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Saturday, January 31, 2004

Some Men Just Stink

While I was sitting in Starbucks the other day, a man sauntered in to make a purchase. As he walked up to the counter, I noticed he wasn't alone. He was being followed by an odor that surrounded his body like a thick fog. I am certain that I almost caught a glimpse of a 'scent trail' that lingered after him, much like the one Pepe LePew sports in Looney Toons. The stench was not body odor. It was not halitosis. It wasn't even a cigar or the after-effect of a fish fry or a garlicky foreign meal. He reeked of cologne.

By the time he completed his purchase and left, most people in the shop were commenting on his most-liberal application of scent. It was expensive -- that's for sure, but it still stank to high heaven. It was stinky and expensive. Like caviar. The two are not mutually exclusive, let me tell you. Certain people seem to think that ($$$=pleasant aroma), but that's a faulty equation.

Men seem to be especially prone to soaking themselves in scent, not that women can't be guilty of same. But in my experience, the men outnumber the women by about 10 to 1, especially after 8:00 p.m. Men who use the stuff like to apply it to the face, the neck, the chest, sometimes even to the underarms and, God forbid, the testicles. Some men like to put up a protective wall of scent. But is it to protect him from others' scents or is it to protect others from his scent? Perhaps the answer is neither.

See, I have another theory. My theory is based on the scientific fact that men's noses cannot pick up or distinguish scents as easily as women's do. Most men I know have a sad little excuse for a smeller. I think most men have no idea they are putting that much scent on at one time. This is giving them the benefit of the doubt, I know, which isn't something I do very often. To prove my point, this is the conversation that took place after the customer left between two male Starbucks employees:

Man1: What kind of cologne is that? It's strong.
Man2: Whatever it is, he needs to learn to stop at just one or two sprays of the stuff.
M1: I think it's Obsession for Men.
M2: Maybe. It certainly smells spicy like that.
M1: Spicy? I don't smell the spice at all. It smells exactly like ketchup to me. (?!!!?)

Spice-scented, ketchup-scented or crap-scented, this is my plea to all of you cologne-abusing men out there: For the love of God, I'm tired of having to wash my shirts after giving you a friendly hug. I'm tired of not being able to drive around in a car with you with all the windows closed. Please, please stop dousing your body in cologne. Actually, most women I know prefer the natural scent of a man to an artificial one: so, we'd love it if you'd all give up wearing it entirely. Really, the only thing cologne is good for is creating a sexy advertisement. Oh, and giving us people another reason to bitch about you after you've left the room.

Friday, January 30, 2004

Props Fo' Da Man

Okay, not 'The Man', but my man, Aaron. He hadn't even read the blog from yesterday, and he came home with a better -- a much better -- card and a rose last night. Awwwhhh, he's sweet, isn't he?

Well, just so everyone knows, I wasn't upset about it, really. I just thought the comparison between the cards from different anniversaries was hilarious and so was the monotonous tone I applied to my voice when reading his words from the card: "Four years. Wow."

It's nice to know that he still loves me, and it's gotta be nice for him to know that I might even be willing to sleep with him again. Just kidding. He hasn't atoned for his sins that much.

Thursday, January 29, 2004

Things I've Learned At My New Job (So Far)

1) An awful lot of patients are listed as 'non-compliant' when it comes to following doctors' orders, even with a serious and/or life-threatening illness. In my not-so-humble opinion, we live in a society where the name of the game is 'instant gratification'. This explains why diabetics don't give up the sugar, people with cirrhosis don't give up the drink, and people with emphysema don't give up the smokes.

2) When someone applies for life insurance, and s/he signs the waiver for the disclosure of medical records, the insurance companies really do get all the records they can, sometimes back even 5 years or more. They really love records containing HIV/AIDS history, STD's, psychiatric/depression/psychological history and the patient's history of drug/alcohol/tobacco abuse. The reasons are obvious.

3) People who work for medical offices in the medical records department are even more disgruntled than other medical office workers, and they are more slack, if that's possible. Some of them are still very sweet-natured, but there is definitely an underlying sadness, probably due to the resignation of one's self to a career in hell. I am so glad I don't have to stay all day with these people. I am prone to have a depressive resignation to my boring-as-of-late life; I don't need it with my career as well.

4) Doctor's offices are as cold as the Arctic in the summer and hot as hell in the winter. I find myself going sleeveless in the winter and sweatered in the summer. Good way to get sick, I say.

5) Many people die in car accidents each year. Young people. People with their whole lives ahead of them. It's scary and sad.

Bonus
Yesterday was our anniversary. If you want to know what marriage is like, I can sum it up with excerpts from a couple of anniversary cards.

Excerpt from Anniversary #1: "A whole year later and I still can't believe how lucky I am ... I'm so happy you want to spend your life with me ... You are truly loved." Aaron wrote this to me.

Then, after a few years, one gets to the point where there's no enthusiasm involved anymore. Case in point --

Excerpt from Anniversary #4 (the current one): "Four years. Wow." Aaron to me, again.

I told Aaron that was disappointing. The husband has sworn that he meant that to be read in a happily excited voice, which I think could have been better denoted by the strategic placement of a couple of exclamation points -- Four years! Wow! See what a difference that makes? He states that he never uses exclamation points under any circumstances. I think it's time he ditches that self-inflicted punctuation rule.

I love him anyway. For you, Sweetie: Happy 4th Anniversary!!!!!! I am so happy to be your wife!!!!!!!!!!


Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Snow Day, Part II

Okay, I love the time off, but I'm starting to get just a little bored. Sure, I could be cleaning the house or bathing the dogs or even taking down the Christmas decorations, but who wants to do any of that junk? Not me, and I won't do that kind of stuff on a snow day, which is truly a gift from the gods. Even though it has become just a tad embarrassing to still have the decorations up, I refuse. No one should have to spend time doing constructive things on a day like today. Nope. No one. No way. So, I'll just affix a clothespin to my nose so as to not smell the canine members of the family and keep doing what I've been doing all day -- reading, watching movies, and playing games on line.

What I've Been Reading
I just finished a delightful (puhleeze, 'delightful'?) little memoir about a man's journey through the south of France on a scooter with his dog, an intelligent Dalmation. I know, I know, it sounds corny, but I'm happy to say it absolutely is not. It may be just a tad schmaltzy or treacly but not corny, definitely not. It's entitled Spotted in France, and if you like dogs -- frankly, if you don't, I won't trust you ever again --and/or France you'll love this memoir. It combines four of my favorite things: dogs, travel, France and food. What more could I ask for?

I also just started a new one entitled They Fought Like Demons. The book seems like it would be more up Tom's alley than my own, but I do love women's studies, so I picked it up. I am not far enough through it to really give my opinion (like anyone out there wants it anyway), but I can tell you that it reads more like a text book than a book for the mass market.

What I've Been Watching
I recently rented The Sea Is Watching, the story of the goings-on in a Japanese brothel in the late 19th century. This movie was Akira Kurosawa's last script. He died before it could be made. It was enjoyable and different, if a little trite. The scenery and costumes were stunning. Visually, it is a masterpiece.

What I've Been Playing
Of course I've been playing the old standby, Solitaire, when I need a good, mind-numbing experience, but I am going through yet another phase where I'm completely addicted to Word Mojo. Word Mojo is like Scrabble-for-one on speed. I love word games, especially those that have a gigantic dictionary, like this one. I have just recently recovered from an addiction to Text Twist, the anagram game. Since I've been so bored, I may have to start that one back up, too. That's how it all starts, doesn't it, justifying one little round of Text Twist because I'm bored? Next thing you know, I won't be able to show up to my new job for lack of sleep from playing word games all through the night. We'll lose our house, with my mind a close second, and then what'll happen? You tell me. Oh, the horror, the horror, I say.

Monday, January 26, 2004

I'm Jumping On The Snow Day Bandwagon, Too

Yay! A snow day. I'm normally home on Mondays with my new job, but Aaron usually does school work and then works until late in the evening. So, he's truly the lucky one. Guess I'm lucky , too, because I get to have him home with me today, and he's promised to try to make shortbread for a treat. A really big treat for me, being the raw foodist in the family. Now, if only we had some darn coffee in the house. I guess we'll just have to settle for homemade chai.

Just as James has posted, this is one good thing about living in the South -- the easy snow days -- but I do miss the gigantic snowfalls in PA, which would leave massive amounts of piled snow on the sidewalks from the snow plows. My friend Eric and I would literally spend hours tunneling elaborate snow forts into the mounds, complete with benches for seating and candle holders built into the walls. In the evening we'd bring out a thermos of hot chocolate and blankets, light the candles in the walls, and sit and talk for hours. We'd make the benches big enough to seat about six people, but it was always just he and I and maybe our dogs. The igloos would keep us incredibly warm. We did this well into our teens, and I have to tell you that if Charlotte had enough snowfall right now, I'd be out doing the same thing with Aaron and the dogs and chai.

Friday, January 23, 2004

Heather's Birthday Part II -- The Nightmare

The same night as the birthday surprise fiasco, I had the very first nightmare I ever remembered. It went something like this:

It was late at night. I walked inside Heather's front door. The house was dark except for a dim light in the living room at the top of the stairs of this bi-level home and a few night lights. I called out, trying to find someone at home, and got no answer. I slowly walked up the half flight of stairs from the foyer. In the eerily lit hallway leading back to the bedrooms I saw a heating vent and moved slowly toward it, as there were strange sounds coming from within.

As I walked closer I saw something struggling to get out of the vent -- a blue furball, about 5 inches long and capsule-shaped, with about 5 pairs of feet on the bottom and, on the top, about 5 pairs of hands. Tons of these creatures began to push themselves out of the vent and into the hallway. Even though they sound sort of cute, they weren't. There was something frightening about them, and I turned to run back home.

As I did, they caught up with me and tripped me. They picked me up and carried me down the hall. As I lay with my back on top of all their little hands, they started tickling me. They tickled and tickled and wouldn't stop. I started to scream, but I could not scream no matter how hard I tried. I was feeling completely powerless over them, and I was made weak from all the tickling and vainless attempts at screaming.

I thought they were going to kill me with all that tickling or at least make me vomit, which at that tender age was about my least favorite thing to do. Vomiting, I mean, was my least favorite thing to do at that time, not dying. I supposing dying was right up there, too, but I had no real experience with that, so that wasn't foremost in my mind at that point.

Anyway, that's where the dream ended. I woke myself up screaming in the night for my mother, who came running to see what the matter was. I screamed, "The tickle monsters! Oh, the tickle monsters are tickling me ... tickle monsters!"

Not to get all Freudian on your ass or anything, but the relationship between the events of the day and that nightmare are obvious: I was feeling powerless and unable to communicate during the birthday surprise party, and I found myself feeling those same things in the nightmare -- being unable to scream and powerless to stop what was happening.

The sweet part about that dream, for me, is the fact that the absolute worst, most horrible thing I could conceive of in this world at that time were creatures that would tickle me to death or make me vomit. Oh, to still think that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me whilst on this planet, how simple life and nightmares would be. Then again, it would just be one more thing that would look bad on my psychiatric evaluation, and I don't need anything else on there making me look any more questionable than I already do. Trust me.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Heather's Birthday Part I

Probably the most frustrating day of my life occurred when I was barely 4 years old. There was a girl named Heather who was a year younger and lived next door. We would spend time with each other very often as her parents and my family were friends.

On one warm Spring Saturday, Heather had a birthday. Her parents were making a surprise for her and invited me over to sit with her while they pulled it all together. I was completely unaware of what the gift was to be, just like Heather. We sat smashing ants on the cool cement steps leading up to her front porch discussing what the present might be. We each made a few guesses. I had seen the sawhorses her parents were using to outline our 'off-limits' area and, as I knew what sawhorses were used for, I innocently guessed that they may be building something for her, something like a clubhouse or dollhouse or a canopy bed or any one of those things little girls dream of owning. The time finally came to unveil the present, and Heather and I were led around to the back of the house.

Lo and behold, it was a clubhouse. It was made out of a tent, though, not lumber, and it had a little wooden sign that read 'Heather's', I was told, in some impossibly curly script. Heather was excited, but she wasn't as excited as her parents thought she should have been about the new gift. "What's the matter, Heather? You don't like your new clubhouse?" her crotchety old grandmother, Agnes, who resembled Endora from Bewitched, asked her. Heather replied that yes, she did like it but she wasn't all that surprised because she knew it was going to be a clubhouse. They asked her who told her that and, helplessly, she answered that I had told her.

"Well, that's not a nice thing to do, Ann, to ruin someone's birthday surprise," Agnes said. Everyone else chimed in likewise. 'Everyone else' meaning Heather's parents and uncle. They said if I knew what it was, I should have kept it to myself. Heather and I looked at each other. Neither one of us could explain, in our pre-school language, that I hadn't meant to ruin her surprise -- we were just guessing. I remember being sent back home without any cake, crying from the frustration of not being able to express myself, to explain that I hadn't ruined it for Heather, we were just playing a guessing game.

Explaining as well as I could possibly explain the situation, I told my mom what had happened. I thought she understood, and she took me back over to the Godfrey's house. I knew everything was going to be okay, now, because my mom could tell them what had really occurred. So, she told them what she thought had happened, and I waited for them to hug me and invite me back and apologize, but that didn't happen. Heather's family somehow convinced my mom that I had known all along what the gift was to be -- they thought I'd been peering around the side of the house -- and that I purposefully set about ruining the surprise. I was sent back home and didn't even attempt a further explanation to my mother.

I believe this story explains some of my actions and feelings as an adult. It is extremely important for me to be heard and understood ever since that day. It is also very important to me to know that people who love me 'have my back', as it were, for me to feel secure. The trauma of this situation also led to my first remembered nightmare, which is kind of cute actually, that I will share tomorrow in Part II.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

I Love The Internet

Lately, I have just been in awe of the accessibility and power of the Internet. Being the reference junkie that I am, I can look anything up I need to research at any time of the day or night. The World Wide Web has also made this world much smaller.

In my last post, I wrote about a blog that linked to mine. The blog was written by an Irani, I assumed, because Iran is basically the only country to speak Farsi, the language in which said blog is written. I knew that the author of the blog spoke some English because he linked to many sites that were totally written in English, so I decided to write him and ask him in what context did he link to my blog. I assumed that he may have linked to one of my posts chock full of anti-American sentiment or one of my inane and hopefully humorous posts to show just how insane Americans are. I was wrong. He has a 'Next Blog' link on his blog that links to random Blogspot blogs, and that is how one of his readers happened upon my site.

His story, though, is fascinating. It turns out that the author left his home of Iran in 1983 when he was just 19, as a refugee in the middle of the war between Iran and Iraq, and moved to Sweden. His girlfriend from Iran has since joined him in Sweden and become his wife. They have three children. He didn't speak a word of Swedish before moving to his new home. He shared his experience of learned the language by stating, "But now after 21 years of struggle through this language, I can say in Swedish 'What the hell am I doing here ?' :) I am just kidding." That statement made me laugh outloud. He also wrote that he wonders how he ever got accustomed to the 'awful' weather in Sweden, but he did, and now he actually likes it. In his new life in Sweden, he works as a robotics engineer for a famous electronics firm.

When I shared with him the wonder of the Internet -- the wealth of knowledge contained within and the shrinking of the world -- he maintained, "I agree with you about the World Wide Web. It has done a lot for those who have access to internet across the world. Today a lot of Iranians are able to communicate with their compatriots across the border, and I think it's a wonderful opportunity for us exiled Iranians."

Go and have a look at his blog, Abnuss. Although you will probably not be able to read it, there are quite a number of links, which are fairly obvious, to English-speaking sites and political videos of interest, along with some music and the ever-changing 'Next Blog' button at the top of the page.

Maybe the internet will serve an even better purpose for all of those who use it. Maybe when Americans and others start communicating with more people from all over the world, it won't became as easy to wage a war. Maybe I'm just a romantic idealist, but history has shown that it's always been much harder to kill an acquaintance than some unknown, propagandized brother. Most fear stems from the unknown. When we learn about new things and gain some understanding of new things, everything changes -- the entire world changes.

Monday, January 19, 2004

More Random Thoughts

#1 The Philadelphia Eagles shall henceforth be called the 'Philadelphia Feagles', for the same reason something that's hideous ugly is called 'fugly' and not just 'ugly.' It also makes for fun alliteration, doesn't it? Losers. You not only made yourselves look bad, you made me look bad. That's just inexcusable.

#2 Someone writing a blog in Farsi -- what the Iranians speak as opposed to Arabic -- has linked to my site. The sad part is, I don't know what the context of the linkage is because, obviously, I don't speak Farsi. My old drinking buddy, Farshad, did. Maybe I can look him up where he waits tables. It would be very interesting to know. This does explain the recent hits I've been getting from Iran, though.

#3 It's good to have friends in other towns. Thanks to Tom, I can go on a mini-vacation a half-dozen times a year. God knows I need my mini vacations.

#4 The thought occurred to me that I may seem like a weird kind of stalker -- as if there are any other kind. Most of the last post was up-all-night-due-to-bad-food-ingestion fiction, which is always the best kind. Most of my oddest posts have been written when I have had insomnia, or the runs and insomnia. I walk around half in a dream state and half awake. There really is a guy I know named Hillbilly. He used to be really hot until a few years ago when he put on a lot of weight and stopped wearing his false fronts all the time. He really does tell the most amazing stories about his past. I do not go and stand where he was standing to absorb his 'sexual aura,' nor do I fantasize about him. Women really do seem to go for him. He has had a hot girlfriend for years. Actually, to be honest, she has a great body/okay face, but her face isn't that bad either. (My husband did not force me to write this retraction, I swear.) Glad we got that settled.

Saturday, January 17, 2004

Elvis + Deliverance = One Fine Hillbilly

He's a modern-day Jethro Clampett with an iota charisma and slightly more brain power. He has the coloring of Elvis himself -- coal-black hair and skin the exact hue of sausage gravy. His name is Hillbilly, and he's a powerhouse of sexual attraction. I call him 'Hillbilly' mainly because that's what everyone calls him. It's what he calls himself. That, and, well, he is one.

When I run into Hillbilly a few times a year, I love to hear the stories he likes to tell. He often graces us with anecdotes about his childhood in the deep woods, a childhood filled with truancy and other illegal, redneck deeds. Many of his stories involve his brother and moonshine and how they would try to kill each other. Literally. Kill each other. With guns and stuff. When he recalls his past, I get completely wrapped up in his sexual aura. It seems as if he's telling his stories to an audience of one -- me.

I watch him as he enters the room in a flannel and one of his many Harley Davidson tees, his paunch playfully dipping over his biker belt buckle. When we make eye contact, the whole earth stops for a brief period of time, and I am sucked into that uncommon energy he possesses. I am so caught up in his magnetism that I almost don't notice he's forgotten to put his front teeth back in, the same teeth that his brother kicked out oh-so-many years ago.

Why on earth would someone like me, a foreign-film watching, NPR-listening liberal, be attracted to someone like him, I ask myself. Could it be that I long for Hillbilly to require me to wear Levis cut-offs, a shirt tied in a knot under my ample bosom, over-the-calf, lace-up motorcycle boots and force me to ride on the back of his hawg? Do I fantasize about him chasing me through the woods in all of his Deliverance glory, with me in the same outfit as before but bare-footed this time and drenched in perspiration, yelling, "I'm a comin' ta git you, girl, and when I do, hoo-wee, you better look out." No. I don't think so. I don't know where those thoughts came from just now, I swear. I don't know what I want from him, exactly. But whatever it is, I always have to remind myself that I am a happily married woman.

I know I'm not the only woman who feels this way. I have talked to a few who know him, and he affects them the same way. When Hillbilly enters a room, there is a palpable sexual tension that hovers around our heads like thick, blue cigar smoke at a poker game. When he leaves the room, I sometimes go and stand where he was standing, sensing the remnants of his backwoods sexual energy. It tickles every one of my nerve endings and lingers in the air long after he's left, somewhat like a stanky broccoli fart. It is then I usually remind myself I've been in the South way too long and must soon plan my escape.


Thursday, January 15, 2004

Car Lust Or Problem Solved

You know, I've never really been one to covet my neighbor's Mercedes or Porsche or Land Rover or Trans Am. Automobiles just aren't that important to me or my self-esteem. I felt just as confident driving my Ford Escort, before it was totaled in an accident, as I did when I've borrowed one of my sister's umpteen luxury vehicles. As long as the vehicle has a cooling/heating system, windows, a place to set my drink, and gas, I'm pretty darn satisfied.

Except, there is this one thing that has always bugged me about the cars I've driven -- my stereo is always hopelessly out of date. A nice stereo in someone's car can truly make me a green-eyed monster. It doesn't have to be anything special, really. It just has to be of semi-current stature, and I will go crazy with envy.

I believe I inherited this misfortune from my father. His cars' stereos were always behind the times, but that was fine, he thought, because he only listened to news or sports on AM anyway.

I remember as a child when we finally got an 8-track player in a vehicle. It was a copper-colored Cadillac with a copper leather interior. As a matter of fact, it was also the first car my family had with automatic windows -- an area where, at the age of 34, I've actually reverted back to 1979, as I have manual windows now. Anyway, that was the one and only time a car of my father's or mine has been current, stereophonically-speaking. Unfortunately, 8-tracks soon went the way of Kung-Fu Fightin' and, once again, our sound system was hopelessly passe.

I am about to visit, yet again, our dear, dear blogger friend Tom this weekend, and it seems as if I have the problem finally solved. No, it's not a new car stereo. Actually, the subject of the out-of-date stereo only becomes an issue when I'm making a road trip, as I have listened to my cassettes a billion times and it's very difficult to purchase new ones now. I really didn't want to hear the same old ones again and NPR fades out less than halfway up to Raleigh and doesn't come back until Burlington, so it was time to put on my thinking cap.

Here is my utterly and breathtakingly ingenious idea: I am going to tape my CD's on the stereo!

Brilliant, I know. You aren't going to believe how long it took Aaron and me to come up with this one. My excuse is that I thought our cassette recorder on the stereo had broken, which it had not, it turns out. I'm not quite sure what Aaron's was.

Please don't be jealous. I'm sure you have some brilliance hidden deep down inside of you, too. I'd almost bet on it. One dollar, anyway.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Bonus Post

I meant to post this two days ago, but I forgot. This guy is a man after my own heart. The funny things is, a lot of the people from this area who responded actually agree with his assessment of Charlotte as a city. I am not alone, for once.
What The ...

What The #1: While I was doing laundry today, I noticed that all of the new shirts we received for Christmas from Old Navy were made in a place called Lesotho. I am relatively well-schooled in geography, including having, at one point, every country in Africa memorized, but I swear I'd never heard of this country before today. This country is a self-governing and is located right smack dab in the middle of another country, South Africa. Unlike Monaco which also completely surrounded by France, Lesotho is completely landlocked, being entirely surrounded by South Africa. My first thought was wondering what the child labor laws are in that country. My second thought was: I got 100% on that Africa quiz. They are making that shit up.

What The #2: New Jersey??? New Jersey, America's armpit, is only the fifth state, and the newest, to allow same-sex marriages??? I was so shocked. Immensely pleased, but shocked.

Attention All New Jerseyites: You no longer have to hang your head in shame when you admit to your home state. As a matter of fact, you can actually have some pride in your state. This is going to take some getting used to, I know, but you can do it!Congratulations!

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

Things I'm Embarrassed To Admit (From Adulthood)

Boy, did I struggle to write this one. I have had so many embarrassing moments, from my young adulthood especially, but most would be a little too crude to print here, and you all already know about my trashy biography reading. So, here is the G-rated version along with the corresponding age in which the embarrassing thing took place. Well, mostly G-rated, anyway.

1) I sincerely felt that if Jim Morrison would have met and been in love with me instead of that ho, Pam, he would still be living. (18)

2) Almost every single time I write or type the word 'their', I misspell it. (current)

3) I thought most men were as well-endowed as they were in the porno movies I'd seen and my virginity-taker's was. Let's just say I was a 'little' let down. Har. (17)

4) Thought Keanu Reeves did a decent job of playing a redneck in Raimi's movie The Gift. (33)

5) The first time I took an hallucinatory substance, I 'got' the hidden meanings all throughout the Beatles' White Album, and then I drew abstract pictures on a sketch pad with pastels. I was convinced that I was going to be a famous artist because this style of art was so good, so unique, so special. Upon awakening in the morning, I realized I had just copied Joan Miro's Carnival of Harlequin , much a like a two-year-old might. I felt nothing but bitter disappointment, and maybe a headache and mild nausea. (22)

And a bonus, saving the most embarrassing for last: Even though I was in AP Biology and had a female dog at home, I still somehow thought that a canine's urinary tract and birth canal was the same thing. Duh, if I do say so myself. (17)

Monday, January 12, 2004

I'm Tired

Okay, okay, before you all start yelling at me, I've been a little too preoccupied to write the list of things I'm most embarrassed to admit from adulthood. I started a new job today, I've had insomnia for three nights, and I've had a headache for three days. Not excuse enough? Tough. I decided once again to list some incredible searches that brought people to my site. I am constantly amazed by the workings of the human or sub-human mind. I am also amazed that these people end up on my site because I must be on page 40 or something for a lot of these searches.

Searches By People With Very Specific Fetishes:
*Picture, very long hair, 22 year old
*Boys, short hair, long bangs
*Amanda Peet driving stick shift
*Dressed him in heels, shopping
*Armpit hair
*Ass hole hair
*Indian ass hole
*The biggest ass hole
*Armpit hairy women

Searches For All Things Bam Margera:
*Bam Margera house
*Bam Margeras new home (Since his family just got booted from the old homestead, I guess, ed.)
*Bam Margera car
*Bam Margera's age
*Bam Margera shirt
*Bam Margera tattoo
*Bam Margera's real name

What In The Hell Are These People Searching For or Too Weird Searches:
*Bible alarm
*Cows rear and pictures
*Son eats dad's ass
*Isuzu big horn smoking
*Big cook in the asshole (Hmmm, maybe that's why your tummy's been upset lately, ed.)
*Ass bead Elmo

Search By Parent Who's Pissed Off Their Kid Scored Higher Than They Did:
*Are the PSAT's less difficult now than in 1970

Search Probably By Some Clueless Snob:
*Christmas gifts for blue collar dads (Okay, let's see, I can probably answer this -- bowling ball, Lynyrd Skynyrd's Greatest Hits, shotgun, Juggs-type porn, power tools, #3 RIP sticker for truck, Billy Bass, meat, beer, teeth, ed.)

Saturday, January 10, 2004

Take Five

The idea for this post came from some guy's brillant 'Top 5' lists which I gleaned from the pages of Metafilter. Please be sure to spend some time reading through them as some of the entries are truly hilarious.

Five Things I'm Embarrassed to Admit (from childhood; adulthood to follow)

1) I thought the Quaker Oats guy was a woman.
2) There was a common Philly-area commercial on TV whose insipid jingle went: If you've got a passion for fashion and you've got a craving for savings, take the wheel of your automobile and swing on down to Ideal. As an illiterate and stubborn three-year-old, I insisted the name of the store was 'Iveal', not 'Ideal', and I would get all huffy and throw a fit if anyone dared to say I was wrong. I remember tears being shed.
3) I had a mad crush on Davy Jones of the Monkees.
4) My parents made me call my vagina a 'tinkler'.
5) The Carly Simon song 'Anticipation" filled me with utter fear.

Friday, January 09, 2004

As she finished the final page of the book, she wondered, "Why is it that I am more willing to give such time and energy to memoirs of people I don't even like than I am willing to give to my own life?"

Never underestimate the self-reflective power of a memoir like I Can't Believe I Said That! by Kathie Lee Gifford. It is truly an autobiographical masterpiece. Yeah, right. If I have sunk this low, it may be time for me to start forcing myself to read ficiton again. Maybe Snoop Dogg will come out with another installment-izzle.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

Update

I woke up today with the overwhelming feeling I should go ahead and accept the job offer that's been made to me. That still wasn't enough to get me to accept the job. It took some rather superb advice from Tom to sink it into my thick skull. Good job, Tom! I start on Monday.

If I happen to get the other job too, well, it may work out that I can do both. Bottom line is I need to work now. I can't put that off. And neither of the jobs is waiting friggin' tables. Waiting friggin' tables is a whole lot more difficult than waiting regular-type tables. Trust me.

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

This Kind Of Crap Always Happens

So, as soon as I made definite plans to go to England with funds sent by my friends in the UK, with no thanks to 'The Fund' here on the blog thank you very much, my phone rang. It was one of the employers that had turned me down about a month ago. The woman told me that it was a close call between the woman who eventually got the position and me, and now the other woman has to move out of state for a 'family medical emergency'. Now they want me for the position.

There isn't only the problem with the trip that I must with which to contend, there is another job that I really, really want that I'm waiting to hear back on. I might be able to do both jobs, if only I knew for sure. The woman who called about the first job wants my answer by tonight at 6:00! The other job hasn't given me a date or anything. It's open-ended.

If we weren't in such dire financial straits, I would tell her she's in this dilemma because she didn't choose correctly the first time, go on my vacation and hope the other job calls back. If I did that, my husband -- I had to mention him because he states that my talking about him on here is a violation of his rights/privacy. Sorry, Honey, but you know I had to do it -- would kill me. Then he'd go to jail and there'd be no one to look out for our family of animals, and that just wouldn't be good.

What to do, what to do?

Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Cotswold Mall Conversation II

I tend to get into the strangest conversations at this outdoor mall, always in the parking lot and always during a work day. In this scenerio, though, I was definitely the strange one, I think.

I had just pulled out of my parking space and was heading toward the outlet when a car in front of me pulled out. He stopped his car about three parking spaces ahead of where he pulled out, effectively blocking the aisle. He called to a woman entering her car. Said woman walked over to his car and gave the man one hell of a kiss. It was a shocking, but not disturbing, PDA. They finished sucking each other's tonsils, so I pulled ahead toward the woman.

Me: I'm next! Can I have some of that, too?

Then she turned around. This woman was gorgeous, a real natural beauty. I had no idea or I wouldn't have said that to her at all, for some reason.

Her: (without skipping a beat) Sure!

I'm jaded to the nth degree. I don't blush easily. Well, this time, I blushed. Hard. I started giggling like a school girl and drove away. Whether or not she was serious, I don't know and really doubt. I feel flattered anyway.

Monday, January 05, 2004

I Am Sometimes Mistaken For A Maniacal Killer

Yesterday, in a moist, sticky haze of snot and spittle, I watched the British movie 28 Days Later. It's been quite a while since I've seen a sci-fi movie I've liked so much. No, I wasn't taking any meds. While not being a 'thinking man's' movie particularly, it was still better than anything Hollywood could have created with the same script. I has a terrifically violent and fun eye-poking scene. Outside of the Three Stooges, it is difficult to see a good eye poking in a movie these days. I guess I'll just have to take matters into my own hands and start doing it myself. When you see me coming, it might be better for your eyesight if you put the side of your hand lengthwise against the bridge of your nose. Just a warning. Actually, I think the shot in the movie was more of an eye 'gouge', if you want to get all technical on my ass. I wouldn't do that to you, though, I promise. Or, would I?

See, my two best friends growing up were Eric and Lynn. I had this thing I could do that would scare them to death and which made me being the 'seeker' in hide-and-seek all that much more fun. I would take a wire hanger and unbend the hook at the top and tell them in as gravelly a voice as an 8-year-old can muster, "I'm going to gouge your eyes out!!!!!" I guess you actually have to hear me do it to understand just how truly frightening I can be, even in Garanimals and Keds.

It would scare those two shitless. They'd run from me while I counted to 100 or whatever before I came looking. While I was searching for them, I would laugh maniacally (yes, I can do that, too) and shout, always loud enough for them to hear, about all of the gougey-type things I was going to do to their eyeballs once I found them. Fun, huh?

On one particularly scary occasion, they hid together behind the snowblower in my parent's garage. I knew where they were because I could here Lynn sobbing that she hated when I got like this and that I scared her. When I pounced on them, I screamed "A-HA!." Well, Lynn pissed herself and started crying while Eric screamed. I no longer thought it was funny and never did it again. When I think of it now, I laugh my ass off, but back then I didn't want anyone to think I'd really gouge an eye out, even though it did give my a type of sick power. Nowadays, that might actually come in handy -- I might not be so broke or unemployed if the world thought I might gouge an eye or two out of its socket. Then again, I'd probably just be in jail, and that's not so good.

What do you expect from a child who was tortured constantly by her sister until I became taller than her in the 5th grade? You shouldn't expect anything good, I can tell you that much right now.

Saturday, January 03, 2004

Another Year, Another Friggin' Virus

I made a huge mistake the other day. It is a mistake I've made so often that I am horrendously embarrassed to admit just how many times I've done it. I said, "Hmmm. Everyone I know has basically had this killer flu going around this year, and I've been around quite a few of them. I don't think I'm going to get it." See -- Big Mistake.

When I was small, before age 7 when I had my tonsils taken out, I was sick constantly. I was so skinny and pale I looked like I had one foot in the grave. During this period of time, I remember my sister took me one day to the playground to shoot some baskets. I was so weak I couldn't even throw the basketball halfway up to the basket. My sister, being the teenage sadist she was, told me I couldn't go home until I made one basket. I tried and tried, but I was getting weaker with each attempt. My sister realized this but enjoyed watching me squirm. On my last shot, some sort of higher power took over and the ball magically landed into the basket -- straight in, mind you. It wasn't even a bank shot. I cried and yelled all the way back home about the abuse.

After my tonsils were taken out in second grade, I wasn't sick another day until I got chicken pox at age 15. Even then, I didn't feel bad; I just couldn't go to school because I was contagious. This wonderful streak of complete health, except of course for 8 broken bones, lasted until the age of 24, which is, coincidently, the same year I decided to stop treating every weekend like a frat party and stop drinking. Hmmm. Maybe the alcohol was killing the nasty germs. Who knows.

Because I had all of those years where I wasn't sick a day, I now loathe when I get sick. I hate it. It seems like I catch everything that comes around. Since I've been raw, though, I don't seem to get as sick as other people do, or for the duration others do. My husband is lucky to have a wife like me because I am the opposite of a big baby. I fight it and fight it and fight it until I'm so exhausted I finally give in and let it run its course. Maybe if I quit fighting, it would go away a lot quicker, but it's just not in my personality to do that. Until now, I mean.

I now give in utterly and completely to the massive headache, the sneezing, the runny nose, the body aches, the awful taste in my mouth, the itchy and red eyes. UNCLE. I give! Now, go away. You bastard, you.

Friday, January 02, 2004

FAQ's

As a new year is dawning upon us, I thought I'd take the time to respond to my readers' many Frequently Asked Questions, in order to save all of you the time and effort, and me as well, of asking and answering the same queries over and over. Here it goes:

How did you come up with the title 'Way Down In The Hole'?
Please refer to the very first post in the archives.

Did you really meet Sandy Koufax?
Yes.

If you hate Charlotte (or 'this country') so much, why don't you leave it?
I am trying to leave this town as soon as possible. Aaron graduates from school next semester, and he's already talking to a firm in Pennsylvania about a position. Another reason I haven't left this 'world-class' city is I have friends here with whom I am as close as I am with my blood relatives, but I have decided they will just have to visit me up north now. The reason I haven't left this country yet is due to family, blood and otherwise, and a lack of funds. I am currently checking into all of the 'ex-pat' organizations as culled from this month's Utne Reader. I do love this country, just not its policies, government, or egoism.

Do you still think you are a dork?
Yes. Absolutely, positively, YES. And I am the worst kind of dork. I am the type of dork who looks really 'together' and 'with it' on the outside but is shy, insecure, self-deprecating and nerdy on the inside. 'Normal' people are usually extremely thrown off when I open my mouth and start talking. The exterior does not match the interior. I kind of like that, actually. Keeps those 'Normies" on their pedicured toes.

Have you learned to type with your nipples?
No, and I have since stopped trying. I figured I don't need any more callouses.

Why should I donate to send you to see your friend Jood in England?
That's simple -- because you love me, really you do, even if you don't know it yet. That, and I know where some of you live/work.

What was the primary hypothesis Godel demonstrated in his work in mathematics?
In Godel's original paper published in 1931, On Formally Undecided Propositions, he demonstrated that within any given branch of mathematics, there would always be some propositions that couldn't be proven either true or false using the rules and axioms of that mathematical theory. This was the beginning, I believe, of the theory of 'Chaos'.

Okay, okay, only one of the questions actually came from a reader -- the one about Godel. It was after my post on the Chaos Theory and the book Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas R. Hofstadtler, where I wasn't too clear about Godel's actual inclusion into the realm of the Chaos Theorists. Sorry about the ambiguity of said post.

Does anyone know how to type a friggin' umlaut?

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