I've been terrible about updating this blog, so hopefully I'll be MUCH better about posting at my NEW blog -- http://texanthropology.blogspot.com
New city, new state, new blog. As Sinatra would say, "Newbie, newbie newwww."
(What?)
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Sex bomb
I think I've killed the sex life of two people I've never met.
Sometime in the last two or three months, the girl in the apartment below us got a boyfriend. A boyfriend who comes over every night and apparently pounds her like a jackhammer on speed until 4:15 AM. This is not an exaggeration -- every night. From about 2 AM to 4 AM. I know, because I hear every second of it.
It sounds like she is sticking her head out the window, shrieking wild sex yodels into the night. Possibly through a megaphone. Nothing could drown out the monkey sex... not earplugs, not fans, not pillows, not the fantasies running through my head of me busting through their door, snatching the megaphone out of her hand and beating both of them over the head with it.
To make matters worse, Mr. and Ms. Humpy McFeckface prefer to get it on weeknights, not weekends. I think they don't have jobs. Or maybe they work in a bar. A bar where the specialty is the oyster-choco-viagra cocktail with a twist of tiger penis, and employees get all-you-can-drink.
This past Sunday night they were carrying on louder and longer than ever, and I actually hollered out the window, "FECKING WRAP IT UP ALREADY!!" right about 3:57 AM. But they didn't hear me. I was no match for the megaphone. I wanted to claw my ears off.
So the next day, I composed a very polite, very direct letter and had Mikey go affix it to their door. He almost drew a big, red "A" on the door, too, but we couldn't find the markers. For your reading pleasure:
Well, it's been three nights and not a PEEP from the downstairs sex fiends. Part of me is worried that we embarrassed the poor girl so badly, she's too afraid to even have polite, quiet sex now. Or maybe loud sex was the only thing they truly had in common, and we've given them no choice but to break up. Or maybe they started keeping HIS neighbors up for a change. Whatever it is, now I feel like sending them a fruit basket, or yelling out the window through a megaphone "THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME MY SLEEP BACK!!!"
Sometime in the last two or three months, the girl in the apartment below us got a boyfriend. A boyfriend who comes over every night and apparently pounds her like a jackhammer on speed until 4:15 AM. This is not an exaggeration -- every night. From about 2 AM to 4 AM. I know, because I hear every second of it.
It sounds like she is sticking her head out the window, shrieking wild sex yodels into the night. Possibly through a megaphone. Nothing could drown out the monkey sex... not earplugs, not fans, not pillows, not the fantasies running through my head of me busting through their door, snatching the megaphone out of her hand and beating both of them over the head with it.
To make matters worse, Mr. and Ms. Humpy McFeckface prefer to get it on weeknights, not weekends. I think they don't have jobs. Or maybe they work in a bar. A bar where the specialty is the oyster-choco-viagra cocktail with a twist of tiger penis, and employees get all-you-can-drink.
This past Sunday night they were carrying on louder and longer than ever, and I actually hollered out the window, "FECKING WRAP IT UP ALREADY!!" right about 3:57 AM. But they didn't hear me. I was no match for the megaphone. I wanted to claw my ears off.
So the next day, I composed a very polite, very direct letter and had Mikey go affix it to their door. He almost drew a big, red "A" on the door, too, but we couldn't find the markers. For your reading pleasure:
Apartment #4,
There is an issue that's become enough of a problem that I must bring it to your attention. I don't know if you realize it, but your sex is very loud. I've tried everything I can think of to sleep through the screaming – using earplugs, pillow-over-the-head, trying to drown it out with the fan – but the screams are just too loud; nothing seems to work. For those of us with regular jobs, it's especially rough to miss that precious sleep between 2 and 4 AM on a work night, when you know you have to get up and try to function in just a few hours. We've all gotta share this tiny, noisy planet, and when we help each other out, our kindness comes back to us. Maybe you could try and tone down the volume of the screaming in the wee hours? Re-schedule your romps for a more decent hour? Or at least shut your window? Think of the great karma you will earn yourselves!
Thanks SO much for considering this problem, and happy (hopefully quieter) humping!
We dropped off the note Monday evening, while Mikey was doing laundry. Since the laundry room is right across from Apartment 4, he got to peek and see if the letter had been picked up every time he checked on the laundry. Finally, on the last load, the letter was gone. Mike and I stared at each other wide-eyed, partly giddy, partly frightened. He said, "You've seen the dude, right? Do you think I could take him if he comes knocking on our door all pissed off?" I assured him that surely this dough-y, aging frat boy would be no match.Well, it's been three nights and not a PEEP from the downstairs sex fiends. Part of me is worried that we embarrassed the poor girl so badly, she's too afraid to even have polite, quiet sex now. Or maybe loud sex was the only thing they truly had in common, and we've given them no choice but to break up. Or maybe they started keeping HIS neighbors up for a change. Whatever it is, now I feel like sending them a fruit basket, or yelling out the window through a megaphone "THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME MY SLEEP BACK!!!"
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
With butter and jam
Several weeks ago, my friend Angela came back from Ethiopia with the adorable little boy she and her husband adopted. His name is Noah, and it takes intense physical restraint for me not to slather him with butter and jam and eat him all up. I am always kind of twitch-y after Angela has pried him out of my arms.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Soft Batch Chocolate Chip Cookies
So, last week I started my memoir writing class, and oh my god, am I so glad I'm doing this! There are maybe 12 of us, and we are all ladies. I don't know why, maybe women are more introspective or something. But it's actually really nice. It's sort of inadvertently a women's therapy group. A lot of these women have some crazy, traumatic, touching stories to share, and I feel so privileged to get to hear them. Also, it's an excellent reminder that as humans we all share the exact same insecurities and shortcomings -- we all have troubled relationships with someone. And those troubled relationships are usually with our family members.
Anyway, last night was the second class, and I think one of my favorite parts may be the short in-class writing assignments we're given. I like these because it forces me put some stuff down right on the spot and not think about it too much. Last night's assignment was to write about a place that has meaning for us. Here's what I wrote:
Grandpa has Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies at his house. He puts them in different drawers every time to try and hide them from me, but I always find them. I don't like to chew them -- I like to hold them on my tongue and squish them to the roof of my mouth until they separate into individual grains of sugar.
I like to lie on my belly in the green shag carpet on the living room floor and hunt for change that's fallen out of his pockets. Then I like to crawl like a cat over to the window and part the dusty vertical blinds to look at the backyard. I don't usually like going out there, though, because I know there are spiders and ants, and my ankles begin to itch when I think about it. I like to imagine that there are jungle animals crouching or slithering or climbing through the low-hanging tree branches, the overgrown bushes and the weeds.
Later, I like to sit on the fat vinyl chair at the kitchen table, the one that spins the fastest. I spin one direction until the cabinets and the dingy yellow linoleum and the poker chips on the table are all a blur. Then I stop myself with a jerk and spin the other way. When I feel the Soft Batch cookies start to come back, I peel my sweaty legs off the chair with a loud thhhhhhhhp.
Anyway, last night was the second class, and I think one of my favorite parts may be the short in-class writing assignments we're given. I like these because it forces me put some stuff down right on the spot and not think about it too much. Last night's assignment was to write about a place that has meaning for us. Here's what I wrote:
Grandpa has Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies at his house. He puts them in different drawers every time to try and hide them from me, but I always find them. I don't like to chew them -- I like to hold them on my tongue and squish them to the roof of my mouth until they separate into individual grains of sugar.
I like to lie on my belly in the green shag carpet on the living room floor and hunt for change that's fallen out of his pockets. Then I like to crawl like a cat over to the window and part the dusty vertical blinds to look at the backyard. I don't usually like going out there, though, because I know there are spiders and ants, and my ankles begin to itch when I think about it. I like to imagine that there are jungle animals crouching or slithering or climbing through the low-hanging tree branches, the overgrown bushes and the weeds.
Later, I like to sit on the fat vinyl chair at the kitchen table, the one that spins the fastest. I spin one direction until the cabinets and the dingy yellow linoleum and the poker chips on the table are all a blur. Then I stop myself with a jerk and spin the other way. When I feel the Soft Batch cookies start to come back, I peel my sweaty legs off the chair with a loud thhhhhhhhp.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
What the feck!
So, I've been hearing a lot about this thing called a "web log" and I thought, "Huh! That sounds kinda neat, I should get myself one of them there things. It's all the rage with The Kids." So I hopped on the ol' information superhighway to do some research, and... Eh? I already HAVE one of these newfangled blog thingies? That I haven't touched in more than a calendar year?
Whoooooooops.
Yeaahhhh, I guess that's what happens when you get a job you actually enjoy instead of one you're willing to risk losing on account of Zappos, Amazon and Blogger. And then you spend all your spare time making kissy faces at your boyfriend. (Gross.)
But I'm back! I've really missed blogging. Or really doing anything besides working, eating, sleeping, drinking wine in my sweatpants and making kissy faces. Reading one of Mike's stepmom's books made me all introspective-like and caused me to realize I've totally abandoned writing, which is one of my primary joys in life. So I was inspired to sign up for a memoir-writing workshop at SMC to make me actually do it. (Do it meaning write... not, you know, "it.") I figure blogging again will be a good warm-up.
Although I feel pretty douchey signing up for a memoir-writing class. Like, I think my life is so interesting I should be writing memoirs? And how many other 27-year-olds are focusing on their memoirs? I mean, I guess it's been a couple years since I've puked from too much Smirnoff Ice, so I probably do have some deep and abiding wisdom I should share with the world.
Whoooooooops.
Yeaahhhh, I guess that's what happens when you get a job you actually enjoy instead of one you're willing to risk losing on account of Zappos, Amazon and Blogger. And then you spend all your spare time making kissy faces at your boyfriend. (Gross.)
But I'm back! I've really missed blogging. Or really doing anything besides working, eating, sleeping, drinking wine in my sweatpants and making kissy faces. Reading one of Mike's stepmom's books made me all introspective-like and caused me to realize I've totally abandoned writing, which is one of my primary joys in life. So I was inspired to sign up for a memoir-writing workshop at SMC to make me actually do it. (Do it meaning write... not, you know, "it.") I figure blogging again will be a good warm-up.
Although I feel pretty douchey signing up for a memoir-writing class. Like, I think my life is so interesting I should be writing memoirs? And how many other 27-year-olds are focusing on their memoirs? I mean, I guess it's been a couple years since I've puked from too much Smirnoff Ice, so I probably do have some deep and abiding wisdom I should share with the world.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Fecking kids
The hills approximately point five miles from my apartment building have been ablaze most of the day. I work about 20 miles from there (YAH, my commute is laaaaaame), and I can see the huge plume of smoke from my window here on the 10th floor. Twenty miles away, people! See, look:
Apparently a couple of wayward teenagers turned themselves in to authorities in connection with the fire. I hope Officer McGruff, Smokey the Bear and... Hootie the Owl, or someone, seriously rough those kids up in the interrogation room back at the station. Wait, is Hootie the one with "give a hoot, don't pollute"? Or is he the one with the Tootsie Pop addiction? Whatever, send 'em all in there for some hard-core vigilante woodland creature-style justice. Fecking teenage feckfaces.
Defamer's coverage here.
LA Times coverage here if you're into, like, legit news sources.
Fox News coverage, if you want to hear how Al-Qaeda is a likely suspect. (Totally, totally kidding.) (Actually, they're claiming Barack Obama is responsible. HA! Got you again.)
Apparently a couple of wayward teenagers turned themselves in to authorities in connection with the fire. I hope Officer McGruff, Smokey the Bear and... Hootie the Owl, or someone, seriously rough those kids up in the interrogation room back at the station. Wait, is Hootie the one with "give a hoot, don't pollute"? Or is he the one with the Tootsie Pop addiction? Whatever, send 'em all in there for some hard-core vigilante woodland creature-style justice. Fecking teenage feckfaces.
Defamer's coverage here.
LA Times coverage here if you're into, like, legit news sources.
Fox News coverage, if you want to hear how Al-Qaeda is a likely suspect. (Totally, totally kidding.) (Actually, they're claiming Barack Obama is responsible. HA! Got you again.)
Thursday, March 29, 2007
It's so easy... writing for someone else
SO! In addition to my own poorly maintained blog, I've also started writing for my friend Sara's much better, much more life-affirming environmental blog, It's So Easy Being Green. I was so flattered and excited when she asked me, because in addition to being a great friend, I also have a lot of respect for her green campaign and for her awesome writing skillz. (With a z, obv.)
Plus, I'm finding that it's much easier to write something when I have a purpose, and someone expecting me to actually write. I have so many painfully boring drafts sitting unpublished in my own personal blog because a lot of times I feel terribly uninspired by my ho-humish life. But! Now I have an excuse to write about, like, THINGS. Things that I'm passionate about and enjoy researching.
Hopefully along the way I'll come up with things to write about here, too, since I've generally been really bad about it. 'Cause you know what I just remembered? Writing is fun! Wheeeee!
Plus, I'm finding that it's much easier to write something when I have a purpose, and someone expecting me to actually write. I have so many painfully boring drafts sitting unpublished in my own personal blog because a lot of times I feel terribly uninspired by my ho-humish life. But! Now I have an excuse to write about, like, THINGS. Things that I'm passionate about and enjoy researching.
Hopefully along the way I'll come up with things to write about here, too, since I've generally been really bad about it. 'Cause you know what I just remembered? Writing is fun! Wheeeee!
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
"You see, you have this MAT, with different CONCLUSIONS written on it that you can JUMP TO."
Over the weekend, a co-worker of mine was in a pretty bad snowboarding accident wherein he fecked up some vertebrae. He'll make it through, but I guess he's currently in a full body cast and will probably be out of work for several weeks.
Upon hearing this, my first thought was, "Luckyyyyy."
Upon hearing this, my first thought was, "Luckyyyyy."
Friday, March 02, 2007
Return of the Lizard Lady
My face is falling off.
In chunks.
All over my desk, and the floor, and the front of my sweater. If I were eating right now, there would probably be face in my food.
My face is falling off due to my latest ploy to outsmart my acne. No... not acne, because I've graduated from acne. According to my dermatologist, because I'm an adult now (what! when??! no one asked me! it's a conspiracy! first I am too old for Urban Outfitters, now I am too old for acne!?), I don't have acne -- I have rosacea. OOOoooh, rozaaaayshaaahhhh. Doesn't it sound fancy and pretty? Don't you want to name your firstborn daughter Rosacea? DON'T DO IT. Because she will just be a big, dumb pimple with a pretty name.
Anyway, in an effort to trick my rozaaaaayshaaahhhhh into going away, I got a chemical peel on my face. I thought, "Hey! If I have someone peel my face off, maybe that will trick my pimples into thinking my face is gone for good. And then they will pack up their sebum and skedaddle off to a more appropriate, more pubescent home!" So I got this peel, which involved rubbing battery acid on my face. Which felt... burny. A lot burny. Except I didn't want to seem like a total sally to the lady inflicting the torture, so when she asked "how burny on a scale of 1 - 10" (8 point 5), I said, "Oh, a 4 or a 5" and also "THANK YOU SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER!" Because, see how tough I am?
And now my face is falling off, and I look very much like a leper. But I'm trying not to let it bother me, because hopefully looking mildly diseased for a few days will be a small price to pay for (eventual) clear skin. Not that I am holding my breath. Because I've had crap skin for nigh on 15 years, and nothing has worked so far. Not taking vitamins, or drinking 40 gallons of water a day, or smearing toothpaste on my face, or antibiotics, or prayer, or Proactiv, or Noxema, or Clearasil, or changing birth control pills, or hating people with clear skin.
And, in fact, I lost my face once before. In junior high, my doctor put me on Retin-A. This caused my entire face to flake and peel pretty much constantly. And because I was in junior high and totally stupid, I took my flakey, peely face on my church youth group's water skiing trip. Which was crazytown, because Retin-A makes your skin really sensitive to things like sun and wind. So after a weekend of sunburn and windburn, I looked like a couple of alligators were getting busy on my face. And when the older, cooler high school boys (well, "cool" by church youth group standards) started calling me "Lizard Lady," I, in a highly uncharacteristic move for jr. high Becky, embraced it. I didn't cry or call my mom to pick me up. Whenever they called me Lizard Lady, I would pull my eyelids up, roll my eyes back into my head, and flick my tongue in and out of my mouth. Like... a lizard? I guess? I don't know, but apparently it made me just gross enough to be awesome.
So if you see me in the next couple days, just be all, "What's up Lizard Lady?" and I'll make my lizard face for you. And then we can hold hands around the campfire and sing songs about Jesus and cry for all of our friends who aren't Saved, and it'll be just like old times.
In chunks.
All over my desk, and the floor, and the front of my sweater. If I were eating right now, there would probably be face in my food.
My face is falling off due to my latest ploy to outsmart my acne. No... not acne, because I've graduated from acne. According to my dermatologist, because I'm an adult now (what! when??! no one asked me! it's a conspiracy! first I am too old for Urban Outfitters, now I am too old for acne!?), I don't have acne -- I have rosacea. OOOoooh, rozaaaayshaaahhhh. Doesn't it sound fancy and pretty? Don't you want to name your firstborn daughter Rosacea? DON'T DO IT. Because she will just be a big, dumb pimple with a pretty name.
Anyway, in an effort to trick my rozaaaaayshaaahhhhh into going away, I got a chemical peel on my face. I thought, "Hey! If I have someone peel my face off, maybe that will trick my pimples into thinking my face is gone for good. And then they will pack up their sebum and skedaddle off to a more appropriate, more pubescent home!" So I got this peel, which involved rubbing battery acid on my face. Which felt... burny. A lot burny. Except I didn't want to seem like a total sally to the lady inflicting the torture, so when she asked "how burny on a scale of 1 - 10" (8 point 5), I said, "Oh, a 4 or a 5" and also "THANK YOU SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER!" Because, see how tough I am?
And now my face is falling off, and I look very much like a leper. But I'm trying not to let it bother me, because hopefully looking mildly diseased for a few days will be a small price to pay for (eventual) clear skin. Not that I am holding my breath. Because I've had crap skin for nigh on 15 years, and nothing has worked so far. Not taking vitamins, or drinking 40 gallons of water a day, or smearing toothpaste on my face, or antibiotics, or prayer, or Proactiv, or Noxema, or Clearasil, or changing birth control pills, or hating people with clear skin.
And, in fact, I lost my face once before. In junior high, my doctor put me on Retin-A. This caused my entire face to flake and peel pretty much constantly. And because I was in junior high and totally stupid, I took my flakey, peely face on my church youth group's water skiing trip. Which was crazytown, because Retin-A makes your skin really sensitive to things like sun and wind. So after a weekend of sunburn and windburn, I looked like a couple of alligators were getting busy on my face. And when the older, cooler high school boys (well, "cool" by church youth group standards) started calling me "Lizard Lady," I, in a highly uncharacteristic move for jr. high Becky, embraced it. I didn't cry or call my mom to pick me up. Whenever they called me Lizard Lady, I would pull my eyelids up, roll my eyes back into my head, and flick my tongue in and out of my mouth. Like... a lizard? I guess? I don't know, but apparently it made me just gross enough to be awesome.
So if you see me in the next couple days, just be all, "What's up Lizard Lady?" and I'll make my lizard face for you. And then we can hold hands around the campfire and sing songs about Jesus and cry for all of our friends who aren't Saved, and it'll be just like old times.
Friday, February 23, 2007
And more pants
I don't know what is going on, whether it is something to do with my astrology or what, but pants continue to plague me. And not just in the shower!
I am in dire need of some new pants. Pants that do not squish my belly out over the waistband, thereby giving me muffintop. Pants that do not create a coin-slot in the back when I sit down. Pants that manage to make my butt look full and spankalicious, not flat and pancakey. (I am so terrified that one day I am going to turn in to one of those ladies whose butt has migrated outward, abandoning the buttal region and setting up shop in hipsville. What if that is me one day!!! I can already feel my butt sliding down the back of my thighs. Soon there will be no distinction from knees all the way up to shoulders. agggggghhhhhh)
Anyway, I am perusing the Urban Outfitters website and I realize that I am officially an Old Lady. I am appalled by everything The Kids are wearing These Days. My options, according to Urban Outfitters, are to either wear pants so large I could smuggle WMDs in them, or to wear pants so tight that if I farted, the stink would be vacuum-sealed in until I peeled them off of me.
Exhibit A:
The "Boyfriend Pant"
I am in dire need of some new pants. Pants that do not squish my belly out over the waistband, thereby giving me muffintop. Pants that do not create a coin-slot in the back when I sit down. Pants that manage to make my butt look full and spankalicious, not flat and pancakey. (I am so terrified that one day I am going to turn in to one of those ladies whose butt has migrated outward, abandoning the buttal region and setting up shop in hipsville. What if that is me one day!!! I can already feel my butt sliding down the back of my thighs. Soon there will be no distinction from knees all the way up to shoulders. agggggghhhhhh)
Anyway, I am perusing the Urban Outfitters website and I realize that I am officially an Old Lady. I am appalled by everything The Kids are wearing These Days. My options, according to Urban Outfitters, are to either wear pants so large I could smuggle WMDs in them, or to wear pants so tight that if I farted, the stink would be vacuum-sealed in until I peeled them off of me.
Exhibit A:
The "Boyfriend Pant"
This is attractive? This pajama-pant looking, long-crotched besmirchment of the female form? Let's all agree that our boyfriends' pants are best worn by our boyfriends. Who have use for spacious crotchal areas in their jeans.
BUT! It gets worse.
Exhibit B:
The "Upholstered Sofa Posing as Pants" Pants
If these pants make a professional model look hideous, why would I even attempt to wear them? Because I want to make my breasts look as tiny as possible in comparison to the 4,000 yards of tweed hanging off my waist? Because I have elephantitis of the ankles, and this is the only thing that hides it? Absurd.
Exhibit C:
"Body Paint Pants"
I think if you wear these pants, you have to make sure that you are entirely pube-free. Otherwise, everyone would be able to see the outline of each and every curly crotch hair underneath your "pants," aka, "colored saran wrap." Because obviously you can't wear underwear under these things. The pantylines! Think of the pantylines! And while these pants kind of look cute on this girl, who is so skinny you could swing a cat through the gap between her legs, they would not look cute on me. There would most definitely be muffintop-age. And I don't even want to think of the camel toe implications. The horror!
So, I don't know what this means for my Old Lady pants predicament. Am I going to have to start shopping at, like, Chico's? And L.L. Bean? And watching "The View" and buying estrogen supplements and turning the air conditioning on full blast to combat my hot flashes?
Friday, February 16, 2007
Pants
One of my favorite bloggers is the super duper awesome Sarah Brown. She is a comic genius and my favorite kind of writer. My favorite kind of writer = someone who can take something you had never given any actual thought to, a situation/personality tic/feeling/etc., and describe it so perfectly that you go, "HOLY GOD, yes!! This is something I am constantly experiencing in my life, how have I never noticed this before??!" I love that.
I was reading yesterday's post, and I had one of those moments. The whole post is spectacular, but the part I totally connected with was when she described what an avid reader she is:
"Sometimes I am late to work because I read my shampoo bottle in the shower. Why? Because it is there. There are words on it. The same words as yesterday morning, but that really can’t be helped. If I don’t read them, who will?"
YES, Sarah Brown! ME TOO!! I could not have said it better myself! I have read every shampoo bottle I have ever used, thoroughly and repeatedly. I also mentally edit for grammar and punctuation. I stand there under the water, reading the words I have already memorized, when I should be dried off and entering the deodorant application portion of my personal hygiene routine. This affinity for shampoo literature has caused me a great deal of consternation during the past few weeks, however.
You see, my current 'poo/'ditioner have trivia questions on the back of them. Which is great for a person's shower library, BUT. It requires a matching set. My hair is all crazytown and has special needs, so I didn't get a matching set. I have "Drama Clean" shampoo (scalp tends toward greasy) and "Hello Hydration" conditioner (ends tend toward split).
This puts me in a predicament, because it leaves me with:
Question: Who, on average, do you spend the most time talking to on the phone?
Answer: Pants.
While this makes me giggle, it also sends my brain into spasms. I don't actually care about the real answer to the phone question. But I am dying to know what question out there is answered with "pants." Many a morning have I stood in my shower, slack-jawed and letting the room get blindingly steamy, wondering what question "pants" belongs to.
What is the British word for "undergarments"?
Which item on Spongebob is square?
What is the term for having your shorts pulled down by someone else, usually in front of a large group of people, probably at summer camp?
I wonder this every morning. (Or almost every morning. Sometimes sleep is more important than washing off the stink.) What, friends, is the right question? Suggestions are greatly appreciated.
Side note: One of my favorite movie scenes ever is in "Billy Madison" when Adam Sandler is in the tub and he makes Shampoo and Conditioner fight each other. Next time we are in the bathtub together, I will happily re-enact this scene for you, as I have committed it to memory. And then I will ask you to kindly step out of my bathtub, you pervert.
I was reading yesterday's post, and I had one of those moments. The whole post is spectacular, but the part I totally connected with was when she described what an avid reader she is:
"Sometimes I am late to work because I read my shampoo bottle in the shower. Why? Because it is there. There are words on it. The same words as yesterday morning, but that really can’t be helped. If I don’t read them, who will?"
YES, Sarah Brown! ME TOO!! I could not have said it better myself! I have read every shampoo bottle I have ever used, thoroughly and repeatedly. I also mentally edit for grammar and punctuation. I stand there under the water, reading the words I have already memorized, when I should be dried off and entering the deodorant application portion of my personal hygiene routine. This affinity for shampoo literature has caused me a great deal of consternation during the past few weeks, however.
You see, my current 'poo/'ditioner have trivia questions on the back of them. Which is great for a person's shower library, BUT. It requires a matching set. My hair is all crazytown and has special needs, so I didn't get a matching set. I have "Drama Clean" shampoo (scalp tends toward greasy) and "Hello Hydration" conditioner (ends tend toward split).
This puts me in a predicament, because it leaves me with:
Question: Who, on average, do you spend the most time talking to on the phone?
Answer: Pants.
While this makes me giggle, it also sends my brain into spasms. I don't actually care about the real answer to the phone question. But I am dying to know what question out there is answered with "pants." Many a morning have I stood in my shower, slack-jawed and letting the room get blindingly steamy, wondering what question "pants" belongs to.
What is the British word for "undergarments"?
Which item on Spongebob is square?
What is the term for having your shorts pulled down by someone else, usually in front of a large group of people, probably at summer camp?
I wonder this every morning. (Or almost every morning. Sometimes sleep is more important than washing off the stink.) What, friends, is the right question? Suggestions are greatly appreciated.
Side note: One of my favorite movie scenes ever is in "Billy Madison" when Adam Sandler is in the tub and he makes Shampoo and Conditioner fight each other. Next time we are in the bathtub together, I will happily re-enact this scene for you, as I have committed it to memory. And then I will ask you to kindly step out of my bathtub, you pervert.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Totally cheating
This is a MySpace survey I filled out. But I spent all week on it in between working (embarrassing), so I thought I'd cheat and make it double as a blog post. Because I'm the boss of my blog! So take that, complainants! HA!
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Tired of those same old 55 questions about me surveys? Well here are 55 I guarantee you've never answered.
(I stole this from ViVi. I think this survey is just what 2007 has been missing.)
1. Is your second toe longer than your first?
I don't appreciate the tone of this question.
2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
-is.
3. Look at your planner for January 26, what are you doing?
How can I answer this question accurately if you don't specify a year?
4. What color are your toenails usually?
Neon green. (Also, this toe fetish of yours is a little disturbing. Sicko.)
5. What is the last thing you highlighted?
Toenails.
6. What color are your bathroom towels?
No towels. Just Sears catalogs.
7. What color are the seats in your car?
Black and white, furry.
8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
Still do, sort of -- see question 7.
9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
I have been advised by my attorney not to answer any stamp-related questions before the trial.
10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
I'm not friends with people in square states. I stick with the squiggles.
11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
Strippers don't accept IOUs, y'all!
12. Who is the last baby that you held?
Mmm, baby.
13. Do you know of any twins with rhyming names?
Lefty and Not-Lefty.
14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste?
Toothpaste, no. Buttpaste, YES.
15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
Clown.
16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida gators?
Clowns.
17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
Forgive me if I find you bothersome.
18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
Types of paper in my house (an exhaustive list): construction, blotting, sand, note, toilet, scrap, recycled, tissue, towel, bag, mache, pad, news, wrapping
19. Closest thing to you that is yellow:
Do you sometimes wish it was okay to make Asian jokes?
20. Last person to give you a business card?
Your mom. I didn't know she was Senior Vice President of Whoring Around -- good for her!
21. Who is the last person you wrote a check to?
What is this, 1997?
22. Closest framed picture to you?
Frames are for yuppy douchebags.
23. Last time you had someone cook for you?
Mmm, baby.
24. Have you ever applied for welfare?
What a weird question.
25. How many emails do you have?
The real question is, how many shemales do I have?
26. Last time you received flowers?
Funny story: One summer when I was in, like, junior high, we found a little tortoise crawling up our driveway. He had some kind of red paint on his shell, so we named him Raphael -- like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who also wore red. Raphael ate lettuce like a champ and was totally badass, and we were sure that if any members of the foot clan were lurking about, Raph would get all ninja up in their faces. Except when we came back from getting ice cream that afternoon, we discovered that Raphael had been completely cooked by the sun in his little cardboard box. Man, but that ice cream was good though.
27. Do you think marriage is meant for only a man & woman?
Yes. I also think the Earth is flat, that evolution is a load of crap, that women should not have the right to vote, and that global warming is something Al Gore made up as a political ploy. I also think the moon is made of bleu cheese and that if we are all really really good little boys and girls, we'll each get our own unicorn when we die.
29. Do you play air guitar?
No. I SHRED air guitar.
30. Do you take anything in your coffee?
No -- I like my coffee like I like my men... hot and black.
31. Do you have any Willow Tree figurines?
Over a thousand, yes.
32. What is your high school's rival mascot?
Buried in the ground!!!
33. Last person you spoke to from high school?
Oh wait, I never went to high school. I just went: elementary school, junior high, The Big Time.
34. Last time you used hand sanitizer?
I AM NOT MY MOTHER! I AM NOT!
35. Would you like to learn to play the drums?
Only if it doesn't cut into my air guitar rehearsal time.
36. What color are the blinds in your living room?
2/3 neon green. (Highlighter ran out.)
37. What is in your inbox at work?
Peanut butter sandwich. Needs jelly.
38. Last thing you read in the newspaper?
"Jen Garner lost Ben Affleck’s ring down the drain and had to have a plumber come pull it out." You just try and tell me that Us Weekly isn't news.
39. What was the last pageant you attended?
It is a condition of my parole that I not attend pageants.
40. What is the last place you bought pizza from?
Rodent fun fact: Many historians suggest that marmots, rather than rats, were the primary carriers of the Bubonic plague during several historic outbreaks.
41. Have you ever worn a crown?
No, but I will wear a crown as I'm riding atop my unicorn in the next life.
42. What is the last thing you stapled?
"Becky's Book of Rodent Fun Facts"
43. Did you ever drink Clear Pepsi?
Did you ever eat a knuckle sandwich?
44. Are you ticklish?
I have diarrhea. And yes.
45. Last time you saw fireworks?
I'll say this: Lee Greenwood was involved. And also tongue.
46. Last time you had a Krispy Kreme doughnut?
My bed is made of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and my comforter is made of glaze.
47. Who is the last person that left you a message & you actually returned their call?
Parole officer.
48. Last time you parked under a carport?
SIGH. May I leave now?
49. Do you have a black dog?
Yes. No. Sort of. On holidays.
50. Do you have any pickles in your fridge?
Contents of my fridge (an exhaustive list): Brita water filter (UltraMax Dispenser; full), Thai Peanut Salad Dressing, lettuce (wilty), 2-Liter bottle of Diet Coke (flat), mostly eaten wedge of brie, mostly eaten kalamata olive loaf, 2 organic yogurts (blueberry, peach), milk (2%), coffee, mayonnaise (Best Foods), Asahi beer (1), bottle of wine (Viognier), butter (stick form), Country Crock Spreadable Butter *Now with yogurt (tub)
51. Are you an aunt or uncle?
Neither.
52. Who has the prettiest eyes that you know of?
Eyes are creepy.
53. When was the last time you saw a semi-truck?
Dunno, been under a carport all day.
54. Do you remember Ugly Kid Joe?
No. My parents were strict; I was raised in a bomb shelter. I wasn't allowed to Ugly Kid Joe.
Question 55 was too dumb, I deleted it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Tired of those same old 55 questions about me surveys? Well here are 55 I guarantee you've never answered.
(I stole this from ViVi. I think this survey is just what 2007 has been missing.)
1. Is your second toe longer than your first?
I don't appreciate the tone of this question.
2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
-is.
3. Look at your planner for January 26, what are you doing?
How can I answer this question accurately if you don't specify a year?
4. What color are your toenails usually?
Neon green. (Also, this toe fetish of yours is a little disturbing. Sicko.)
5. What is the last thing you highlighted?
Toenails.
6. What color are your bathroom towels?
No towels. Just Sears catalogs.
7. What color are the seats in your car?
Black and white, furry.
8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
Still do, sort of -- see question 7.
9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
I have been advised by my attorney not to answer any stamp-related questions before the trial.
10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
I'm not friends with people in square states. I stick with the squiggles.
11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
Strippers don't accept IOUs, y'all!
12. Who is the last baby that you held?
Mmm, baby.
13. Do you know of any twins with rhyming names?
Lefty and Not-Lefty.
14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste?
Toothpaste, no. Buttpaste, YES.
15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
Clown.
16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida gators?
Clowns.
17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
Forgive me if I find you bothersome.
18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
Types of paper in my house (an exhaustive list): construction, blotting, sand, note, toilet, scrap, recycled, tissue, towel, bag, mache, pad, news, wrapping
19. Closest thing to you that is yellow:
Do you sometimes wish it was okay to make Asian jokes?
20. Last person to give you a business card?
Your mom. I didn't know she was Senior Vice President of Whoring Around -- good for her!
21. Who is the last person you wrote a check to?
What is this, 1997?
22. Closest framed picture to you?
Frames are for yuppy douchebags.
23. Last time you had someone cook for you?
Mmm, baby.
24. Have you ever applied for welfare?
What a weird question.
25. How many emails do you have?
The real question is, how many shemales do I have?
26. Last time you received flowers?
Funny story: One summer when I was in, like, junior high, we found a little tortoise crawling up our driveway. He had some kind of red paint on his shell, so we named him Raphael -- like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who also wore red. Raphael ate lettuce like a champ and was totally badass, and we were sure that if any members of the foot clan were lurking about, Raph would get all ninja up in their faces. Except when we came back from getting ice cream that afternoon, we discovered that Raphael had been completely cooked by the sun in his little cardboard box. Man, but that ice cream was good though.
27. Do you think marriage is meant for only a man & woman?
Yes. I also think the Earth is flat, that evolution is a load of crap, that women should not have the right to vote, and that global warming is something Al Gore made up as a political ploy. I also think the moon is made of bleu cheese and that if we are all really really good little boys and girls, we'll each get our own unicorn when we die.
29. Do you play air guitar?
No. I SHRED air guitar.
30. Do you take anything in your coffee?
No -- I like my coffee like I like my men... hot and black.
31. Do you have any Willow Tree figurines?
Over a thousand, yes.
32. What is your high school's rival mascot?
Buried in the ground!!!
33. Last person you spoke to from high school?
Oh wait, I never went to high school. I just went: elementary school, junior high, The Big Time.
34. Last time you used hand sanitizer?
I AM NOT MY MOTHER! I AM NOT!
35. Would you like to learn to play the drums?
Only if it doesn't cut into my air guitar rehearsal time.
36. What color are the blinds in your living room?
2/3 neon green. (Highlighter ran out.)
37. What is in your inbox at work?
Peanut butter sandwich. Needs jelly.
38. Last thing you read in the newspaper?
"Jen Garner lost Ben Affleck’s ring down the drain and had to have a plumber come pull it out." You just try and tell me that Us Weekly isn't news.
39. What was the last pageant you attended?
It is a condition of my parole that I not attend pageants.
40. What is the last place you bought pizza from?
Rodent fun fact: Many historians suggest that marmots, rather than rats, were the primary carriers of the Bubonic plague during several historic outbreaks.
41. Have you ever worn a crown?
No, but I will wear a crown as I'm riding atop my unicorn in the next life.
42. What is the last thing you stapled?
"Becky's Book of Rodent Fun Facts"
43. Did you ever drink Clear Pepsi?
Did you ever eat a knuckle sandwich?
44. Are you ticklish?
I have diarrhea. And yes.
45. Last time you saw fireworks?
I'll say this: Lee Greenwood was involved. And also tongue.
46. Last time you had a Krispy Kreme doughnut?
My bed is made of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and my comforter is made of glaze.
47. Who is the last person that left you a message & you actually returned their call?
Parole officer.
48. Last time you parked under a carport?
SIGH. May I leave now?
49. Do you have a black dog?
Yes. No. Sort of. On holidays.
50. Do you have any pickles in your fridge?
Contents of my fridge (an exhaustive list): Brita water filter (UltraMax Dispenser; full), Thai Peanut Salad Dressing, lettuce (wilty), 2-Liter bottle of Diet Coke (flat), mostly eaten wedge of brie, mostly eaten kalamata olive loaf, 2 organic yogurts (blueberry, peach), milk (2%), coffee, mayonnaise (Best Foods), Asahi beer (1), bottle of wine (Viognier), butter (stick form), Country Crock Spreadable Butter *Now with yogurt (tub)
51. Are you an aunt or uncle?
Neither.
52. Who has the prettiest eyes that you know of?
Eyes are creepy.
53. When was the last time you saw a semi-truck?
Dunno, been under a carport all day.
54. Do you remember Ugly Kid Joe?
No. My parents were strict; I was raised in a bomb shelter. I wasn't allowed to Ugly Kid Joe.
Question 55 was too dumb, I deleted it.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Know what? Chicken butt.
Some people claim not to dream very frequently, or at least they don't remember their dreams. I dream a lot, especially during the hour of gauzy, late morning half-sleep I'm able to will myself into as the garbage truck bangs up and down the street.
Sometimes my dreams are totally cuckoo for cocoa puffs (ie: the world's cat population is trying to destroy all other forms of life, and I have to jam my family and as many dogs as I can find into my car so we can escape to a cat-free zone). Sometimes my dreams are totally mundane and boooooriiiing (I'm applying lip gloss, or scrubbing my bathroom sink). Other dreams are more legit, and they feature stressful, slightly modified real-life situations that are most likely freaking me out too much to thoroughly process during my waking hours. And there is yet another category of dreams wherein the specific events are preposterous, but the intensity of the emotion they provoke leads me to believe they are highly significant in some symbolic or veiled way.
Monday night I had a dream, the events of which were pretty unlikely... but it was extremely intense, and each of my senses were very much involved. I'm unclear as to where exactly I was and why, or whom I was with. But there I was with a handful of people, and we all had these bowls of food that we had to eat. So there I am, sort of munching and crunching away, when it dawns on me that the texture is a little funny.
What I am eating is not normal food.
It is all the discarded animal parts that you don't usually think about when you are eating a chicken sandwich or pork fried rice or any type of "normal" food items one might encounter as a carnivore.
To my complete and total horror, I looked down and saw that my bowl was filled with little eyeballs, chicken beaks, lobster claws, a pig's snout, and the thing that really sent me over the edge -- a delicate little duckling's foot. It was just as I picked up the little webbed foot that the horrible stench of all those random parts hit me. The odor was sour and vast and clinging -- like dumpster and vomit and the inside of the milk refrigerator at my old elementary school. My stomach turned like Brian Boitano in a triple-flip triple-toe loop combination.
Suddenly I realized that not everyone had to eat the nauseating appendage melange. After further inquiry, it became clear that anyone who was a vegetarian was excused. The rest of us were under punishment for being choosey about which animal parts we thought were ok to eat. If we chose to eat animals, we were stuck with the whole package: bones, beaks, tails and all.
I woke up from this dream completely drenched in sweat, with the foul stench still sort of lingering. I don't know if I believe any hoodoo about people getting important life messages through dreams or visions or burning bushes or talking walnuts, but the whole experience has left me traumatized enough to think maybe I should become a vegetarian, at least for a little while. I sort of doubt I could stick with it indefinitely, as I have all the willpower of a bar of soap. But for now, I can't pass the refrigerated meats section at Trader Joe's without imagining myself gnawing on a marinated chicken foot, and then my stomach gets all queasy, and my face contorts in ways that send small children screaming for their mothers.
Sometimes my dreams are totally cuckoo for cocoa puffs (ie: the world's cat population is trying to destroy all other forms of life, and I have to jam my family and as many dogs as I can find into my car so we can escape to a cat-free zone). Sometimes my dreams are totally mundane and boooooriiiing (I'm applying lip gloss, or scrubbing my bathroom sink). Other dreams are more legit, and they feature stressful, slightly modified real-life situations that are most likely freaking me out too much to thoroughly process during my waking hours. And there is yet another category of dreams wherein the specific events are preposterous, but the intensity of the emotion they provoke leads me to believe they are highly significant in some symbolic or veiled way.
Monday night I had a dream, the events of which were pretty unlikely... but it was extremely intense, and each of my senses were very much involved. I'm unclear as to where exactly I was and why, or whom I was with. But there I was with a handful of people, and we all had these bowls of food that we had to eat. So there I am, sort of munching and crunching away, when it dawns on me that the texture is a little funny.
What I am eating is not normal food.
It is all the discarded animal parts that you don't usually think about when you are eating a chicken sandwich or pork fried rice or any type of "normal" food items one might encounter as a carnivore.
To my complete and total horror, I looked down and saw that my bowl was filled with little eyeballs, chicken beaks, lobster claws, a pig's snout, and the thing that really sent me over the edge -- a delicate little duckling's foot. It was just as I picked up the little webbed foot that the horrible stench of all those random parts hit me. The odor was sour and vast and clinging -- like dumpster and vomit and the inside of the milk refrigerator at my old elementary school. My stomach turned like Brian Boitano in a triple-flip triple-toe loop combination.
Suddenly I realized that not everyone had to eat the nauseating appendage melange. After further inquiry, it became clear that anyone who was a vegetarian was excused. The rest of us were under punishment for being choosey about which animal parts we thought were ok to eat. If we chose to eat animals, we were stuck with the whole package: bones, beaks, tails and all.
I woke up from this dream completely drenched in sweat, with the foul stench still sort of lingering. I don't know if I believe any hoodoo about people getting important life messages through dreams or visions or burning bushes or talking walnuts, but the whole experience has left me traumatized enough to think maybe I should become a vegetarian, at least for a little while. I sort of doubt I could stick with it indefinitely, as I have all the willpower of a bar of soap. But for now, I can't pass the refrigerated meats section at Trader Joe's without imagining myself gnawing on a marinated chicken foot, and then my stomach gets all queasy, and my face contorts in ways that send small children screaming for their mothers.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Vacation, all I ever wanted
It's coming up on exactly 1 year since my last vacation. One whole year, people. That is a year full of Mondays. A year full of commutes. A year of setting my alarm. A year of Friday nights where I had to sit at my desk until 9:00pm.
NINE O'CLOCK.
PEE EM. On FRIDAY.
A year of eating lunch by myself, a year of bad office coffee, a year of the maintenance guy being in the ladies' room every single time I had to pee, a year of reading press releases that are so boring they made the mid-term election voter guide seem like a Crichton novel in comparison. A year of trying to plan outfits that are casual, but not so casual that they could be interpreted as inappropriate... and cute, but not too cute, because no one wants to waste their cutest outfits on work, because inevitably by the end of the day you feel crumpled and vaguely sweaty, and there is no chance of your cute outfit being revived for more exciting purposes.
And since that all feels a little dismal, and since I'm dying for a vacation, I've decided to reminesce about last year's vacation in Costa Rica.
Ah, Costa Rica.
NINE O'CLOCK.
PEE EM. On FRIDAY.
A year of eating lunch by myself, a year of bad office coffee, a year of the maintenance guy being in the ladies' room every single time I had to pee, a year of reading press releases that are so boring they made the mid-term election voter guide seem like a Crichton novel in comparison. A year of trying to plan outfits that are casual, but not so casual that they could be interpreted as inappropriate... and cute, but not too cute, because no one wants to waste their cutest outfits on work, because inevitably by the end of the day you feel crumpled and vaguely sweaty, and there is no chance of your cute outfit being revived for more exciting purposes.
And since that all feels a little dismal, and since I'm dying for a vacation, I've decided to reminesce about last year's vacation in Costa Rica.
Ah, Costa Rica.
Last year on Thanksgiving I had lobster dinner instead of turkey dinner. On the beach. In Costa Rica. This year's Thanksgiving is probably going to be a little lackluster after all that. So I'm just gonna go ahead and live in the past for a moment.
One of the first little towns I visited was La Fortuna, home of the Arenal Volcano. Here is a photo of the Arenal Volcano:
What I really love is the little sign pointing you toward the volcano. As if you might be standing there thinking, "Ok, I know there is a volcano around here somewhere... my guide book said it was in this general vicinity..." Because, hello! It's right in front of your face, and it's a fecking giant volcano!
La Fortuna is also home of this, which makes me giggle for reasons I cannot fully explain:
There is a lot of super fun stuff to do around La Fortuna -- volcano hiking, rappelling down waterfalls, whitewater rafting, horseback riding, karaoking with locals -- and I took advantage of all of the above.
Here I am looking stylish in my helmet, hideous Tevas, and crotch harness as I prepare for rappelling:
I wish I had actual pictures of me rappelling and whitewater rafting, because how badass, right? But sadly I didn't have a waterproof camera, so you'll just have to imagine me looking badass swinging from a rope and paddling a raft.
Here I am looking fetching in a large tarp atop a horse. You will notice a common theme in these photos -- me looking uber chic, classy and well-coiffed:
We rode our horses part way to the next town, Monteverde. Now, I had been told all I would need for my Costa Rica trip was a bikini and some sunglasses. Well, that was horrible advice. Because Monteverde is located in what they call a cloud forest. A cloud forest happens when you are so high in elevation that you have reached, like, another layer of atmosphere: the layer of atmosphere where the clouds live. Clouds like it there because it's cold. Girls in bikinis do not so much like it there, and I was forced purchase a puffy black jacket, which became part of my ever-more-stylish repertoire of activity-appropriate clothing.
In the cloud forest there were trees and vines:
And colorful birds that were hard to see:
And coatis, which were freakish, overly friendly cousins of the racoon:
And me looking sexy in a puffy jacket and ill-fitting helmet:
Actually, the helmet was for purposes of ziplining. Ziplining is an activity whereby you fly through the forest canopy, like, a gazillion miles up, on a cord, whilst peeing your pants:
After the Monteverde cloud forest pants-peeing experience, we took a long van ride to the port town of Quepos. Except our van broke down for a few hours, so we were stuck at this little road-side stand for a while. But actually it was really pleasant -- shady, right near a stream, and populated by an adorable little boy who occupied himself by singing karaoke to the Spanish music station that was playing on the TV.
Here are me and Beth, fellow traveler and tiny Texan, by the stream:
And here is my karaoke virtuoso boyfriend. He was aDORable, and totally pretended to be all shy when he realized he had an audience. But that only lasted about 30 seconds before he really turned on the charm:
We also stopped at an open-air market on the road to Quepos, but the only thing I reeeeeeally wanted there was not for sale:
Quepos itself was kind of eh, but really close by is the Manuel Antonio National Park and beachal area (yes, I did just say "beachal"), and that was aaaaamazing. I stayed for a couple of days at a hostel right next to the reserve, and this was the view from my hammock:
There were also butterflies the size of my head, which was frightening when I considered what other prehistoric-sized insects might be lurking about, waiting to carry me off to their giant webs or nests or dens or whatever. This butterfly had little see-through windows in its wings -- it was like nothing I'd ever seen before:
Furthermore, there was a lot of drinking. Drinking of tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas:
Drinking of beers on boats (WARNING: gratuitous bikini shots):
Drinking of beers in oceans:
And, finally, there were some of the most beautiful sunsets ever:
So, that is what I was doing exactly one year ago. And while picking my nose at my desk is pretty far up there on my list of all-time favorite activities, I would be enjoying it a lot more if there were a hammock, or a tiny umbrella, or a giant butterfly, or some Spanish-language karaoke involved.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Eau d' Febreze(R)
You know what is the best scent ever? Febreze. Now, I've never stood in a rose garden at dawn while a light, dewy breeze tickles my nose with the satiny scent of a thousand different buds and blossoms. I'm pretty sure that would smell okay. But Febreze? I'm willing to bet Febreze is way better. Febreze is like cocaine, except for your nose. Wait. I mean... I don't know, I've never done cocaine. I guess what I'm saying is, from what I hear, Febreze is a lot like cocaine -- it goes up your nose and you can't get enough of it. Except I don't think you can OD on Febreze, because if that were possible I'm pretty sure I'd be sitting in an urn somewhere by now. Because to me, Febreze is the olfactory equivalent of a glass of champagne, a deep tissue massage, and a really excellent blow job all rolled into one. So I want it as frequently as possible.
(Incidentally, I'm always worried that people will think I'm a coke-head, even though I've never done cocaine. I happen to have a very itchy nose, so I'm always walking around, rubbing my nose, which is what coke-heads do on TV. I especially try to resist rubbing my nose when I've just come out of the bathroom, so as not to invite suspicion. But then as soon as I think to myself, "Self, don't itch your nose," my nose gets all itchy. It's like hearing the word "yawn" and then trying not to yawn yourself. You are totally trying to resist the urge to yawn right now, aren't you? HA!)
Anyway, I think Febreze is heaven-sent. Or heaven-scent, since I love a good pun. So when I saw that they have Febreze-scented laundry soap and dryer sheets, I about spotaneously combusted with joy. (Is combusted a word? Or should it just be combust? Hm.) Fresh laundry? Delightful. Fresh laundry that smells like Febreze? Transcendant.
BUT WAIT, THAT'S NOT ALL. I got the stroke of genius to put the Febreze dryer sheets in strategic places throughout my apartment, completely banishing unpleasant odors! I stuck some of the little guys in my closet, which tends to smell like an elderly, flatulent, chronic halitosis sufferer is buried under the floorboards. The other day I was sitting at my desk at work thinking, "Wow, there is a very pleasing aroma around here, I wonder what it is." Then when I went to lunch, the lovely smell followed me. Because sometimes I'm slightly dumb, it took me all day to realize that the heavenly smell was me! I smelled like Febreze! And not old closet stink!
So, in all of my geniusyness, I put a dryer sheet inside the garbage cupboard. I thought this was an inspired idea -- cover up 5-day old pizza smell with Febreze! Except now I have this kind of weird olfactory dysphoria where I can't tell if my laundry smells like fresh garbage, or if my garbage smells like rotting laundry.
(Incidentally, I'm always worried that people will think I'm a coke-head, even though I've never done cocaine. I happen to have a very itchy nose, so I'm always walking around, rubbing my nose, which is what coke-heads do on TV. I especially try to resist rubbing my nose when I've just come out of the bathroom, so as not to invite suspicion. But then as soon as I think to myself, "Self, don't itch your nose," my nose gets all itchy. It's like hearing the word "yawn" and then trying not to yawn yourself. You are totally trying to resist the urge to yawn right now, aren't you? HA!)
Anyway, I think Febreze is heaven-sent. Or heaven-scent, since I love a good pun. So when I saw that they have Febreze-scented laundry soap and dryer sheets, I about spotaneously combusted with joy. (Is combusted a word? Or should it just be combust? Hm.) Fresh laundry? Delightful. Fresh laundry that smells like Febreze? Transcendant.
BUT WAIT, THAT'S NOT ALL. I got the stroke of genius to put the Febreze dryer sheets in strategic places throughout my apartment, completely banishing unpleasant odors! I stuck some of the little guys in my closet, which tends to smell like an elderly, flatulent, chronic halitosis sufferer is buried under the floorboards. The other day I was sitting at my desk at work thinking, "Wow, there is a very pleasing aroma around here, I wonder what it is." Then when I went to lunch, the lovely smell followed me. Because sometimes I'm slightly dumb, it took me all day to realize that the heavenly smell was me! I smelled like Febreze! And not old closet stink!
So, in all of my geniusyness, I put a dryer sheet inside the garbage cupboard. I thought this was an inspired idea -- cover up 5-day old pizza smell with Febreze! Except now I have this kind of weird olfactory dysphoria where I can't tell if my laundry smells like fresh garbage, or if my garbage smells like rotting laundry.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Finally, something to put on my buttbrush
If having kids means I am required to purchase something called BUTT PASTE, I think that is reason in itself to go ahead and have my ovaries replaced with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. Or something else that is equally as comforting and non-troublesome.Also, I have posted three times today. Can you tell I am so bored at work that I'm ready to spoon my eyes out?
DIY blasphemy kit
My BFF Emily and I are both recovering born-again Bible-thumpers, so I can always count on her to exchange eye-rolls and smirks with me whenever one of our still-thumping acquaintances does something particularly Jesus freak-ish. (Like our engaged friends who vowed not to kiss until they got married. Because that's what Jesus, who apparently was made of injection-molded plastic from the waist down, would do.) It's always more fun to have someone else to blaspheme with.
Today, Emily sent me a link to this awesome site where you can create your own church sign. This is hours of diabolical enjoyment. Here are a few examples of my handiwork:
Today, Emily sent me a link to this awesome site where you can create your own church sign. This is hours of diabolical enjoyment. Here are a few examples of my handiwork:
Now go forth and create your own blasphemy:
Orbit-uary
I don't know if you remember the moment when you found out that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Or that there was no Easter Bunny laying delicious chocolate eggs outside your front door. Or that the Tooth Fairy was just your mom. Or that Milli Vanilli were just a couple of pretty-boy, no-talent charlatans. These are the kind of shocking revelations that shake us to our very core and make us question everything we've ever known.
And that, my friends, that is how I feel about Pluto's planetary status being revoked. It hurts my heart.
I feel like that was one of the basic things we were taught as kids -- there are 26 letters in the alphabet, 2 + 2 = 4, the capital of Rhode Island is Providence, "i" comes before "e" except after "c," and Pluto is the smallest, coldest, cutest planet of the 9 planets in our solar system. Now I'm like, "What? 2 + 2 = Texas? HUH? The capital of Rhode Island is butterscotch pudding?! 'I' comes before 'e' except after 3.1415? Whaaaaa?" Nothing makes sense anymore. I mean, I don't know that much, but now I'm not even sure I know what I know.
I just think it's sad that a bunch of bully scientists decided to gang up on Pluto all of a sudden. What did Pluto ever do to THEM? Meanies.
(Illustration of Pluto being kicked out of the solar system):
And that, my friends, that is how I feel about Pluto's planetary status being revoked. It hurts my heart.
I feel like that was one of the basic things we were taught as kids -- there are 26 letters in the alphabet, 2 + 2 = 4, the capital of Rhode Island is Providence, "i" comes before "e" except after "c," and Pluto is the smallest, coldest, cutest planet of the 9 planets in our solar system. Now I'm like, "What? 2 + 2 = Texas? HUH? The capital of Rhode Island is butterscotch pudding?! 'I' comes before 'e' except after 3.1415? Whaaaaa?" Nothing makes sense anymore. I mean, I don't know that much, but now I'm not even sure I know what I know.
I just think it's sad that a bunch of bully scientists decided to gang up on Pluto all of a sudden. What did Pluto ever do to THEM? Meanies.
(Illustration of Pluto being kicked out of the solar system):
I know, I know. That was SO lame. But I couldn't resist. Heh.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Because, Feck Driving
As I near the 10th anniversary of my driver's license, I feel it is an appropriate time to examine my relationship with Driving. In the last few years, my relationship with Driving has been sort of, well, rocky. But I can remember an earlier time, a more tender time, a time filled with wonder when my relationship with Driving was new, and (who knows!) we could go anywhere together.
It started out very innocently... a parking lot here, a trip around the block there. But before too long, Driving and I were inseparable, spending all our time together. I couldn't keep my hands off the steering wheel! And finally, inevitably, I was ready to go all the way. With the gentle coaching of my driving instructor, I did it... on the freeway. I felt excited and nauseous and certain of my own imminent death and invincible all at once. I almost passed out when the instructor made what must have been his favorite joke: "Ok, and next time we learn how to make a u-turn on the freeway." Except I didn't know it was a joke, because he was foreign and had an accent, and for a second I thought maybe this dude didn't know the FIRST THING about driving in America, and holy shit, he was going to kill us both! Except I probably thought "holy heck!" or something far more innocuous than "holy shit," because at that time I was a C! I was a C-H! I was a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N (I-A-N!) and I knew Jesus would strike me down with acne if I were to speak any poisoned words of the devil, even if I only spoke them in my head.
Before long I dominated the freeway with my Driving, and I'd go flying along in my 1983 Toyota Celica convertible*, blonde hair whipping in the wind and a flurry of whoops and hollers and marriage proposals trailing behind me on my way to the beach, or along a winding road in the hills, or on my way to the House of the Lord where I would sing His praises, amen. Man, did I love Driving. I loved Driving with a love I thought would never die.
But you guys, I think that love might be gone forever. I mean, I get behind the wheel and I'm just going through the motions -- half the time I'm practically comatose. Now Driving is demanding more and more of my time and money, and what do I get in return? A sore back, a trucker tan, a responsibility to remain sober way too much of the time. I just feel like this relationship has become completely one-sided. And now I find out Driving is in cahoots with Carbon Dioxide to sweat us all off the planet? Oh, hell no.
That's why on Sunday, after having driven nearly 400 miles in the course of one week, a normal week, a week wherein no special trips were taken, I finally said "FECK DRIVING," and decided to take the Metrolink for the first time ever. And you know what? It was awesome. And weird. But mostly awesome.
See, there must be something about the way I look or my aura or my pheromones or something that makes strangers want to talk to me. Because I made no less than three new friends in the course of an hour on public transportation yesterday. And I'm not complaining at all -- I love talking to strangers, and the stranger the stranger the better. Barring, of course, creepy rapist/murderer types, which none of my new friends were.
While I was waiting for the train at the Covina Metrolink station, this adorable, smiley Japanese kid kept asking me questions about riding the train (I pretended like I had all the answers and never let on that I was totally new at this, too). Finally, still smiley, yet now somewhat frantically smiley, he came over and asked if I could help him buy his ticket because his English wasn't so hot and he couldn't figure out how to do it. How cute is that? So I was like his guardian train angel.
Later, on the Red Line, this really cute pregnant lady sat next to me. It wasn't until a crazy guy came on the train and was shouting meaningless obscenities that preggers made friends with me. She turned to me and told me that the problem with LA is that people are too much in a hurry, and they're too selfish, and they swear too much. And the whole problem would be fixed if people would just, like, help old ladies across the street and stuff. I found out that she's pregnant with her 3rd kid, and she's separated from her (verbally) abusive husband, though they're still technically married. And she's going to take the Greyhound to Georgia to visit her family... and truth be told, she's thinking of moving there because a change of scenery might be just what she needs, you know? So then we were BFFs and she patted me on the knee when she left and gave me blessings from god.
Pretty much immediately after that, an older man with a cane fell almost comically into the seat vacated by preggers. He gave me a sheepish laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to make statements that I was completely incapable of understanding. I think because he was speaking a combination of broken English and Crazy Old Man. I was able to figure out after a while that he was trying to tell me he spoke French, except he was saying something like, "I espeak Francey." He later tried to convince me that he also spoke German and Russian, so apparently it's just his English that's a little spotty.
But, new friends aside, taking the Metro was a very zen experience. My right butt cheek didn't cramp as it usually does when my foot flits back and forth from the gas to the brake during an hour+ of LA traffic. (Otherwise known as a visit to the "L.A. Festival of Traffic" -- (C) baddminton.com). And it didn't matter that I completely zoned out the whole time, because there was no risk of me drifting across a freeway and causing a massive pile-up. It was wonderful, and it's made me realize that maybe it's ok if I take a break from Driving for a while. Maybe I don't need Driving as much as I thought I did -- it's not healthy to be that co-dependent, anyway. So, here goes...
Dear Driving,
It's been real, but I've met someone new. I mean, you had to have seen this coming. You and Carbon Dioxide have been cavorting around behind my back for all these years... did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't get even? Well, I've got news for you -- I've discovered Riding. And I think Riding and I are going to be very happy together, maybe happier than you and I ever were. I mean, I could never be completely over you, and I know I'll still need you sometimes. But I'm pretty upset right now, and I think it's best if we take a break. I'm so SICK of shelling out hundreds of dollars a month to support your filthy gasoline addiction. Do you know how many beers I could get for the price of just one tank of gas? Beers that I could actually drink, guilt-free, if I didn't have to worry about YOU! I just feel like you're being really selfish. Riding never asks me to stay sober. Riding also never asks me to park, and don't even get me started on THAT.
I mean, yes, it's going to be hard. Especially late at night, and also around the holidays, when Riding won't be there for me as much. But I think this is for the best, for everyone involved. See you later, Driving. Keep in touch.
Your friend,
Becky
* I use the word "convertible" here to refer to a vehicular state of being in which there was no "top." My car wasn't actually "manufactured" this way... it was more the result of a whim of one of its previous owners. So even though there was mold in the back seat, there was still the desired effect of long, blonde hair whipping about in the breeze on sunny California highways. Think the opening credits of "The Hills," except way, way, way lower budget.
It started out very innocently... a parking lot here, a trip around the block there. But before too long, Driving and I were inseparable, spending all our time together. I couldn't keep my hands off the steering wheel! And finally, inevitably, I was ready to go all the way. With the gentle coaching of my driving instructor, I did it... on the freeway. I felt excited and nauseous and certain of my own imminent death and invincible all at once. I almost passed out when the instructor made what must have been his favorite joke: "Ok, and next time we learn how to make a u-turn on the freeway." Except I didn't know it was a joke, because he was foreign and had an accent, and for a second I thought maybe this dude didn't know the FIRST THING about driving in America, and holy shit, he was going to kill us both! Except I probably thought "holy heck!" or something far more innocuous than "holy shit," because at that time I was a C! I was a C-H! I was a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N (I-A-N!) and I knew Jesus would strike me down with acne if I were to speak any poisoned words of the devil, even if I only spoke them in my head.
Before long I dominated the freeway with my Driving, and I'd go flying along in my 1983 Toyota Celica convertible*, blonde hair whipping in the wind and a flurry of whoops and hollers and marriage proposals trailing behind me on my way to the beach, or along a winding road in the hills, or on my way to the House of the Lord where I would sing His praises, amen. Man, did I love Driving. I loved Driving with a love I thought would never die.
But you guys, I think that love might be gone forever. I mean, I get behind the wheel and I'm just going through the motions -- half the time I'm practically comatose. Now Driving is demanding more and more of my time and money, and what do I get in return? A sore back, a trucker tan, a responsibility to remain sober way too much of the time. I just feel like this relationship has become completely one-sided. And now I find out Driving is in cahoots with Carbon Dioxide to sweat us all off the planet? Oh, hell no.
That's why on Sunday, after having driven nearly 400 miles in the course of one week, a normal week, a week wherein no special trips were taken, I finally said "FECK DRIVING," and decided to take the Metrolink for the first time ever. And you know what? It was awesome. And weird. But mostly awesome.
See, there must be something about the way I look or my aura or my pheromones or something that makes strangers want to talk to me. Because I made no less than three new friends in the course of an hour on public transportation yesterday. And I'm not complaining at all -- I love talking to strangers, and the stranger the stranger the better. Barring, of course, creepy rapist/murderer types, which none of my new friends were.
While I was waiting for the train at the Covina Metrolink station, this adorable, smiley Japanese kid kept asking me questions about riding the train (I pretended like I had all the answers and never let on that I was totally new at this, too). Finally, still smiley, yet now somewhat frantically smiley, he came over and asked if I could help him buy his ticket because his English wasn't so hot and he couldn't figure out how to do it. How cute is that? So I was like his guardian train angel.
Later, on the Red Line, this really cute pregnant lady sat next to me. It wasn't until a crazy guy came on the train and was shouting meaningless obscenities that preggers made friends with me. She turned to me and told me that the problem with LA is that people are too much in a hurry, and they're too selfish, and they swear too much. And the whole problem would be fixed if people would just, like, help old ladies across the street and stuff. I found out that she's pregnant with her 3rd kid, and she's separated from her (verbally) abusive husband, though they're still technically married. And she's going to take the Greyhound to Georgia to visit her family... and truth be told, she's thinking of moving there because a change of scenery might be just what she needs, you know? So then we were BFFs and she patted me on the knee when she left and gave me blessings from god.
Pretty much immediately after that, an older man with a cane fell almost comically into the seat vacated by preggers. He gave me a sheepish laugh and shrugged his shoulders, and then proceeded to make statements that I was completely incapable of understanding. I think because he was speaking a combination of broken English and Crazy Old Man. I was able to figure out after a while that he was trying to tell me he spoke French, except he was saying something like, "I espeak Francey." He later tried to convince me that he also spoke German and Russian, so apparently it's just his English that's a little spotty.
But, new friends aside, taking the Metro was a very zen experience. My right butt cheek didn't cramp as it usually does when my foot flits back and forth from the gas to the brake during an hour+ of LA traffic. (Otherwise known as a visit to the "L.A. Festival of Traffic" -- (C) baddminton.com). And it didn't matter that I completely zoned out the whole time, because there was no risk of me drifting across a freeway and causing a massive pile-up. It was wonderful, and it's made me realize that maybe it's ok if I take a break from Driving for a while. Maybe I don't need Driving as much as I thought I did -- it's not healthy to be that co-dependent, anyway. So, here goes...
Dear Driving,
It's been real, but I've met someone new. I mean, you had to have seen this coming. You and Carbon Dioxide have been cavorting around behind my back for all these years... did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think I wouldn't get even? Well, I've got news for you -- I've discovered Riding. And I think Riding and I are going to be very happy together, maybe happier than you and I ever were. I mean, I could never be completely over you, and I know I'll still need you sometimes. But I'm pretty upset right now, and I think it's best if we take a break. I'm so SICK of shelling out hundreds of dollars a month to support your filthy gasoline addiction. Do you know how many beers I could get for the price of just one tank of gas? Beers that I could actually drink, guilt-free, if I didn't have to worry about YOU! I just feel like you're being really selfish. Riding never asks me to stay sober. Riding also never asks me to park, and don't even get me started on THAT.
I mean, yes, it's going to be hard. Especially late at night, and also around the holidays, when Riding won't be there for me as much. But I think this is for the best, for everyone involved. See you later, Driving. Keep in touch.
Your friend,
Becky
* I use the word "convertible" here to refer to a vehicular state of being in which there was no "top." My car wasn't actually "manufactured" this way... it was more the result of a whim of one of its previous owners. So even though there was mold in the back seat, there was still the desired effect of long, blonde hair whipping about in the breeze on sunny California highways. Think the opening credits of "The Hills," except way, way, way lower budget.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Puppy love
So, last September I was feeling the tiniest bit lonely, and I was also frequently bored at work. Which was a bad combination because the boredom at work led to me pretty much camping out at www.1-800-save-a-pet.org, where I would spend hours clicking on pictures of dogs and reading about their "special needs" and plotting how I would scoop them all up and take them home with me where we would frolick in the back yard together and then watch TV marathons of "The Dog Whisperer" in one big, furry, slobbery heap on the couch. Because if I had a houseful of puppies to come home to, it would surely be impossible to be lonely. There would be too much cuddlin' and wrasslin' and lickin' and general mayhem to even consider being lonely.
So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.
Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.
And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"
And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.
Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.
And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.
Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.
But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.
Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.
Sleepy Rico in Em's lap
"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."
"Noooo, I love YOU more!"
Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??
Snuggling is definitely what he does best.
So one Saturday, I just happened to be in the general vicinity of my local Petco, where the pets go, and oh, huh, isn't that funny, they coincidentally happen to have pet adoptions at Petco on Saturdays. So I convinced Emily, who was with me, that maybe we should just poke our heads in, just to see what was going on, because they were just right there, the puppies and the kitties, just across the parking lot from Target, and what was the harm in just going in and saying hello to them? None! Of course, none.
Upon walking into the Petco, our voices shot up about 42 octaves because Ooooooooohhhhhh!!! The puppiiiiiiiiiies! They were soooooooo cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute!!!! And ohmygod look at the tiny tiny kitty! It only has THREE LEGS!!!! AGGGGGGhgggggghh! So we basically just died for about twenty minutes from cuteness and fuzziness overload.
And eventually we noticed the teeniest, most excited little guy who was hoppinghoppinghopping much higher than should be possible for a little tiny dog, Olympic-record-type hopping, and you could just see that he was thinking, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease come talk to me and be my verybestfriend! Look how high I can jump! Isn't it awesome! Huh!? Huhhuhhuh!!!?"
And so, wooed by the hopping, I went over to say hi and pick the little guy up, at which point he snuggled into my arms and asked me with his little doggie eyes to be his mommy. And the evil pet adoption people, seeing that I was weak, knowing that I was in puppy love at first snuggle, sensing my 1-800-save-a-pet addiction, ganged up on me to convince me that I needed to give this springy little wigglebutt a home. They even offered me a discount on the adoption fee -- I could pick up a new best friend for just 40 bucks. Bastards.
Except in reality there was very little arm-twisting, and it was not at all coincidental that I happened to show up at Petco, where the pets go, on a pet-adoption Saturday. I knew that the hours of online pet shopping had by this point rendered me completely powerless against a pair of little brown, pleading puppy eyes.
And that is how I came to adopt my little dog, whom I re-named Uncle Rico because I couldn't bear for him to go on living as "Tigger," his previous and totally lame moniker. Also, I had been contemplating getting a Beta fish a few months earlier and had settled on calling the fish Uncle Rico, because I thought the "Napoleon Dynamite" character of same name was fantastic. Then I decided having a fish was boring and stupid. I had been disappointed to not have something to call "Uncle Rico," though, because I thought it was an excellent name for a pet. So of course when I adopted my little guy, who was clearly a natural-born athlete, someone capable of throwing a football over them mountains, it was obvious that he must be known henceforth as Uncle Rico. If coach woulda put him in fourth quarter, they would've been state champs.
Of course now he has any number of nicknames: Rics, Ricmeister, Ric-a-lic, Turdbutt, Ric-o-la, Idiot Dog, Fatty, Rictastic, Piglet, Mister, Puppy, Nutball, Dumb Dog, Munchkin, Richard, Kitty, and Poopy McCrapsalot.
But even from day one, we were completely bonded. That first night, we took him to The Press for a celebratory beer, and my buddy Katie said that when I left to go to the bathroom, little Rics became distraught and kept looking for me until I came back to the table. AWW! After that day, I've been completely cured of my online pet shopping addiction.
Anyway, my whole point in telling that story was just so I could post some pictures of my adorable Uncle Rico. So here ya go.
Sleepy Rico in Em's lap
"You're going to want to make a right at the next intersection."
"Noooo, I love YOU more!"
Dude, Rico is magic. How did he DO that??
Snuggling is definitely what he does best.
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