earned by the waiters at La Carretta Mexican restaurant who watched as I gave myself fetal alcohol syndrome by ordering upwards of four Grande margaritas a night using nothing but my Cabbage Patch Kid’s birth certificate as identification. Sometimes I think this explains why I occasionally get phone calls from a heavily accented man asking to speak with a ‘Madeleine Paige’. And why my left ass cheek says Xavier Roberts.

Um. And, hooray, congratulations to me because I saved fifty cents on my purchase of a Kid Cuisine Carnival Corn Dog Microwaveable meal. I hope I made the right decision. It was a tough call between the corn dogs and the Grip and Dip Chicken Breast Strips although selecting the latter would’ve meant that for the first time in six months the words “grip” and “breast” were associated with my life.

While I’m happy for both of them, I’m also discernibly jealous that they’ll both have jobs that they love while I trudge into work every morning to find that my boss has already adorned my monitor with a collection of Post-It notes, each one a hand-written reminder of something stupid like “Buy donut holes for the meeting.” or “Stop stealing the batteries from the carbon monoxide detectors.” or “I heard you laugh when I fell in the parking lot.”


Monday, January 29, 2007

I Hope It Looked Like I Was Taking Notes

OK so last week I had things to do at work. And by "things to do" I mean "hiding in the warehouse so that I don't actually have to do things." I did attend a lot of meetings where I learned that breakroom coffee tastes like burnt popcorn and lowered expectations; that your department doesn't find it entertaining when you announce that your personal goal is to grow a tail; and that it is generally frowned upon to refer to someone in upper management as the Nasty Pee Demon, even though she leaves a bathroom stall looking like she clung to the purse hook on the back of the door and took aim at the toilet from there.

I also spent a lot of time writing the items below but didn't have a chance to post them. UNTIL NOW. Yes, you're supposed to read those last two words in the voice of that movie trailer guy.

On Tuesday night, my favorite attorney (MFA) and I went to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers in Charlotte. Being a fan of good lyrics over good music, I’m a reluctant fan of the Peppers. Anthony Kiedis is one of the few artists who has earned a free pass to write shit like

Doo doo doo doo dingle zing a dong bone
Ba-di ba-da ba-zumba crunga cong gone bad

which are actual words from “Soul to Squeeze”. My dream concert is to see him reunited with his sister, Nell.

It’s only recently that I learned their actual names, having previously known them as The Hot One, The Former Addict, Flea, and The Drummer. Obviously those definitions make Anthony Kiedis and John Frusciante interchangeable.

We had stellar floor seats and were sitting across the aisle from a twenty-something guy who must have been moderately famous for something. Before the show, other audience members kept stopping him to pose for pictures with them, which he did while throwing hand signs for his gang that--guessing from his Rainbow sandals and popped collar--was Abercrombie and Crip. People never take pictures of me. Unless it’s for the office scavenger hunt and the Sales and Marketing Team is trying to find someone the entire department hates.

Here are some pictures that don't involve me:

Even though he was there with a girl, about ten or eleven zumba crunga congs into the show Semifamous Guy went concert gay. I looked across the aisle to see he and his boys all had their shirts off and their arms around each other. I'm pretty sure he wanted their dingle zing a dong bones, if you know what I'm saying. If they saw this happen at a bar, they’d go Isaiah Washington on the participants, but since it occurred while they were there to watch four other men sing, sweat, and, uh, take their shirts off, it’s totally cool, brah.

Wednesday night, I had a show in Raleigh at Goodnight’s. I would like to thank the drunken rednecks who took a break from watching Mama’s Family reruns to come out and harass several comics by shouting racial epithets during the show. Thankfully, they took my set as an opportunity to go empty their spit cups and perhaps place a burning cross on someone’s porch. Hopefully, Goodnight’s will use this as a learning experience and will deny entry to anyone who, when asked which section they would prefer, responds “whites”.

Before the show, I was talking with a couple other comics and learned that a friend of mine will be opening for Dave Coulier next month. He’s working with Uncle Joey! I could barely conceal my jealousy, because when I saw Uncle Joey’s name on the schedule I just assumed that Mr. Woodchuck would be the opener. I begged my friend to use Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know” as his intro music. I’ve always heard that she wrote that song about Dave Coulier, which upon rereading the lyrics, is disturbing on so many levels. I imagine their breakup involved exchanges like

Alanis: Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
Joey: (as the Wizard of Oz Scarecrow) If I only had a brain...
Alanis: I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner.
Joey: (as Popeye) I'm strong to the finach, cause I eats me spinach! Toot toot!
Alanis: Would she go down on you in a theatre?
Joey: (as Bullwinkle) Would she pull my rabbit out of its hat?
Alanis: Jesus. Forget it. You're a dick. A DICK.
Joey: (as Mr. Woodchuck) Is it made of....wood?
Alanis: I knew I should've screwed Bob Saget.
Joey: Oh, now cut. It. Out.

At least the infamous ‘go down on you in a theatre’ moment couldn’t have occurred during one of his movies. They were all direct-to-video.

The game MASH came up today. I must’ve spent the equivalent of two days playing that game and trying to predict my future…and that was just last week. For the uninitiated (or those of you who went to private schools where you and your spent recess posing for oil paintings, playing with your Sheltie, and wishing that Mommy would hug you more), MASH was a game that was supposed to predict your future husband, job, location, and number of kids, among other things. It’s amazing how many people can still recall what was foretold by a piece of looseleaf snapped into their Trapper Keeper. I’m no exception; I was supposed to remain unmarried, have nineteen children, live at the Y, and drive a Greyhound bus. I grew up in West Virginia. We learned to manage our expectations.

My contempt for my job is no secret. I’ve recently started updating my resume and by updating I mean ‘not writing it in crayon on the back of a Bennigan’s kids menu’, because that didn’t work last time. I made the mistake of telling my mother that I was looking for a new job so she’s taken it upon herself to send me upwards of forty career ideas a day from Monster or HotJobs or You’reObviouslyNotGoingToMarryASaudiPrinceSoYou’dBetter This morning’s batch was led by an opening for an “Online Edition Webmaster” at my local paper. The requirements for the job were C++ certification, experience using a Gutenberg printing press, and a purple heart. Regardless, that doesn’t stop my mother from writing “This is PERFECT for you! Just go to the paper and apply!”

First, I don’t have any of those things. Second, I don’t even read the newspaper unless I think that Hugh Laurie is going to be in Parade magazine, and even then I steal my neighbor’s copy and toss everything but Parade and the Target ads. Third, there’s no point in explaining any of this to her because tomorrow I’ll have 18 more items, starting with “LaQuinta Seeks Chief Housekeeper/Poop Chute Cleanser”.

Of course I’m not doing very well at finding new employment on my own. I applied for a job online with a sports marketing firm (OK, it was Dick’s Sporting Goods. Just so I can ask potential customers ‘Hey, do you like Dick’s? Because I love Dick’s!’) and after outlining my qualifications--things like surliness, a commitment to leaving work on time, and experience with PowerPoint,--I tried to wrap up with a whimsical paragraph about my love for sports. My closing sentences were something like “My attraction for baseball extends far beyond nine innings on the diamond. Like my license plate says, there’s nothing better than ‘BOSTNSEX’. I reread those words in my sent items folder and realized that yes, I had written BOSTNSEX instead of BOSTNSOX. I hope to God there’s not an official Boston sex act that involves tea or quill pens or disappointment. And I also kind of hope that I don’t get that job.

Ba-di ba-da ba-zumba crunga cong gone bad, indeed.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Dispatches From Baltic Avenue

I talked to my sister Runtie last night to compare notes about our weekends. She spent her Saturday night out at a club and was asked for her phone number. I spent my Saturday night accidentally snapping my spatula in half and learning that it’s difficult to stir scrambled eggs with my hands. And I think the last time a man asked for my phone number, it was because I’d rear-ended him on the interstate.

Late Saturday night, my neighbor and I had a tiff. And by ‘tiff’, I mean at about four a.m. I was leaning over the railing of my balcony violently whipping his door with a fully-extended golf ball retriever in an effort to get him to turn his music down. It’s not that I don’t enjoy listening to Monkey Business it’s just that it was so insanely loud and immediate sounding, I expected to look down to see Fergie pissing on my comforter. On the bright side, that was the first time my headboard has been rattled since we had that earthquake. I should probably take the morning-after pill just to be safe.

Some of the other goblins that live in my complex are convinced that this particular neighbor (we’ll call him #3 because that’s his house number) is a meth addict. And not just because he purchased a Black Eyed Peas CD. Apparently he shows some telltale signs of addiction, things like refusing to recycle, not buying candy from the dyslexic child who appeared on everyone’s doorstep pushing “Five Takes” bars, and banging on #9’s door to tell her that he could feel something crawling through his skull. Actually, they may have a point. You’d have to be on drugs to even speak to #9. Her place smells like Jean Nate, hot wings, and desperation.

Yesterday afternoon when I went out to buy a new spatula, someone had taped a note to his door informing him that the next time his shitty music shook their vinyl siding, they were calling the cops—who no doubt would appreciate the chance to cite someone for an offense other than loitering in front of Borders. Hell, maybe I’ll report him. The officer might even ask for my number.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Sedaris Lite, Installment One

I came into work this morning, late as usual because 8:52 is the new I hate my life. I drove into the parking lot behind Widespread Panic Girl. I have no idea what her actual name is, but she has seven or eight Widespread stickers on her rear windshield so it’s no less fitting but infinitely more complementary than other potential nicknames like Dances With ProActiv or PocaHondas. Last summer I did a feature gig and stayed at a hotel teeming with Widespread fans in town for their concert, the parking lot full of similar cars.

It was close to one when I came back from my show that night, to find a girl wearing fairy wings passed out facedown on the luggage cart. Four faded sofas away, an overweight girl with dreads was trying to distract her glazed audience from the muted Weather Channel forecast long enough to listen to her story about the time she and her mom dropped acid and both of them talked to Jerry Garcia. They’d, like, never been closer and she wishes there was a way the three of them could have taken a picture together. I glanced at the front desk where the clerk was restocking a wooden bin with brochures about an outlet mall that was two states away. She shot me a look that said “I have a nametag and a vest. That doesn’t make me give a shit.” I hurried down the hall, dodging a guy who had his face pressed against the vending machine, whispering his confessions-- or from the look of his distended corduroy crotch, his come-ons--to the KitKats.

I cover twenty more feet without incident. I’m exhausted and oddly relieved to be in the elevator. Until I see the shit. Someone had taken a dump on the carpet. This was not the work of an amateur. It was perfectly coiled in the center of one of the flowers, pollination gone horribly awry. I wanted to write a country song: “I Pressed Number 4 But Did Number 2”. I mashed the Door Open button--the face of which was worn off--and headed for the stairs.

The next morning, it was still there. And so was Tinkerbell, who had rolled off the cart, her wings resting on the base of sign directing patrons to the PIZA restaurant on the other side of the lobby. An elderly couple was staring in her direction, debating whether they’d actually enjoy pepperoni for breakfast and if it was worth climbing over her for. They decided against it, took a map of the outlet mall and headed for the door.
- - - - - -
Widespread Girl pulls into the employee lot. I park in a space marked Visitor, because that’s a much more accurate description of my status than what’s written in eight point font on my business card. She opens her door and a half-eaten bag of Fritos rolls out onto the pavement. She bends down to collect the chips—even the ones that had been tossed dangerously close to a clump of mud that also may have fallen from her lap--and stubs out her cigarette at the same time. She crumples the package and stuffs it into her purse. We’re the last holdouts this morning, almost an hour of fluorescent light and feigned productivity behind the others. Widespread and I share the same apathy for our jobs. I respond by wearing inappropriate t-shirts and stealing other people’s sodas out of the breakroom fridge. She reacts by abandoning personal hygiene. I want to tell her that a little Colgate doesn’t make her a sellout but we walk into the lobby in silence. She heads for the elevator. I go to the stairs. Just in case.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

I Thought Bill Nighy Was On That Science Show

OK, so I watched the Golden Globes last night and I’ve decided that my life will be a failure unless I develop such a close relationship with Martin Scorsese that I can refer to him as “Marty”. Or “Candy Britches”. Oh, and I want to have a paragraph in USWeekly that uses the word “canoodling” and speculates about my love life. With another person. And I’m going to bring the slap bracelet back. Did anyone ever know anyone who peeled the Jem stickers off, sharpened it into a shiv, and sliced another kid’s Achilles tendon while he was sounding out the first paragraph of The Berenstain Bears Discover Laser Hair Removal?

The slap bracelet/weaponry connection is right up there with other fictional elementary school maxims, like the need to chew your food twenty-eight times, the word “gullible” not being in the dictionary, and pot being a gateway drug. Pot is a gateway to thinking that you need a pair of $29 Tanzanite earrings from the Home Shopping Network; to seriously worrying that you may be the father of one of the children on Maury Povich even though you’re a woman and have never met someone named La’Poupee; or to creating a PowerPoint presentation about why Taylor Hicks does in fact make me proud.

Talking points on the first slide include:
1) He has never been the one to raise his hand
a) That’s not him
b) That’s not who he is
2) He is standing tall
3) He is stronger than he’s ever been now
4) He has learned that to question is to grow
5) He is cutting back on trans-fats
6) He is considering purchasing a Prius
7) He is does not wear ironic t-shirts that say things like “Miles for Smiles” with a picture of a tooth wearing running shoes.

I missed my secret boyfriend Hugh Laurie’s acceptance speech (But I feel certain he thanked me using our agreed-upon number of blinks, pauses, and use of the word "colonics") but I saw enough reaction shots of Jack Nicholson to wonder why he now has Kim Jong Il’s haircut. And apparently Will Ferrell’s next role will be in “Deal-A-Meal: The Movie”.

I obviously was not in attendance last night, but this is what it would’ve looked like if I’d been there.

I’m staring at Nicolette Sheridan wondering if Michael Bolton has noticed that her neck looks like a working model of the female reproductive system. Which is ironic since she’s a man.

Finally, I saw approximately seventy UPS 'Whiteboard' commercials with that guy drawing dry-erase cartoons. First, that man does not have a neck. Underneath his Brendan Fraser-in-Encino Man hairstyle his ears connect directly to his spine, which makes me think he could also draw a realistic picture of what oral self-pleasure looks like. Next, the song blipping in the background is “Such Great Heights”, performed by….The Postal Service. That makes me laugh every time, but then again so does the fact that when he sketches an airplane it looks like he gives it a dick. If UPS is as quick to ship things as they are to discover music, I’m never getting those Space Bags I ordered from QVC.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Love's a Black Diamond But My Heart's Just a Beginner

Holy shit, if that's not a country song, it should be.
And if I've never considered why I don't need a guest parking space (or a second pillow or why I never gave away the "ST END" half of the necklace that matches my "BE FRI" one) perhaps I should.

I'm going skiing this weekend and was throwing things in a suitcase when I realized I couldn't find my ski pants. After looking all over my house (which lately has started to smell like mulch...explain that to me) it hit me that they had to be at My Former Boyfriend's (MFB) house. So it was either go buy another pair or call him and ask if he'd care to look through my former closet (MFC) to see if they were hiding behind the windsuits and mall-walking shoes and electrolysis machines that his new girlfriend Flipper had no doubt hung from the rack.

He found them and I made the stupid, stupid, giving yourself breast implants using Ziploc bags and aquarium gravel-level stupid decision to go get them. Everything was going just fine until we ruined it with words. The airport incident came up. As did that painful itching, burning sensation that I've now recognized as feelings. And there were tears.

I hate long-term relationships.

Confidential to My Stuffed Dinosaur: I'm so not talking about you.

When I think about it, MFB and I were like Barbaro.

When we started out, we were unstoppable. There had never been anything like us, not for a long time. We had early successes and a big win, and we thought it would always be like that. Then there was an unfortunate stumble that neither of us saw coming. We were down but there was hope. We recovered but it wouldn't be the same. We sought treatment but it didn't help. Then there was laminitis, another setback, and by now, you just wish that somebody would've effing shot it to start with because you never want to hear about it again.

You know what happened next. I got home and realized that I hadn't made it back with those pants.

I never learn. Stupid horse.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

How Much Baggage Will You Be Checking?

It's been a week since I came home from the Orange Bowl, which means it's been a week since the most awkward event I've had the pleasure of enduring since I told one of my coworkers that she had something on her face only to realize that it was a mole.

My flight was at 11:30 last Wednesday morning and I was, of course, running late to the airport. Not only was traffic on I-95 more snarled than Kirsten Dunst's front teeth, I also had to both stop and fill the tank of my rental car and argue with the Hertz attendant who charged me $14 because I used a gallon of that gas to drive back to the airport. Not having time to engage in a serious debate where I would employ some clever, infinitely bloggable insult to question not only his lineage but also his mother’s integrity, I had to fall back on the standard “stomp my foot and make an angry noise” move I’ve almost perfected. Definitely intimidating, in a ‘puppy’s squeaky chew toy’ kind of way.

I raced to the terminal and while I scanned the insanely long check-in line, I spotted my former boyfriend at the kiosk. Not only that, but standing beside him looking ancient and impatient was his new girlfriend, Flipper, the one he left me for. [Note: She has a name that's just as ridiculous with an equal number of P's.] I use the term 'girlfriend' loosely, because, well, she was a girl about the time people were classified as either hunters or gatherers. I froze. It's not that I was surprised; I knew he was going to the game but he was flying out of Miami, not Lauderdale. And despite living in the same two-Target town, I'd managed to not ever have to see the two of them together, especially not when he looked tan and she looked well-rested—as well-rested as someone who lived through the Crusades could look—and had likely just spent four days doing things in their hotel room that even impressed the Housekeeping staff ("Flora, get in here! Look what they did to the ice bucket!").

There was nowhere for me to go, except home. I stood in line backwards so he wouldn't turn around and see me pointing out Flipper's excess neck skin to my stuffed dinosaur. The guy behind me was talkative and didn't at all question why I was sweating profusely and walking the wrong way, thank God, so we chatted about--what else--traffic and waiting in line and other things that were irritating and did not at all involve me conjuring horrible mental images of my former boyfriend (MFB) clearing the rockslide blocking Flipper's ladyparts so they could have sex inside the minibar. The guy's four-year-old daughter was chatty too, despite the fact that surely she knew that I didn't give a shit who her favorite Wiggle was. But I listened and somewhere between "Yellow is the funnest" and "Purple is a big sillypants" I heard someone yelling for me.

I turned to see MFB waving as Flipper stood behind him looking sullen and no doubt wondering why he'd put her luggage down. (He carries her luggage? I thought surely she could manage both her makeup bag and her walker.) I half-heartedly waved back and turned quickly around, hoping he'd think that maybe I was with the guy behind me and not just clammy, nauseous, and when we first met. Oh, and that he didn't see the kid. Unless that would make him think that I'd gone all Angelina and was slowly replacing my Starting Lineup collection with other people's babies. (On a side note, Angelina reminds me of a game of Katamari Damacy, but instead of thumbtacks and mountains she just sucks up third-world orphans.)

I hurriedly got my ticket and raced toward the security line where--no, you've got to be kidding me--where MFB and Flipper were waiting. He gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and wished me what seemed to be a very sincere Happy New Year, even though by this point my New Year was eating a big bowl of dicks. We talked for a minute or two and I have absolutely no recollection of what was said, although I'm sure it involved the game, the view from our seats, and what a great job Flipper did as the baby-eater in Pan's Labyrinth.

See, it's not that I want him back. I'm totally OK with the quiet, frozen meal-heavy life I share with my stuffed dinosaur. It's just that of all the people he had to leave me for, it had to be her, this heinous twice-divorced goblin who'd done nothing but campaign for his affections since she met him. It didn't matter what his interests were, she liked that too. Dancing? She loves to dance. Art galleries? She adores art galleries! Other things that actually kind of make him sound kind of gay, like collecting vases and using moisturizer? Her favorites too! She pretended that she wasn't after him but she's a horrible actress and I'm not retarded, even though I totally fall for that "got your nose" thing every single time.

I know that love's not a competitive sport, but there's part of me that thinks that she won. And I lost. So what can I do? Except hope that eventually the pretenses fade and they see each other's true selves, which in her case probably looks a lot like Vigo the Carpathian from Ghostbusters 2 and I can only hope that their eventual breakup will end with him crouching on all fours, covered in slime and asking "Why am I drippings with goo?".

The security line was a blur. I don't recall removing my shoes or my belt or surrendering my hair product, but I did. And when I finally boarded the plane, as they were giving the last call for Zone 68 or whichever cargo-hold my Hotwired ticket was in, I threw my backpack in the overhead, collapsed in my seat, and asked the guy beside me very sincerely if he'd like to hear about the purple Wiggle.

Which in retrospect, sounds kind of dirty.

Homophones are Hard

From a MySpace profile I read earlier:


And grammar is a burden.

There's a Clean Getaway Joke in There Somewhere

Still sick.
Still home.
Still receiving messages from my mother.

J-Money's Mom (12:15:13 PM): I talked to Mrs. A this morning. Her son and some of his friends got caught with their hands in the air freshener machine at the local car wash, trying to steal the Christmas tree air fresheners.

I promise you, I'm not making any of this up.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Oh, You Don't Know the Shape I'm In

I'm home sick today which means I'm curled into a ball on my sofa, unable to stop the torrent of instant messages that my mother keeps sending me. Things like this keep popping up on my screen:

J-Money's Mom (9:56:22 AM): I just got an email from Jodi. She said her sister is going to have to put her dog to sleep and that Jodi's dog has a mass on her lung. Debbie had to put her dog to sleep yesterday so did my manicurist. Robin may have to put hers to sleep as well.

How the hell do you respond to that?

J-Money(9:56:50 AM): You have a manicurist?

When Mom's online, there is nothing more riveting and/or terrifying than seeing "Your buddy is typing" at the top of the window. I'm either going to hear that she just put a roast in the CrockPot or that a guy I went to high school with was crushed by a tractor.

Other less traumatic things I learned this morning in one ten minute flurry of messages:

--My dad cut an article out of the paper. She thinks he's going to send it to me but she can't remember what it is.
--She is doing laundry but is low on detergent.
--It is currently snowing.
--Have I ever called a business where they answered the phone "Yo?" This happened to her yesterday. It was either Best Buy or the dry cleaners. Just to be safe, she's not calling either one again.
--Hang on. She's going to find the newspaper clipping.
--Her friend Barbara is already cheating on Atkins.
--The article is about a comedy club.
--Victoria's Secret mistakenly sent a sweater to my mother that actually belongs to a woman named Diane in Montreal. Since it's my size, Mom is going to mail it to me, unless the pair of boots also listed on the packing slip (which are also my size) are delivered and then I'll get the boots and my sister Runtie will get the sweater.

[Note: My mother doesn't often steal from Canadians. She ordered a coat from Victoria's Secret and had several issues with the order, including the fact that not once but twice an empty box was delivered to the house. Both times there was a hanger in the package...but no coat. Mom eventually got into a shouting match with several customer service representatives and came to the conclusion that Victoria's Secret is that she's mentally retarded. Today the coat finally appeared along with Diane's sweater.

I don't think Victoria's Secret knows what to do if a customer orders any item of clothing that doesn't hook to a garter belt, come with removable push-up pads, or has been worn by a character in a Lifetime movie about adultery. In fact, I'm not even sure they carry real clothes. The Canadian's sweater probably came from Burlington Coat Factory.]

--The sweater is blue.
--Springtime Fresh Tide does not smell like any springtime she's ever experienced. It smells like detergent.

Updates periodically, including any other notes I get from Mom.

Shit, it's tomorrow's Montel that talks about women being impregnated by mischevious spirits (which I think is code for Kevin Federline) and some lady named Belda (Belda?) who's afraid of statues. Hmm. I may hold off on the Zycam.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

You Thought the Neti Pot Was Creepy

I recently discovered that I have those On-Demand channels on my cable system and they have seriously overtaken my life. Especially the Exercise On-Demand selections, featuring Chairobics. Oh yeah. People doing aerobics in chairs, which--as they tell you at the beginning of the program--is only dangerous if you attempt it in a folding chair. Or if you put your chair on top of a moving car. Or in the garbage disposal. So I watched it and found it way more entertaining than almost every Nicolas Cage movie, especially the part where the instructor said it was OK if you were too exhausted to continue and needed to take a break or pause the activities, which makes sense because you'll already be a chair. I'm looking forward to future titles in the series, Beanbag Boot Camp, Sofacize, and Yoga For When You Pass Out Facedown On Your Friend's Ottoman After Drinking Seven Vodka Tonics.

I also like Squidbillies the Adult Swim cartoon about a family of bigoted redneck squids, which reminds me of several people from my high school yearbook. Except for the whole 'squids have ten legs and can fire a jet of ink when threatened' thing. My former classmates stun predators by shooting out a cloud of pork rinds and illiteracy.

Anyway, I just watched Hard Candy on HD On-Demand, an insanely disturbing flick about a photographer that chats up a 14 year-old online and, without saying too much, she, ah, tries to show him the error of his ways.

My problem with this movie (other than the fact that it has several scenes that make you want to throw your eyes across the room) is that it opens with an instant message-ish chat between the two characters and I don't think anyone with less than seven hands can possibly type that fast. Complete sentences were flashing onscreen without any typos or grammatical errors, which I found less believable than a teenage girl knowing how to tie elaborate knots (just watch the flick)

That's why I've never tried to meet anyone online. I used to play football and broke several fingers, which ended my dream of being a QVC hand model, gave my parents another reason why Runtie is their favorite, and made my hands look like coat racks.

After watching me write something onscreen, correct it, rewrite it and still not make any sense, my potential suitor would be convinced that it wasn't a person on the other side, but a small dog walking across the keyboard. And because I called them "my potential suitor", they'd probably think I was a total loser who wears sweaters with ribbons on them, collects American Girl dolls, and knows the lyrics to most Eddie Money songs. But they'd be wrong. Because I effing hate ribbons.

Until I got to bed, I'll be trying to forget about that movie by actually thinking about a tiny dog standing on my PowerBook as well as other cute things like a baby monkey wearing a diaper, a snowman wearing colorful scarf, or Grave Digger the monster truck rolling effortlessly over a line of Chevy Novas.

:33 Seconds Until You See Something More Disturbing Than Her Haircut

I just saw this thing at Whole Foods and it terrified me enough to get my google on. (Yes, that's the lamest phrase I've ever written). It's called the Neti Pot and it allows you to use water and Neti salt (which I think was a major ingredient in the Hellacious Ham) to make your nostrils throw up. I'm so doing this every time I'm someone's houseguest...and not just in the bathroom either. I'll be Neti-ing at dinner, while we're watching ESPN's continuing coverage of professional billiards, or during communion.

Despite what the announcer calmly says, I'm never going to think that anything that makes your sinuses spew like [insert bulimic of your choice] is remotely natural.

The only way this commercial could possibly be improved is if John Mellencamp was singing "This is our country!" as this woman empties her face into the sink. Oh and if Sinbad was in it. I love Sinbad.

I Wanna Go Back And Do It All Over (But I Can't Go Back I Know)

So it's Saturday night and a mere fifteen minutes ago I was standing in line (alone) at Whole Foods getting dinner and singing along with the Eddie Money song being piped into the store. As my entree, I selected something from the hot bar called "Hellacious Glazed Ham". After three forkfuls, I'd like to remind you reader(s) that 'hellacious' is 1) in retrospect, not an adjective that I should've chosen to eat and 2) a reasonably accurate description of the taste, which is somewhere between spicy paper, a food category established by my former roommate and the way your skin smells after you've handled pennies.

It's 8:01 and Eddie Money and I have decided to blog our evening.

I'll leave out the hellacious ten minutes I'll spend in the bathroom.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Today is the Greatest, Said Billy Corgan

Who obviously doesn't work at my office.

Today I created a new folder on my desktop and titled it "I am a Genius". Then about an hour later, I realized I'd spelled it "Genuis". Touche, right brain.

What does it say about me that finding Boo Berry on Amazon was the highlight of my day? Oh yeah, I ordered some. This means I'm going to get mail! That I can eat!

Confidential To My Practical Neighbor (And By "Practical" I Mean "Lesbian") Who Likes to Flaunt Her Frequent Online Purchases, Like Having a Couple of Boxes Crammed in Her Screen Door Makes Her Somehow More Valuable Than Me: Oh sure, you'll laugh when I'm on my porch shoving handfuls of cereal into my face. Go ahead. But just try pouring milk on that marshmallow-free shit you always order from Levenger. Why do you need multiple briefcases and business card holders? No one who wears tie-dyed Crocs has a job that requires a briefcase. Unless that's where you store your Applebee's AppleBuddy Apron.

More words from me tomorrow, including dispatches from the Orange Bowl and some other stuff that will move the disturbing-upon-multiple-viewings picture of my family in Lucha Libre masks down the page.