On today's episode...
Attacks Comcast office, breaks
keyboard, phone, and hip
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
So my friend Tommy* and I went to see There Will Be Blood, which finally made it here after opening in approximately one additional theatre a week since its premiere in December. Hang tight, Alabama...it will reach you by 2017, right around the time you get microwaves, Furbys, and a new haircut.
Aaaanyway, if you haven't seen this movie, drop whatever you're doing (unless it involves holding an infant, in which case you should place it carefully on the ground) and go see it because it's amazing and riveting and I want to talk about this movie with everyone I've come in contact with.** The flick stars Daniel Day-Lewis*** as ambitious miner turned oil prospector Daniel (Day)Plainview who, before findin' black gold, could be seen on the West Virginia flag.
The theatre was packed, despite their grande-douche decision to start the flick at 6:10 so they could charge full-price for a ticket**** so we ended up in the very front row, guaranteeing I would be rocking a Thermacare wrap before the credits rolled. The couple beside us must have heard about the 2 1/2 hour run time, because they brought provisions. Every Plainview speech was punctuated with the crinkling of cellophane as they audibly chomped on something the size of a toddler.
At about the 90 minute mark, the girl part of the couple wrapped up her unfinished meal bits and whispered to her boyfriend/husband/kidnapper, "I had no idea this was gonna be so...dark." Ignoring the flick's themes of avarice, ambition to the point of self-destruction*****, and religious hypocrisy, the title of the damn thing has the word BLOOD in it.
I, of course, spent several minutes during the more tedious rig building scenes thinking of alternative movies that she would have enjoyed more. Things like...
There Will Be Parakeets.
There Will Be Scrapbooking.
There Will Be An Elizabeth Taylor White Diamonds Perfume Gift Set.
There Will Be Tempurpedic Mattresses.
There Will Be Dancing.******
There Will Be Continental Breakfast.
There Will Be Scrabble.
There Will Be More Scenes Where The Characters Join Hands and Sing Sheena Easton Songs Like "Morning Train".
There Will Be Oprah.
So seriously, stop reading and go see this movie so we can have in-depth discussions in the comments about the themes, characters, and Plainview's mustache (which was Selleck-tacular in its fullness). We'll wait for you, Alabama.
*Yes, he is my only friend. Thank you for asking.
**Much to the confusion of Shanna at KFC when I asked for a 3 piece meal, a diet Mountain Dew, and her thoughts about how unchallenged ambition like Plainview's balances between advancing American civilization while simultaneously threatening to destroy it. With gravy. Surprisingly, I didn't feel like having these discussions after watching The Game Plan.
***I never know where to put his hyphen. Daniel-Day? Day-Lewis? Dan-iel?
****After seeing TWBB though, I think $8 was a bargain. I would pay double that to see it again and would harvest my own eggs for an advance DVD screener
*****That same phrase is in the profile section of my resume, right after "attention to detail".
******This may have been an actual movie starring Jennifer Lopez.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
On today's episode...
He read her journal.
Learned that she cheated. Next time
She won't write it down.
As much as I love the 5-7-5 poetry jam, my enthusiasm for this series has dimmed, since it requires me to actually watch Dr. Phil.
I considered Dog Whisperer haiku, but most of them looked like:
Out of control Pug
Bark! Chew! Bark! Cesar says Shhhh!
Bark! Shhhh! Bark! Shhhh! Shhhhh!
I need to get out of the house.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Sigh. I'm still looking for work. Despite four months of interviews (I know, right?) at the Dream Job--and the handwritten thank-you notes* I sent after each visit--they decided to pass. Maybe it was my handbag. Maybe I was too pitchy. Maybe when they asked what my biggest weakness was, I shouldn't have said "bench press"**.
So it's back to monster.com, whose featured listing for my area involves the phrase "pest control".
I met a friend for coffee*** the other day and he continues to encourage my wild-eyed, bathrobe wearin' crazy ideas about being a writer. "You should start a sex blog!" he suggested repeatedly between sips of skinny latte. "That would sell ads, get readers, and put your name out there!"
Yes, yes, yes it would. The problem is that I'm missing the major component for said blog. If you replace "sex" with "Mama's Family reruns" or "books about whaling ships", then I'm more than qualified.
Maybe I should've put more sex in those thank you notes.
*I wrote multiple drafts of those damn things. A box of 12 cards yielded 4 that were actually mailed and 8 that were airballed at the trashcan. Now I have a drawer full of misfit envelopes, mint-flavored reminders of my failure.
**Also, when the HR director asks you to tell about a time when you were disappointed, don't say "2007".
***He had coffee, I had water with lemon. Because that's both free and protection against scurvy.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Yes, it's an excellent product, but there's nothing at all sexy or self-affirming about about opening up your medicine cabinet and seeing a stick of Secret Clinical Strength* deodorant.
Confidential to Proctor & Gamble*: I would've liked a more delicate name, instead of one that screams "Good morning, Stinky! Most people with pit floods like yours seek professional treatment!". Regardless, I continue to enjoy some of your other products, like Pringles, Another World, and the Devil.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
So a couple of nights ago, my friend Tom* and I went to see Juno, which everyone already knows is rad, quotable, and will inevitably be immortalized with a line of Dancing Elk track jackets sold exclusively at Hot Topic**. Not only was the acting fantastic, it was insanely well-written and--because I'm the type of person who fawns over screenplays like they're Kirk Cameron pinups--I raced home to wikipedia the writer, Diablo Cody.
I didn't know that much about her, except that every written description of her must include the phrase "former stripper"*** but it just took about three paragraphs and hey jealousy! hey jealousyyyyyyyy! She's my age, but with a published memoir, an award-winning screenplay, and a Showtime pilot. By contrast, I recently purchased a Wendy's meal with a credit card.
After rereading several accounts of her success and coveting everything from her Kerplunk! t-shirt to her two distinct eyebrows****, I resigned myself to doing what any overmatched twentysomething does: I sent her a MySpace friend request.
And despite checking my "sent requests" folder with an enthusiasm previously reserved for things like birthdays or brushing against the UPS man in the elevator, it's still a bit depressing. You know, sort of like having to pay off the Baconator in several monthly installments.
UPDATE: The new phone books are here! The new phone books are here! We are now cyberfriends (a word straight out of the Chris Hansen magnetic poetry kit). She can see my profile and learn about my affinity for embedded videos and backgrounds that won't scroll! And I can leave "Thanks for the Add! LOL LOL" comments sealed with a sparkle graphic, like maybe one with a glitter kitten with wings, maybe! Hooray!
God, I'm so alone.
*Sometimes my stuffed dinosaur and I need to see other people.
**Yes, I would purchase one of these. You're talking to someone who owns a variety of novelty air fresheners.
***But so were several one i'ed girls in my high school, including Candi whose Ugly Kid Joe-enhanced talent show routine ensured that her name would appear above the phrase "Truckers Welcome" long before it would be on a diploma.
****Note to self: Make appointment for grooming. You're starting to look like a Muppet.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Because I know you would like more J-Money Brand (TM) hilarity, I'm inviting you to my other other project, creatively titled "Things I Tell My Dog". Because it's a site that will document all of the mindless nonsense that I'm constantly (yet calm-assertively) assaulting Pigpen's little ears with.
Check it out. And send the link to your friends all chain-letter style and warn them that if they don't forward it to at least nine other people, they'll get pinworms or a Columbia House DVD club membership or something else dreadful and difficult to get rid of.
1) First, sad news. Pizza Hut has discontinued the P'Zone. I know. I know. I'm hurt. Depressed. And P'issed off. Couldn't they have given us some kind of warning? Sent in a somber looking gentleman wearing a lab coat and smelling of Purell to softly tell me that I only had two more weeks? So I could have reflected on all the good times we spent together with the meats, the cheeses, and the days without a bowel movement? SO I COULD GRIEVE, P'IZZA HUT! So I could grieve.
I was actually so upset last night when I called P'izza Hut to p'lace my p'ick up order (OK. I'll stop with the 'postrophes.) and they coldly told me that they were no longer serving P'Zones that I had to hang up, regroup, and call them back before settling--and it did feel like settling--on some stuffed crust misfit. Now I know how Angelina feels when she strolls into an orphanage with her heart set on finding a doe-eyed, flipper-limbed former boy soldier but instead ends up with a splotchy kid with a faux-hawk.
2) Know how Don Henley was all freaked about seeing a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac? Try spotting a Beatles decal on a RAV-4 and see if that doesn't twist your shit up.
3) We have now reached the end of the scatological portions of the post.
4) I was taking my trash out this afternoon, and--of course--saw the Sole Hot Resident of my building. Granted, the Other Residents look like Al Borland if his beard was made of pockmarks, so make of that title what you will. Regardless, he looked fierce, rocking a trench coat like Unsolved Mysteries-era Robert Stack (or Untouchables-era Robert Stack, your choice). When he got on the elevator, I tried to conceal my empty pizza box and full colon in time to make eye contact with him, which--according to several Seventeen magazine articles--is never a bad thing. Unless you're a Gorgon. Or in a prison shower.
So we locked eyes. He said hello. I said hello. And then he turned around and tried to decipher the various smudges on the elevator doors. So either:
--Seventeen is full of shit (Very possible, since they once encouraged me to wear jeans beneath a sundress).
--He is autistic and cannot respond appropriately to facial cues, even my very brightest Whitestrippiest smile. Next time I see him, I will dump a box of toothpicks on the floor and wait for him to say either "107" or "What the fuck?"
--He noticed that my complexion is less "traditional Peaches and Cream" and more "Quaker Oatmeal's Strawberries and Cream".
Sigh. Since getting a puppy, I've worn less makeup than Sara, Plain & Tall and that is not a look that works for me. My skin is the type that needs to be buried beneath layers of Clinique foundation, pressed powder, and a polarfleece blanket. Thank you, Pigpen, for shifting my priorities from "Have my lashes reached such an inappropriate length that I may ensnare a hummingbird?" to "If I leave you alone, you'll flood my sneakers with piss again." So needless to say, I didn't get a second glance as he raced off the elevator, unwittingly leaving his own smudge for me to stare at on the way to the garage.
That didn't stop me from adding 'toothpicks' to my grocery list.
5) Slightly less depressing but still depressing? The last credit in Robert Stack's 218-year film career? Butt Ugly Martians.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Just when you think I couldn't have a more ballin' lifestyle, allow me to share this detail with you. I spent most of the weekend entranced by The Dog Whisperer. I watched it live. I DVR-ed it. I read his book. And then I stared at Pigpen while having one-sided "Coffee Talk"-ish deconstructions about how Cesar Millan is neither a dog, nor a whisperer. I have attempted some of his methods with the Pig with moderate results. When I told him in a calm-assertive voice that I was his Pack Leader, he calm-submissively pissed all over the ottoman. But Cesar's Way has been a bit more effective than my previous technique, something that I like to call 'The Dog Screaming At-Erer" or its counterparts "The Dog Purchase Regretter" and "The Upholstery Scrubber-er".
My Friday night was spent running on the treadmill at the gym (What? Don't hate) and, of course, watching the D-O-Single-G Whisperer. The most enjoyable part of the program wasn't the Chihuahua with the perma-boner (a feature that was unrelated to his aggression problem but prominent enough for my mother to comment on it, both using the phrase "red rocket" and suggesting a TV-G solution involving electrical tape) but the fact that the TV was displaying the closed captioning, so for an hour, I got to read text like this:
I left the Y feeling as Pack Leader-y as ever before getting home in time to calm-assertively wonder how I was ever going to glue my mini-blinds back together. At least the ottoman stayed dry. Baby steps. Baby steps.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
My current status:
J-Money thinks that getting a dog was the worst idea she's ever had. In related news, would anyone like a Boxer puppy?
Which prompted this Facebook message exchange between my friend Craig and I:
Him: Today at 11:37pm
Given your status as a comedy professional, I occasionally ponder your life as a sitcom, a good one, moving from episode to episode. I think I am really going to enjoy the Pigpen arc. Partially because I do not have to clean up after him.
Me: Today at 11:41pm
Ugh. I'm not sure the Pigpen arc is going to make it through many episodes. He will most likely be a lesser character than Marcel the monkey.
My house smells like a zoo. A very dirty, pee-stained soon-to-be-targeted by animal rights activists kind of zoo, that also happens to have some Pottery Barn furniture. I have mopped 4 times today. I have done 3 loads of laundry (mainly dog beds and an unfortunately targeted bathroom rug that is now the color of one of the dog beds) and have a poop-pawed animal staring at me sad-eyed from inside his crate as I wonder: Is it worse to leave him in there all night and have to wake up to that delightfully robust aroma OR to have to bathe him tonight and clean up the subsequent messes that will occur in the time between the bath and when he's dry enough to be taken outside?
I hate my life right now...and not just because I made a Friends reference.
Him: Today at 11:43pm
While I was still living at home post-college, my sister got a purebred English Bulldog. Bulldogs are NOT smart animals, and he is dumb for a bulldog. Nearly stepping in a pile of puppy puke on my way to the bathroom from the basement one morning was NOT my idea of fun. So I do genuinely empathize.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Welcome, 2008! I hope that somewhere in your pockets, you have suitable employment for me, something that doesn't involve a cash register, a nametag, or handling anything that people eat. I still haven't heard whether I got the dream job, so in the meantime, I'm thinking of opening that Lasik clinic in my guest room. It can't be any sketchier than the one beside Orange Julius at the mall.
Anyway, I hope to start operating on eyes soon, because I now have another mouth to feed. No, I haven't grown a conjoined twin, although that would be cool if only because I'd always have someone to play ping pong with, especially if my twin was Asian.
The truth is that I am now a single mother.
It's obviously not what you're thinking, especially since I couldn't lure a man to my bed without the use of night goggles, a pickaxe, and a large burlap sack. No, my son is a bouncing baby Boxer. I named him Pigpen (in honor of the late Ron "Pigpen" McKernan), which was going to be what I was calling my first child, regardless of how many legs it had. (For the record, Pigpen has all four).
Getting a puppy probably wasn't the best idea since I have no source of income, but I am willing to cut my remaining few of my little extravagances for him... I can say goodbye to pedicures for a while, which is fine since I bought some nail clippers at PetSmart yesterday. Also, his food is surprisingly good.
He hasn't barked excessively, he's not a chewer, but he has gone all R. Kelly on the one rug I own. The score so far? Pigpen: 6, Rug: 0. He also destroyed the guest bathroom at my parents' house leaving it looking like Red Dawn, if the Russians had been made of dog shit.
I had no idea that motherhood sometimes required you to Saran-Wrap your feet.
Those incidents were right at the beginning though; Pigpen is on his third straight accident-free day, which already puts him ahead of Blackwater. He has a favorite pee place (the elevator) but chooses to, um, take the Browns to the SuperBowl on the corner of the main street, in full view of the bankers walking to work. There I was this morning, wrapped up like Bill Belichick in my hoodie and headband, holding his leash and waving at them with one Snausage-scented hand. From the lack of responses, there apparently isn't anything sexy about seeing a woman scoop a still-steaming pile into a plastic baggie.
Sigh. If only they knew I was also an eye doctor...