I'm facing a difficult decision here.
1. I'm hungry and I'd like to go get some breakfast.
2. I'm in my pajamas and I'd like to not leave them.
The best part about winter was that I could leave my pajamas on and just wear my heavy winter coat over it. No one could tell what was going on under that coat, so there was no reason to change -- swap the slippers for boots and go. Spring, though, is a different matter. If I just toss on my jacket, people will be like, "Wow, those pajama bottoms are really threadbare, aren't they? I don't think she's even wearing underwear, let alone a bra! And does she think she looks sexy with her boobs practically falling out of the top of that tank top?"
I could, maybe, just put a skirt on over the pajama bottoms and a shirt over the tank top, but the lack of bra would be noticeable, so I should add that, too. If I don't actually take off the tank top when I put on the bra -- pull the straps down, hook in, straps up -- then technically I have not left the sanctity of the pajamas, and there's no need to declare this day is go, right?
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Worst ad ever: Häagen-Dazs's idea to pair their new Fleur del Sel Caramel ice cream with oysters.
I can't be the only one who thinks this repulsive, can I?
"After a bucketful of fresh salty oysters, take the empty shells and scoop on dollops of Fleur de Sel Caramel ice cream."Picture the scene: you slurp the rubbery oyster off its shell, burp, then dig into the ice cream with that same shell.
I can't be the only one who thinks this repulsive, can I?
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Having reached the advanced age of 30, I worry a lot about dying. Okay, about half the time I'm convinced that this is all a very clever computer simulation and I'm just a bit character and someday I'll walk off stage and that'll be that and I won't even know it, but the rest of the time I worry about death. Specifically, I worry about dying in an embarrassing way.
It just seems far more likely that I'll go out in some farcical fashion rather than a nice, dignified death in my sleep. Since I won't be around to care, why do I worry? No idea. I just hate the thought that you'll all be laughing at me when I'm gone. You bastards.
Here are the ways I've considered it possible that I might be die:
1. Rolling over in my sleep and stabbing myself on the kitchen knife I've considered keeping in bed with me just in case I am attacked by monsters in the middle of the night.
2. Athlete's foot.
3. Falling down the back stairs while taking my laundry to the basement, knocking myself out, then drowning or poisoning myself with the Tide liquid detergent as it leaks from the container into my mouth before someone finds me.
4. Poisoning myself with my cooking, most likely something involving chicken or eggs or dented cans that I don't notice are dented because they're dented behind the label.
5. Anything involving my sphincter.
As you can see, these are all very valid concerns. Though I've taken preventative steps to avoid most of these scenarios, there are surely dozens of other ridiculous ways to die that will leave you all snickering over my corpse at the funeral. In the event that I do pop off in one of these or a more ridiculous fashion, I ask that you try to think of me kindly. And I hope that you go in a sillier way.
You bastards.
It just seems far more likely that I'll go out in some farcical fashion rather than a nice, dignified death in my sleep. Since I won't be around to care, why do I worry? No idea. I just hate the thought that you'll all be laughing at me when I'm gone. You bastards.
Here are the ways I've considered it possible that I might be die:
1. Rolling over in my sleep and stabbing myself on the kitchen knife I've considered keeping in bed with me just in case I am attacked by monsters in the middle of the night.
2. Athlete's foot.
3. Falling down the back stairs while taking my laundry to the basement, knocking myself out, then drowning or poisoning myself with the Tide liquid detergent as it leaks from the container into my mouth before someone finds me.
4. Poisoning myself with my cooking, most likely something involving chicken or eggs or dented cans that I don't notice are dented because they're dented behind the label.
5. Anything involving my sphincter.
As you can see, these are all very valid concerns. Though I've taken preventative steps to avoid most of these scenarios, there are surely dozens of other ridiculous ways to die that will leave you all snickering over my corpse at the funeral. In the event that I do pop off in one of these or a more ridiculous fashion, I ask that you try to think of me kindly. And I hope that you go in a sillier way.
You bastards.
Even in our current sucky economy, there are cheap ways to fly for the savvy shopper. I'm not talking about the obvious "tips" you see in news articles ("Buy your tickets on the Internet and don't pay a travel agent!"), I mean sneakier stuff. For instance:
I bought a ticket from Phoenix to Arizona on Priceline. The total cost was $263, a good bit more than the $200 I wanted to pay. However, after I bought my ticket, I was offered the opportunity to save 10% by signing up for some service called Great Fun! After carefully reading the fine print, I confirmed a few very important details:
1. Great Fun! comes with a one month free trial.
2. I can cancel Great Fun! anytime I want without being charged.
3. I still get my discount if I cancel during the free trial.
Perfect. After I clicked to sign up, they bumped my discount up to 15%. Even nicer. I imagine Great Fun! is counting on me forgetting to cancel them before my free trial is up or to screw up the terms of my cashback offer, but that's why I have an Excel spreadsheet tracking these things.
$263 - 15% cashback = $227.60.
After signing up for Great Fun!, I was then given the opportunity to receive a $20 American Express gift card from Shoppers Advantage, presumably another scam to collect $11/month from me after I forget to cancel their service. Still, it's another one month free trial, and another keep-the-gift-even-if-you-cancel.
$227.60 - $20 fitcard = $207.60
$207.60 is only $7.60 over budget. I think I can eat that with no problem.
I'll update later to let you know if I actually manage to get the gift card and cash back without any extra fees. Right now, though, I'm going to boast that I have it all under control.
I bought a ticket from Phoenix to Arizona on Priceline. The total cost was $263, a good bit more than the $200 I wanted to pay. However, after I bought my ticket, I was offered the opportunity to save 10% by signing up for some service called Great Fun! After carefully reading the fine print, I confirmed a few very important details:
1. Great Fun! comes with a one month free trial.
2. I can cancel Great Fun! anytime I want without being charged.
3. I still get my discount if I cancel during the free trial.
Perfect. After I clicked to sign up, they bumped my discount up to 15%. Even nicer. I imagine Great Fun! is counting on me forgetting to cancel them before my free trial is up or to screw up the terms of my cashback offer, but that's why I have an Excel spreadsheet tracking these things.
$263 - 15% cashback = $227.60.
After signing up for Great Fun!, I was then given the opportunity to receive a $20 American Express gift card from Shoppers Advantage, presumably another scam to collect $11/month from me after I forget to cancel their service. Still, it's another one month free trial, and another keep-the-gift-even-if-you-cancel.
$227.60 - $20 fitcard = $207.60
$207.60 is only $7.60 over budget. I think I can eat that with no problem.
I'll update later to let you know if I actually manage to get the gift card and cash back without any extra fees. Right now, though, I'm going to boast that I have it all under control.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My good stuff
Perhaps on this lazy Saturday you have been considering indulging in a spot of robbery, a little petty theft to while away the hours. Why rob a complete stranger when you could rob me instead?
Of course if you've met me, you know that the task of robbing my home can be a bit daunting. Stuff, clutter, crap -- what to take? To make things easier for you, I've put together a short guide to my good stuff.
Item #1: My bank.
"My milk bank brings all the boys to the yard . . ."Purchased at St. Louis' Union Station, this fiscal repository is a must-have for the discerning thief. Standing a proud 12 or so inches high, this bank is guaranteed for a short time only to contain actual money -- some of which is genuine US currency! Don't let someone else beat you to this -- steal it now!
Item #2: My purse.
Adorable and affordable! But what will you find inside? Count on library cards, hair pins, pen caps, and tampons, but anything else will be a surprise! This is the swag you brag about at parties.
Item #3: My headband
"I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and gay . . ."With Fathers' Day swiftly approaching, I know at least one of you was wondering what to get the family patriarch, and what finer gift than this lovely headband? Sporting genuine fake diamonds, the dad in your life will be able to relax and get in touch with his inner pretty, pretty princess as he sashays through an oil change, preens at a baseball game, and prances around the barbeque. As the handsome Bear modeling this fine accessory proves, his basic manliness will still shine through.
"Savvy?"
The trés chic touch of Caribbean elegance! Pair this scarf with a single gold earring and you're ready for Talk Like a Pirate Day or some of that kinky Johnny Depp role play that's the only way to get him on his knees for you.
Item #4: My Pirate Scarf
"Savvy?"The trés chic touch of Caribbean elegance! Pair this scarf with a single gold earring and you're ready for Talk Like a Pirate Day or some of that kinky Johnny Depp role play that's the only way to get him on his knees for you.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I am kind of in love with this job posting for a housekeeper. Here are a few choice excerpts:
"Rugs will be swept, rotated for even wear and fringe combed."
"China will be inspected for imperfections prior to each use."
"The housekeeper will care for the clothing of the Principal, the Lady of the House and one child."
"All lamps, sconces, chandeliers and other light fixtures in the formal and guest areas will be tested daily and burned out light bulbs replaced immediately. Light bulb inventories must be checked and supply orders submitted weekly."
All this to be a housekeeper in a family home! Insanity.
"Rugs will be swept, rotated for even wear and fringe combed."
"China will be inspected for imperfections prior to each use."
"The housekeeper will care for the clothing of the Principal, the Lady of the House and one child."
"All lamps, sconces, chandeliers and other light fixtures in the formal and guest areas will be tested daily and burned out light bulbs replaced immediately. Light bulb inventories must be checked and supply orders submitted weekly."
All this to be a housekeeper in a family home! Insanity.
5th Grade
When I was in fifth grade, I had an absolutely insane teacher, Miss Tang. She was, including all of my college years, the most difficult teacher I have ever had in my life. Am I possibly exaggerating? Judge for yourselves:
1. She would never tell us when we were going to have a test. This was for English, Social Studies, Spelling, and Religion classes. All tests were surprises, and the only warning you had was three seconds ahead of time when she would announce "Everybody clear off your desks and take out a nice, clean sheet of paper."
2. All tests were comprehensive. A question could be about anything learned since the beginning of the year.
3. On spelling tests, she would not tell us the word that she wanted us to spell. Instead, she would provide the definition, and we would have to guess which word she meant. God help us if it had a synonym she'd covered at some point.
4. Also on spelling tests, we had to hyphenate and include accent marks for all words. This was not optional.
5. We were graded on creativity. For example, if instructed on an English test to write a sentence containing 4 adjectives, 6 nouns, 3 pronouns, and 5 verbs, the more imagination shown in creating the sentence, the higher the grade. I once got a C on a test where I had technically gotten all the sentences correct, but lacked panache. On the following test, I wrote outlandish things about purple dragons rolling over police cars and made a B-.
6. The length of a minus or the size of a plus counted toward your grade. "B long minus" was a common grade to receive, meaning that you were on the cusp of a "C big plus."
7. We were given reams of poetry and facts and essays to memorize, and every day Miss Tang would go around the room, starting with some kid in the front, and they would be required to begin reciting whatever she told you to until she moved on to the next kid.
8. If she felt that you weren't reciting loudly enough, then the entire class would be required to scream at you: "Crystal, PLEASE SPEAK LOUDER!" Complaints regarding the noise regularly were sent over by Sister Patricia Marie next door.
In spite of this insanity, Miss Tang was not all bad. For instance, she regularly gave us an extra recess every Friday afternoon. An extra recess. Clearly she was mad, but at least we could benefit from it. She also encouraged us to dress up in costume for Halloween, something that you generally didn't get to do after 3rd grade. And she had me do almost all the reading for our class's school mass, so I was particularly keen on her. I loved reading, and I loved attention.
She was a model citizen in all ways, but sometimes during recess, we -- Jennie Snyder, Kerry Sweeney, Meaghan Fitzgerald and I -- would whisper to each other that her perfectly coiffed hair, pristine in its bun, was just a wig, a wig that concealed a mohawk that she'd reveal when her much-younger boyfriend would come by after school to pick her up on his motorcycle. It was possible . . . surely her hair was too perfect to be real . . .
1. She would never tell us when we were going to have a test. This was for English, Social Studies, Spelling, and Religion classes. All tests were surprises, and the only warning you had was three seconds ahead of time when she would announce "Everybody clear off your desks and take out a nice, clean sheet of paper."
2. All tests were comprehensive. A question could be about anything learned since the beginning of the year.
3. On spelling tests, she would not tell us the word that she wanted us to spell. Instead, she would provide the definition, and we would have to guess which word she meant. God help us if it had a synonym she'd covered at some point.
4. Also on spelling tests, we had to hyphenate and include accent marks for all words. This was not optional.
5. We were graded on creativity. For example, if instructed on an English test to write a sentence containing 4 adjectives, 6 nouns, 3 pronouns, and 5 verbs, the more imagination shown in creating the sentence, the higher the grade. I once got a C on a test where I had technically gotten all the sentences correct, but lacked panache. On the following test, I wrote outlandish things about purple dragons rolling over police cars and made a B-.
6. The length of a minus or the size of a plus counted toward your grade. "B long minus" was a common grade to receive, meaning that you were on the cusp of a "C big plus."
7. We were given reams of poetry and facts and essays to memorize, and every day Miss Tang would go around the room, starting with some kid in the front, and they would be required to begin reciting whatever she told you to until she moved on to the next kid.
8. If she felt that you weren't reciting loudly enough, then the entire class would be required to scream at you: "Crystal, PLEASE SPEAK LOUDER!" Complaints regarding the noise regularly were sent over by Sister Patricia Marie next door.
In spite of this insanity, Miss Tang was not all bad. For instance, she regularly gave us an extra recess every Friday afternoon. An extra recess. Clearly she was mad, but at least we could benefit from it. She also encouraged us to dress up in costume for Halloween, something that you generally didn't get to do after 3rd grade. And she had me do almost all the reading for our class's school mass, so I was particularly keen on her. I loved reading, and I loved attention.
She was a model citizen in all ways, but sometimes during recess, we -- Jennie Snyder, Kerry Sweeney, Meaghan Fitzgerald and I -- would whisper to each other that her perfectly coiffed hair, pristine in its bun, was just a wig, a wig that concealed a mohawk that she'd reveal when her much-younger boyfriend would come by after school to pick her up on his motorcycle. It was possible . . . surely her hair was too perfect to be real . . .
Monday, May 12, 2008
When I was in 8th grade, I had a fairly rigorous science teacher who, among other things, insisted that all students memorize the Periodic Table of Elements. I've never been too clear on why she thought that this was a necessary part of a science education unless she was preparing us all for eventual glory on Jeopardy!, but along with my classmates I was tested on the elements, ten at a time, each week for about ten weeks. Each Friday we'd go to the science lab, pull out a blank sheet of paper, and regurgitate the most recent elements, their numbers, and their symbols. Spelling counted.
17 years later, when I poke around in the dusty corners of my brain, I come across the first 22 elements, along with the first two of the 25 Nations With the Mooooost People (Miss Tang, 5th grade), the Preamble to the Constitution (Mr. Fitzsimmons, 7th grade), the first 18 lines of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English (Mr. Austin, 12th grade), and the first 7 lines of the Iliad in ancient Greek (Professor Levine, 16th grade). So, what to do with these random elements? Collect them all, some insane neuron in my brain whispers. And do what with them? I snort.
Well . . .
Maybe they'll come in handy someday. Maybe, just maybe, someone, say an overconfident geek, will make some reference to them in passing, leaving me an opening to arrogantly assert that the Table of Elements isn't all that hard, why anyone could memorize it! Thinking to call my bluff, the overconfident geek will demand that I recite it myself, it it's so easy. Appearing flustered, I'll stammer that obviously I wouldn't perform for free -- what am I, a trained monkey? -- and only for money will I recite the Table of Elements. Convinced that he has me on the run now, the geek will boldly declare that he'll pay -- if I can perform. But he's sure I can't. He, you see, has never heard the adage about not betting on sure things. I'll ask how much and he'll tell me to name my price. $100, I'll demand! He'll think that I'll think that it'll be more than he's willing to put on the line, but so certain is he that this is only an exercise in rubbing my nose in my own hubris, he agrees. Not before you show my the money, I'll insist, appearing to him only to be stalling for more time. He whips it out and puts it on the table. Wellll? he'll ask insolently.
I'll smile. He may realize his mistake then, but it'll be too late as I start to rattle them off at 80 mph: "Hydrogenheliumlithiumberylliumboroncarbonnitrogensoxygenflourineneonsodiummagnesium . . ."
Yup, he'll be screwed and I'll have an extra hundred dollars.
But I can't make this work with only 22 elements. For maximum effect, I must have them all. So, I've started rememorizing the table, an element a day. I'm up to Krypton now, so I have about two thirds of the table to go. My only worry now is that my golden opportunity will come before I finish memorizing them all. I may have to avoid all geeks until then.
17 years later, when I poke around in the dusty corners of my brain, I come across the first 22 elements, along with the first two of the 25 Nations With the Mooooost People (Miss Tang, 5th grade), the Preamble to the Constitution (Mr. Fitzsimmons, 7th grade), the first 18 lines of The Canterbury Tales in Middle English (Mr. Austin, 12th grade), and the first 7 lines of the Iliad in ancient Greek (Professor Levine, 16th grade). So, what to do with these random elements? Collect them all, some insane neuron in my brain whispers. And do what with them? I snort.
Well . . .
Maybe they'll come in handy someday. Maybe, just maybe, someone, say an overconfident geek, will make some reference to them in passing, leaving me an opening to arrogantly assert that the Table of Elements isn't all that hard, why anyone could memorize it! Thinking to call my bluff, the overconfident geek will demand that I recite it myself, it it's so easy. Appearing flustered, I'll stammer that obviously I wouldn't perform for free -- what am I, a trained monkey? -- and only for money will I recite the Table of Elements. Convinced that he has me on the run now, the geek will boldly declare that he'll pay -- if I can perform. But he's sure I can't. He, you see, has never heard the adage about not betting on sure things. I'll ask how much and he'll tell me to name my price. $100, I'll demand! He'll think that I'll think that it'll be more than he's willing to put on the line, but so certain is he that this is only an exercise in rubbing my nose in my own hubris, he agrees. Not before you show my the money, I'll insist, appearing to him only to be stalling for more time. He whips it out and puts it on the table. Wellll? he'll ask insolently.
I'll smile. He may realize his mistake then, but it'll be too late as I start to rattle them off at 80 mph: "Hydrogenheliumlithiumberylliumboroncarbonnitrogensoxygenflourineneonsodiummagnesium . . ."
Yup, he'll be screwed and I'll have an extra hundred dollars.
But I can't make this work with only 22 elements. For maximum effect, I must have them all. So, I've started rememorizing the table, an element a day. I'm up to Krypton now, so I have about two thirds of the table to go. My only worry now is that my golden opportunity will come before I finish memorizing them all. I may have to avoid all geeks until then.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
My body yields no evil inclination
I really love this sweet little song. It certainly engenders a deeper respect in me for wiener dogs ("the Germanic term is dachshund, and I like that . . ."). Watch it and then keep reading below.
So, while I was googling for a video of this song to give you, I came across a blog called Jewish Survivors of Sexual Violence Speak Out. The blog entry features this same YouTube video and says "The song is sort of long, but I think it touches on several important issues survivors of childhood abuse will have to deal with some time in their lives. The end of the song is extremely powerful."
Um . . . really? Really really? I wish the author of the blog had expounded somewhat upon this statement, as I have no idea what connection one could draw between this song and the survivors of abuse. Are you suggesting that the German shepherd had its way with Dixie? That she is abused by the Johnson boys? That the sliding of the back of her in front of her ( . . . slowly) as she slides down the hall symbolizes the involuntary superimposition of a sexual abuse victim's genitalia over their essential self as a personal identifier by a sexual attacker?
Well, whatever gives you comfort, I suppose.
So, while I was googling for a video of this song to give you, I came across a blog called Jewish Survivors of Sexual Violence Speak Out. The blog entry features this same YouTube video and says "The song is sort of long, but I think it touches on several important issues survivors of childhood abuse will have to deal with some time in their lives. The end of the song is extremely powerful."
Um . . . really? Really really? I wish the author of the blog had expounded somewhat upon this statement, as I have no idea what connection one could draw between this song and the survivors of abuse. Are you suggesting that the German shepherd had its way with Dixie? That she is abused by the Johnson boys? That the sliding of the back of her in front of her ( . . . slowly) as she slides down the hall symbolizes the involuntary superimposition of a sexual abuse victim's genitalia over their essential self as a personal identifier by a sexual attacker?
Well, whatever gives you comfort, I suppose.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Ghostland Observatory
Friday night I went to my first show. These guys:
Well, first show sort of. I've been to a Tori Amos concert, and I've seen Trout Fishing 5 or 6 times, but those are pretty tame outings compared to where I was last night. Picture the scene: the Metro on Clark in Chicago, a fairly intimate venue. We were just a few people from the stage. There are no seats in a place like this because you aren't supposed to be sitting; you're supposed to be on your feet dancing and getting tossed around in the crowd and stuff. The show was sold out, so we were packed in pretty tightly.
At first -- I kind of hated it. The music isn't exactly my type of music, especially not close up like that where you're just being assaulted with sound, and there's no possible way to make out a single word the singer is saying. Some ass in front of me was dancing in a way which even I, with my limited show experience, could easily see was in strict violation of the unwritten social contract which governs dancing in an area where bodies are pressed against you in all directions. Flailing limbs are NOT okay. Most of my bruises today are from his elbows. For a while, I just stood there with my arms crossed trying to protect myself from him. Add to that my 30 years and schoolmarmish appearance, and you can understand my extreme discomfort in this crowd of teens and hipsters.
Then -- I started to like it. There were some songs with no lyrics and it was easier to get into the music when I wasn't trying to figure out what the singer was saying. And the whole moving with the crowd thing came together for me, the way that when you're learning how to ride a bike you fall off a bunch at first and maybe hate your bike, but then when you've finally found your balance, the whole activity is suddenly a lot of fun. Soon, I even perked up enough to only roll my eyes when the guy in front of me tried to grind on me, and when the kid to my left accidentally burned me with his joint, I was able to smile understandably in response to his apologetic face.
It was a good time.
Well, first show sort of. I've been to a Tori Amos concert, and I've seen Trout Fishing 5 or 6 times, but those are pretty tame outings compared to where I was last night. Picture the scene: the Metro on Clark in Chicago, a fairly intimate venue. We were just a few people from the stage. There are no seats in a place like this because you aren't supposed to be sitting; you're supposed to be on your feet dancing and getting tossed around in the crowd and stuff. The show was sold out, so we were packed in pretty tightly.
At first -- I kind of hated it. The music isn't exactly my type of music, especially not close up like that where you're just being assaulted with sound, and there's no possible way to make out a single word the singer is saying. Some ass in front of me was dancing in a way which even I, with my limited show experience, could easily see was in strict violation of the unwritten social contract which governs dancing in an area where bodies are pressed against you in all directions. Flailing limbs are NOT okay. Most of my bruises today are from his elbows. For a while, I just stood there with my arms crossed trying to protect myself from him. Add to that my 30 years and schoolmarmish appearance, and you can understand my extreme discomfort in this crowd of teens and hipsters.
Then -- I started to like it. There were some songs with no lyrics and it was easier to get into the music when I wasn't trying to figure out what the singer was saying. And the whole moving with the crowd thing came together for me, the way that when you're learning how to ride a bike you fall off a bunch at first and maybe hate your bike, but then when you've finally found your balance, the whole activity is suddenly a lot of fun. Soon, I even perked up enough to only roll my eyes when the guy in front of me tried to grind on me, and when the kid to my left accidentally burned me with his joint, I was able to smile understandably in response to his apologetic face.
It was a good time.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
I am having the most obscene craving -- for spam. The food. Or maybe "food." Two slices, thin, fried extra crispy, on white bread . . . Yummmm. Honestly, I can smell it right now.
Yes, I know I'm repulsive. Yes, I revolt me, too.
Still . . . it's probably been 15 years since I last had spam. Surely one can to tide me over for the next 15 years wouldn't hurt, would it?
Yes, I know I'm repulsive. Yes, I revolt me, too.
Still . . . it's probably been 15 years since I last had spam. Surely one can to tide me over for the next 15 years wouldn't hurt, would it?
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