I'm thinking of a career change.

Oh, wait...I don't have a career.

I just read a book about shoe addicts, and one of the women in it was a phone-sex operator. I'm just sayin'...it sounded like she made some bank. I mean, $1.49/minute to make some moaning noises on the phone to a bunch of pervs? I could do it.

Maybe.

As long as these perverts were big fans of giggling. Because I would be giggling incessantly trying to get through five minutes of "Oh baby, you're so hot...blah blah blah." Am I? Well, yeah, actually. A little bit. But you don't know that.

But in that five minutes (I'm assuming the pervs get off pretty fast...) I will have made $7.45. I think it's a reasonable trade off.

Okay, maybe what I crave in a career is not actually listening to some sweaty pervert on the other end of my phone. Hell...I'd have to get a phone. And I'm not going out of my way to spend $20 just to listen to you pervs.

So that's out.

Start my own cleaning service? Never mind that I can't keep my own apartment clean. The cleaning service we used to have at work - and note that I say "used to have" because my boss decided that the reason we weren't making enough money was because we were paying the cleaning service good money to do something we're perfectly capable of doing ourselves - charged us $175 to...well, take out the trash. I think that's all they did. Once a week. That's $43.75 to take trash out of 10 trash cans. That's $4.38 per trash can. Not bad, I say.

But I don't really like to clean. Or dig around in other people's freshly-tossed-out trash.

I have recently developed a severe addiction to Food Network. It would be totally awesome to be some posh chef who turns her nose up at every delicious entree put in front of her. "This tastes like the butt cheese left on my grandmother's arse after she's been on bed rest for six months. You should try a career in garbage collecting instead."

Unfortunately, I'm thinking they want you to be a chef first, and I have very little hope of that. My palate is just not wide enough. I'm more of the why-use-all-that-foliage-when-regular-lettuce-would-do kinda girl.

I briefly considered a career as a dessert bar artist. What's that you say? It's the person who designs the super yummy dessert bars at fancy weddings where they either do or don't have cake. Apparently most people think wedding cake is gross. Sacrilege! I love cake. I chucked the idea when I realized how often I'd be either puking from the constant wedding love fest (which, let's face it, isn't bad for my girlish figure)or murderous from dealing with bridezillas (jail time is so bad for the social life).

What I really want is to get paid for handing out my opinions (I have a lot of them). My own magazine column or something. But who doesn't want that? So instead, I'm off to grad school where I will (hopefully) study forensic anthropology and become that creepy freak all of you have been expecting.

Or, ya know...I'll come up with the next Twitter (you can follow me!). Or maybe be the next Jen Lancaster (Aside from her politics, seriously, I think we're soul mates. Go. Read. Her. Books.). Or become a bum and hostel my ass all over Europe and Asia before getting tossed into Thai prison where I will lose my Wonderbra and be forced to sing Madonna songs until I die. Or...

Oh yeah! I want to take over as "The Person Who Names Stuff." Because I think that person is asleep on the job. Now. Where do I apply?

I promise it's self-defense.

But I'm going to KILL. MY. BOSS.

I know everyone feels this way at one point or another, but really. I would be doing the world (okay, mostly me and my coworkers) a favor.

I work at a very small archaeological consulting firm. My boss has been (inexplicably) in business for a little over two decades. He has no idea how to run a business and he is possibly the worst communicator in the world.

Example: Part-time employees are only supposed to work 32 hours per week. This, you would think, would be a rather simple concept. But no. Because he won't actually tell anyone if he or she is full- or part-time. So no one knows. Or rather, some people don't. So one employee was confused (I mean, we all were, but one more than the rest, I suppose). And he kept working over 32 hours. So I told my boss that I thought that maybe this employee was unsure of his employment terms. I suggested he tell this employee that he needed to keep his hours at 32 or fewer. Here's a basic transcript of how that conversation went (and it's been a while, so I'm not exactly sure of the wording, but you'll get the gist):

Boss: You need to stop recording your hours for this week right now.
Employee: Um...okay. But I have to finish this map.
Boss: You're getting close to 40 hours for the week, so you need to go home. Now.
Employee: Um...okay, but I have to finish this map.
Boss: Someone else can finish the map. You need to work less hours.

Yeah. Seriously. At no point did he say, "You are a part-time employee here, so you're only supposed to work 32 hours per week."

So, naturally, this went on for several more weeks, until I had to be the bad guy and say, "Dude. You know you're not full-time, right? You need to keep your hours down. No more than 32 hours per week, unless you are expressly told to do so by a supervisor."

Using the word "supervisor" is just a joke, really. In a company with only seven employees...

Basically, my boss is completely incapable of even the most basic forms of communication. Unless he's being a condescending asshole. Then he's all over it. But it's rarely intentional. More in a Michael-Scott-from-The-Office kinda way.

We had a meeting a couple of months ago, in which he proceeded to go over what he considered each employee's "strength." The thing he would go to that employee about if he had a question. Now, keep in mind we're an office of archaeologists (well, except me...the Office Manager job pays better, so I do that). For most people, these strengths were archaeology-related. He's good at shells, she's good at ceramics, etc. Then he gets to the guy who's good at cars. Yeah, he has no strengths as an archaeologist, but if I had a question about cars, I'd ask him. Ouch. And another guy's strength was "the clarinet." I'm not even sure how that works...especially since he played the sax, which is infinitely cooler. What a jerk. (My "strength" was Quickbooks, so for the rest of that week, I refused to answer any questions that weren't about Quickbooks. Fuck that noise.)

As the Office Manager, it's my job to do...well, everything. But I have to deal with everyone's timesheets and expense reports (excel spreadsheets, this will be important in a minute). They are supposed to be filled out daily (we work on a lot of projects, so it's much more accurate if you're filling your timesheet out on a daily, or sometimes hourly, basis) on our server (which my boss may or may not think is the internet...). Then, when the pay period ends, I go on the server and clear them off. I put a fresh, clean, blank timesheet up for each employee and the process begins again.

Recently, my boss decided he was going to participate in the fun and fill out his timesheet and expense report on the server like everyone else. I should mention here that he used to print out blank ones and fill them in with a pencil. Until the day he noticed that no matter what he wrote on them, the cells with the formulas still indicated that he had "0" hours. Ahem. Think about that for a minute.

He was expecting that somehow Microsoft Excel could sense that he was filling out his timesheet by hand and magically make the correct numbers appear on his timesheet. On his desk. He actually asked me why there were still zeros in the boxes, when he had filled in other numbers. Really.

I've had to explain at least a dozen times that if he puts a zero for something that's getting multiplied by something else in a spreadsheet, the resulting product will always be zero. Always.

I'm just trying to paint the picture of idiocy that is my job.

This morning, when I got to work, there was a post-it note on my desk. Okay, let's be fair. There were 15 post-it notes on my desk, but I'm only going to talk to you about one of them.

Rachel,

I am sure I filled in time last week thru Monday this week, but there is nothing there. Where did it go? Any ideas?

Boss

Yes, I have an idea, you fucking moron. On Wednesday morning, when timesheets were due, I cleared them all off the server and put in a new one for you. Just like I do every other Wednesday.

I just got a call from him. It was one of the more confusing conversations we've ever had (although nothing compares to trying to explain headers and footers to him...which I do at least once a week).

Him: Rachel, did you get my note about my timesheet?
Me: Yeah. I cleared it off the server on Wednesday morning, like I always do.
Him: But I looked yesterday and there's nothing on it.
Me: That's because you haven't recorded any hours on it for this pay period.
Him: But my hours from last week are gone.
Me: No. I moved that timesheet off the server because that pay period has ended.
Him: But I recorded my hours and now they're gone.
Me: They're not gone. I just moved that old timesheet.
Him: No, Rachel. I know I recorded hours on there and now they're not there.
Me: You recorded hours on there since Wednesday?
Him: No. Last week. And they've disappeared.
Me: No. I moved that timesheet. This is a new one. For this pay period. I moved the old one like I always do because timesheets were due on Wednesday morning. Remember how you got all upset with me that one time when I forgot to put a clean timesheet up for you on Wednesday and you couldn't record your new hours*? I'm trying to avoid that.
Him: But my hours are gone.
Me: They are not gone. I have saved that timesheet elsewhere and you no longer need to concern yourself with it. If you missed some hours, I can put them on there to make sure it's current. The timesheet that is on the server is the one you need to fill out for this pay period.
Him: But it has the date for last pay period and all my hours are gone.
Me: (Huge sigh) Oh good grief. I just forgot to change the date. You can change the date by clicking in the box with the date and typing the correct date. You can also type your name in the box for your name if I forgot to do that for you.
Him: I just click in the box? What about the date that's already there?

And it went on like this for another five minutes. Don't even get me started on explaining what it means to "Save as..." I do that at least twice a week. And each time he says, "Wow. That's really handy." As though he's never heard any of it before.

You can see how this will be self-defense, right?

*Because he couldn't figure out how to just delete the stuff that was in the spreadsheet and start over. I'm not kidding.

The List

A couple of weeks ago, I was hanging out with one of my girlfriends. We were talking about breakups and such. Since I've been such a miserable bitch since my breakup...yeah. Anyway, she suggested that I make a list of the ways that I never want to feel in a relationship again. That is, should I ever bother to have another one.

So I'm making the list:

1. I will never again feel disrespected.
2. I will never again feel unimportant.
3. I will never again feel unappreciated.
4. I will never again feel like I can't or shouldn't be anything but myself.
5. I will never again feel like my feelings don't count or are stupid or wrong.
6. I will never again feel afraid to speak up or stand up for myself.

Now, the next time someone treats me like I don't matter, I will have the strength to walk away. There may be room for second chances, but they only come if they are deserved.

From now on, I will surround myself with people who love and care about me. People who treat me the way I should be treated. People who give as much or more than they take. People who don't think that taking the easy way out is the only answer.

My standards have been raised, for all relationships. Whether they are intimate or friendly or casual, I will only put my energy forth for those who are worth it. Because I am worth that much to me (insert L'Oreal commercial here).

A letter to the new girl.

New girl,

I inadvertently stumbled upon your blog a while back. I didn't know (though I suspected) who you were at the time. Your blog about 2008 really touched me. It sounds like you've been through a lot.

"I've learned a great deal in the past year, but the most important lesson I've learned is to listen to my gut. It's almost always right. Whether it's telling me I'm hungry or to run screaming in the other direction away from that guy I agreed to go on a second date with, I need to listen to it. It knows. My heart gets in the way of what my gut tells me, and that's been my problem for years. For now, my heart is locked away for safe-keeping and whenever someone worthy steps up, then my gut will tell me that it's ok to let my heart out to play."

Please consider this: My name is "your gut." You should run screaming in the other direction away from the guy you're dating.

Having said this, I realize you will likely ignore me because you think that I am crazy and bitter and that you're special and things will be different for you than they were for me. But they won't. And this is not to say that you're not special. I'm sure that you are. I am. But your specialness doesn't change anything for him.

Keep in mind that you started dating him probably less than a month after he broke up with me. We had been together for a year and a half. He cannot be alone, as much as he tells himself that alone is what he wants. And he will only hurt you.

He chooses to live his life in such a way that he will never be attached to anyone. He will never be dependent on anyone for anything. And when he feels like he's getting attached, he will run. I advise you this: do not chase him. He's not worth it.

He puts on a very good show and he is interesting and smart and has a pretty good sense of humor, but it's all a show. He is not a happy person. He lies to himself so frequently and about so many things that even though he claims to hate lying (and he probably believes what he says to you), you will find little truth in his words when push comes to shove.

He believes that it is enough just to say things. It isn't. His actions speak far louder than his words, and they will tell you the real truth.

I know that when he looks at you, you feel special...I did too. I know that you think that he's different because he likes your curves. I know that he makes you feel like he cares about you. And maybe he does, but it's not in a way that is worthy of you, new girl. He will never put anyone before himself and his own comfort.

When he tells you that he "comes from a long line of alcoholics," he means it. And he is an alcoholic. A real one. He doesn't really think that it affects who he is or his actions, but it does. He can be very (non-physically) abusive when he's drunk.

I loved him openly and completely and with my whole heart, new girl. And it wasn't enough. Nothing is enough. He walked away from me, and I fought to get him back. When I did that, I lost me. Because I fought so hard for someone who wasn't worth my love. And it changed me. Even the day that I met you, a little part of me wanted to believe him when he said that he would never want to hurt me intentionally. But that day he did, as he had so many times before. And I don't believe him any more. I don't believe in him any more.

It's unlikely that you will read this, I know. And probably that's for the best. I know you won't listen. I wouldn't listen to anyone. Not even myself. But just ask yourself this: do you really want to be in my shoes? Forever changed for having given your heart to someone doesn't deserve it and will never appreciate it. He's good at saying the right thing (sometimes...not all the time). But watch for his actions. The truth is there.

Anyone who can refuse to speak to someone after finding out she's pregnant with his child is either still in high school or a real and true asshole. I don't know you, but I know that he is not worthy of you. I'm sure that if you know anything about me at all, he's told you that I am crazy and bitter or some semblance of those words. And I can admit that I'm pretty bitter right now. But I'm not crazy, just hurt. Very very hurt. I have every right to be. I haven't even for a minute behaved in any way that is unlike someone who has just had her heart shattered. I have had good days and bad days. The day I met you was a very bad day, full of hurt. Just think for a few minutes about what it says about him that he brought you, new girl, to hang out where he knew I'd be. He knew it would hurt me and he did it anyway. I told him I was uncomfortable and he made fun of me to you (yeah, I heard that) and then continued to stay instead of walking away.

Everything else that happened is just breakup stuff. But turning his back on me when he found out I was pregnant is unforgivable. I didn't want to be pregnant. I had taken all the precautions. He actually had the audacity to tell me that I shouldn't have wanted to tell him because he was "already freaked out enough." So I should have just handled it on my own, ya know...so he could continue to be selfish and uncaring. For some reason, I wasn't supposed be hurt by him quitting on me. I wasn't allowed to be angry. I wasn't supposed to do anything to make him uncomfortable, even though he had just broken my heart. How nice it would have been of me to just fade off into the background so he wouldn't have to see how much he hurt me.

Just a few short days after we broke up, after he had hurt me more than almost anyone in my life ever had (until, that is, he hurt me more), I wrote a blog. For that, he was angry with me. Because I hurt him. I wasn't allowed to be angry with him, you see, because he never does anything wrong. If you stay with him long enough, it's a pattern you'll recognize. Should you ever decide to question him or his behavior, he will turn things around, make it all about you, and then make you feel guilty for questioning him in the first place. It's a fun little game to play. I mean, he's probably told you he's an asshole anyway, right? What else can you expect? Then he doesn't have to take any responsibility for his actions because he warned you. I felt so bad about that blog, that I wrote an apology. Like I had done something wrong for expressing my anger. And frankly, every word of that angry blog is true. Every word.

Keep all of this in mind as you move forward, new girl. I hope that you are stronger than I am. Remember that anyone who doesn't respect you and can't handle you being yourself and doesn't put you on the same importance level as himself doesn't deserve your time. Or your tears. So when he walks, let him go.

WTF?

I got a Myspace message a while back from some dude. Subject line: "From Lewisville?" While I'm not from Lewisville, I did live there for a few years, so I open it up. I don't really recognize the photo with the overwhelming blue tint. Message: "wow. you look as much as a freak as ever."

Hmmm...do I? That's not a usual word used to describe me. My reply: "Do I know you?" I mean, really...who the fuck are you? But I was trying to be polite.

This is what I got in response: "It doesn't suprise me that you wouldn't have a clue. If you don't remember than I am actually thankful." (I didn't feel the need to correct his spelling or grammar.)

Just out of curiosity, why the fuck would you bother sending me a message if you don't want me to remember you? And then it hit me. I went out on about two dates or something with that guy (I met him at the retail establishment where I worked), at which point he told me he was in love with me...ick. When I didn't respond in kind, he called me a heartless bitch and told me I have no feelings. Which just isn't true, but I don't usually fall in love with people after two days.

I decided to skip a response and just let it go. From what I had heard, he and this other girl we worked with got married not too long after I quit working there. And a couple of weeks later, I got a Myspace message from her. "Hey girl! It's been a long time! How are you?" Blah blah. Seriously? So you're husband wants to stalk me so much that you're going to participate? That's just creepy.

I ignored that all together, along with the friend request.

Last week, these people popped up again. The wife sent me a message on Facebook. Same style as last time. As though we're friends or something. I'm still ignoring it. What is wrong with these people?

On a different note, it's possible that I accidentally sort of clicked the "add to friends" button on Myspace when I stumbled upon my old high school boyfriend. Now I feel like the creepy one. Oops.

Friday the 13th

Normally, I love Friday the 13th. I'm not a superstitious person, but I enjoy other people's ridiculous superstitiousness. That is so not a word.

It's possible that today may have changed my mind.

This morning, as I was driving to work (in the rain, but not barefoot or uphill or anything), my car made this funny sound. Well, a funnier sound that the funny sound it had been making for about a week. I've found that you can fix most funny sound problems in your car by turning your radio up louder. If you do this, though, you should expect that it will make an even funnier sound soon. Which is where I found myself this morning.

Note: when I say "funny sound," I do not mean funny haha. I mean...bad and costly to repair.

Then the smell of burning rubber seeped in through the floor. Or the vents. Or, well, it was just there. And it would be nothing but trouble.

I made it to work (barely). One of my coworkers is a trained ARMY mechanic, so I asked if he would listen to my car and just see if he knew what might be wrong. He listened.

Some belt thingy broke. I know nothing about cars. He said it was no big deal, and if I bought a new one, he could easily replace it. So we went to the AutoZone and bought a belt. Twelve bucks, no biggie.

I should mention here that it was about 33 degrees outside, rainy and windy. When got back to the office and popped my hood, we realized that the insides of the car would have to be taken apart to change this belt. Literally, we had to detach the motor from the rest of the car. Ugh.

About an hour into it, we looked at the belt and realized that it couldn't be the right belt. It was about a quarter of the size of the old one (which was ripped completely to shreds). So back to the AutoZone we trekked. The new belt was $17, but of course, they didn't have it in stock. We found it at the second we tried, at least.

Five hours later, we're all soaked and freezing (because of course I was wearing my cute copper snakeskin flats with no socks...) and frustrated and tired. We had made about 137 "that's what she said" jokes. You wouldn't believe the opportunities for "that's what she said" while working on a car. Wow.

We finally got the belt on. I started it up and...bam! It started making the funny noise again. Ugh.

After all that, one of the pulleys the belt goes around was broken. So the new belt started shredding almost immediately. I had to take it to the dealership anyway. Five hundred dollars later, the dealership changed the belt (it took me a while to convince them that I had only driven 10 miles on it) and the pulley and the tensioner. I don't know what that is. But all in all it was probably less than $100 worth of parts. I hate the dealership bastards. Fuck 'em.

Happy Friday the 13th. I hope yours was better than mine.

A Shot in the Dark

A while back I had one of the more bizarre experiences of my life. Possibly the most bizarre, even. Some of my friends play intramural soccer, and it was the night of their last game. I met them at a bar for some drinks afterward. This bar has horrible parking, so I parked my car in the parking lot of a nearby Kinko's.

I had a couple of beers with the guys, and then had to meet some other friends. As I reached my car, a sedan pulled up next to me. The man driving had his window down. At this point, I had my car door open, and I was about to sit down. The conversation that follows is not embellished.

Him: "Can I ask you for directions?

Me: "Sure."

Him: "Can you tell me how to get to The Blah Blah Bar." (Sorry, I don't remember the name.)

Me: "I've never heard of that one. I have no idea where it is."

Him: "Can I compliment you on two things?"

Me: "Um, I guess, but I really have to go."

Him: "Are you Irish?"

Me: "No."

You can see where this is going, I'm sure, so I'll skip ahead and let you know that my hair is not naturally red. I know, I know. Now you're all disappointed. But that's the truth, and I am a truth-teller. Typically. At this point, I'm fairly amused with this fellow. Fast-forward about 30 more seconds in the conversation.

Him: "So I saw you walking to your car in your cute little skirt with your cute little walk, and I had to stop and ask you something."

Me: "For directions?"

Him: "No. I had to ask if there was someone waiting at home for you. Waiting for you to come home in your cute little skirt with your little white thong, so he can pleasure you all night."

Me: "Uuhhh…yeah, I gotta run. Lovely to meet you." Yeah, right. Perv. And I'm not wearing a white thong, but that's neither here nor there, I suppose.

Him: "Can I just ask you one question?"

Me: "You've actually already asked me several questions, and I really have to go."

Now, I know what you're thinking. Why didn't I just leave? And I should have. Half of me was pretty horrified, but the other half of me was so amused.

Him: "Is your lover well-hung? I know girls with your body type like a man with a big cock because it fits better. I'm guessing he's about 10 or 11 inches."

Me: Speechless. What?

So at this point, I was more worried about my safety than I was amused. So I reached forward to grab the door handle to close my door. As I leaned forward, I could see into this pervy man's car. Yeah, he's not wearing any pants. No pants. And his right arm is moving back and forth in fast motion. Holy crap. I don't want to be too graphic about all this, but…holy crap. He could have squirted me in the eye. Do they have pregnancy tests for that?

Bumpit

Seriously, what is this thing?



Are we really all about big hair these days? I admit, Sarah Palin did inspire a certain extra volume in many a ‘do, but do you really need a tool for that? Women have been doing it with hairspray through the ages.

Personally, I can’t stand a lot of stuff in my hair, so I don’t even own hairspray. I feel about hair goop they way I feel about makeup. It all feels gross and heavy. I’d rather just be natural.

If I did, for some reason, decide that I needed a hump in my hair on the crown of my head, I could certainly get it with only a comb and some hairspray.

Plus, this thing looks like a bizarre, hollow, plastic banana. What if it falls out of your hair? Not quite as embarrassing as springing a leak in one of those water bras that were so popular back in the day, but still. Definitely up there with your man seeing that horrid, form-correcting underwear…which I also refuse to use. Honestly, what good is a little pee hole to me? Those things mean one of two things: 1) I will just pee on my horrid, form-correcting undies and then spell like pee all night, or 2) I will pee on my fingers while trying to make the hole bigger while I’m trying to pee. Either way, it’s not good. Or pretty. Or…sanitary.

My mother bought me some of that crap for Christmas a few years ago, so I inspected it thoroughly before putting it in the back of my underwear drawer. But nothing says, “Honey, I noticed you’ve put on a few pounds” like opening a girdle on Christmas Eve. Thanks, Mom.

Life lesson, ladies: you are beautiful for who you are. Completely without bizarre, hollow, plastic banana hair thingies, water bras, or girdles (but keep showering and using your toothbrush). We are all victims of societies rules about the way things are supposed to be, how we’re supposed to dress, and all that jazz. But let’s make a conscious effort to say, “Fuck you, society. I’m beautiful.”

And okay, I kind of want a Bumpit. What?

Twilight

Can we talk about these Twilight books for a minute?

I just…I don’t understand.

Far too many of my sensible adult friends (and some of my not-so-sensible ones) have gone ga-ga over these books. How? Why?!?

I’ll admit that I haven’t read them, so I can’t say much about them. Except. THEY ARE FOR TEENAGERS. Oh, and I’ve read some excerpts. The writing is atrocious. They read like they were written by teenagers, not just for them.

Kudos to this Stephanie Meyer, who has so successfully written a series of novels that appeal to women from age 11 to age 65, it seems.



It’s a story about angsty teenage love between some pale girl and some vampire boy, for crying out loud. Go get an Anne Rice novel. At least she can write. And most of her characters are adults. Although I will admit that her excessive descriptive passages do cause me to skim…excessively.

Really, didn’t we have enough issues as teenagers without adding the extra pressure of death by vampire bite?

The flowery-romance-novel-style writing makes me gag like no tub of mayonnaise ever could. Wait. Scratch that. I gagged just thinking about mayo.

I keep hearing all these comparisons to Harry Potter, too. I haven’t read those either, because last I checked they were supposed to be FOR KIDS, but I have read excerpts. And I’ll say this: J.K. Rowling’s writing doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out with a cattle prod. I even saw one of the movies. I didn’t understand even a minute of it, as it was movie number four or five and I hadn’t seen any of the previous movies. But I think it would have been entertaining, had my internal monologue not been going at top speed the whole time.

“Who is that guy? What’s with his hair? I thought these kids were supposed to be kids…they don’t look like kids. Ooooh, Alan Rickman. I LOVE Alan Rickman. I don’t love that someone told me I look like Alan Rickman. That was just insulting. I don’t look like Alan Rickman. Do I? No. He’s hideous. But super-entertaining. I mean, if I had been told that I act as well as Alan Rickman or that I’m as funny as Alan Rickman, I would have taken it as a compliment, but – Oh! What the fuck is that thing? What’s going on in this secret room? How did they do that? I wish I had magical powers. I always wanted to be a witch. That would explain my penchant for watching crap like Sabrina, the Teenage Witch and Charmed. Speaking of Charmed, my my I love Holly Marie Combs (also known as Piper). And that stopping time and blowing things up thing is really cool…”

You see what I’m saying. It’s distracting. How could anyone enjoy a movie while all that is going on? Luckily, it all happens silently in my head. People who insist on sharing their inner monologues during the movie are evil. You know who you are. Please stay out of my theater.

Speaking of movies, did this Twilight movie not just come out in theaters in December?? How is it already on DVD? And doesn't that mean, by definition, that it sort of sucks? If a movie is out on DVD in three months, that usually means that it was terrible...just sayin'.

Back to the matter at hand. Someone please, please explain the draw of these books to me. Well, at least…no. I really don’t want to know. Maybe. I don't know. I don't want to have to think less of you for obsessing about them. But I truly don’t understand.

25 Random Things About Me

I've been tagged about 37 times to do this on Facebook, but I'm bucking the system and doing it here instead. Thanks to Snarky Amber for the blog post idea!

1. I like dead stuff.
2. I'm completely obsessed with bones (ahem, get your mind out of the gutter).
3. I read 2-3 books per week.
4. I watch reality television because it makes me feel normal.
5. I feel like a terrible person when I read Sad Guy's blog to remind me that things could always be worse, then I do it anyway.
6. I have something like 16 total siblings, some of whom I've never seen.
7. I hate mayonnaise more than anything on the planet (aside, maybe, from two girls one cup...but it's a close call). Even typing the word is making me gag.
8. The word "moist" ooks me out.
9. I like Pepsi better than Coke.
10. I am terrified of failure.
11. I cannot stand to look at nail polish on my fingernails.
12. I hate the noise that macaroni and cheese makes when you stir it.
13. I would usually rather do things for someone else than for myself (but I'm working on this).
14. When asked what I wanted to be when I grow up (as a child), my answer was often, "a cheerleader."
15. I hate fake people.
16. I miss Peanut everyday. (She was my dog. She got hit by a car in November 2008.)
17. I think marriage is a bad, bad, bad idea.
18. I'm far too selfish to want children.
19. I have no idea what color my hair really is any more.
20. I think my lips are my best feature, but my eyes are a close second.
21. I've actually thrown sushi up in my napkin at a restaurant. Damn seaweed.
22. My "under-the-sink" spaces (bathroom and kitchen) are very organized.
23. I will watch just about any show on television that involves dancing.
24. I judge you for your poor grammar and spelling. Constantly.
25. This was harder than I expected.

A Beautiful Night in the Gayborhood

There’s a great little area near where I live that is lovingly referred to as “The Gayborhood.” It’s much cleaner and nicer than any other alternatives. Rarely does anyone point and laugh while covertly whispering behind his or her hand, “Look at the straight girl.” The people are well dressed and groomed. The clubs are well maintained. It’s a little pricey, but you get what you pay for, right?

I met my friend Jessica and some of her old work friends for happy hour in the gayborhood around seven. I, of course, immediately proceeded to “get my drink on.” Which, for me, means I got my vodka press and sipped it through a straw. Slowly. So it took me at least two or three minutes to get through the first one. We were all cramped into a tiny booth. Wait. Table. Wait. I have no idea. It was crowded, whatever it was. Jessica’s friend Lynn was having trouble deciding whether she wanted to sit on my lap or Jessica’s, so she proceeded to put her ass on both of our laps as often as possible.

We soon tired of being cramped up in this booth-table thing, so we hopped on to another bar. It was there that I met my favorite bartender ever. This may be an exaggeration. But I was on my…fourth? Yeah, fourth vodka press. Everyone seems a lot more awesome after your fourth vodka press. I decided to switch it up a little and have a spicy bloody mary. Jessica and Patty had been drinking them all night, and while I don’t actually like them, I really really like green olives. So I went to Jennifer and said, “Jennifer, I’m going to need a spicy bloody mary. But, Jennifer, I am going to need more than my fair share of green olives.” It was no problem for her, that’s how talented she is. She gave me five green olives. Five. She put them on this sharp, black, toothpicky sort of thing and propped them up on the ice in my mug. I thanked her and walked off to find Jessica and shove my olives in her face. She likes them, too, but she never thinks to ask for extras. I ate one olive on the way. I can’t help it. They’re so good. But when I tried to prop the toothpicky thing back up on the ice, the way Jennifer had done, it fell through the ice and sunk to the bottom of my mug. I almost cried (I was drunk, remember?). I pulled myself together and fished them out in time to show Jessica.

Now Jessica was also drunk. Very drunk. Giggly schoolgirl drunk. See, Jessica doesn’t like to be touched, nor does she touch people. And she was touching people. Last time she got this drunk, she spent some time stroking a young man’s dreadlocks. I was down to my last olive by this point. As I went to fish it out of my drink once again, my drunkly inept fingers lost their grip on the damn thing and I dropped it. On the floor. I hung my head in shame and walked back to the bar to discuss this development with Jennifer. I must have looked pretty pathetic because she put four more olives on a toothpicky thing and put them in my glass. She loved me, I think. I certainly loved her.

At some point, Jessica and I decided we should have a non-alcoholic beverage. So we asked Jennifer for some soda. Jessica had hers all drunk by the time we got back to the group, so I handed her mine and went back for another. When I got back with that one, she handed me her empty glass for a trade. Again. So back I went to see Jennifer. I don’t remember how many times this happened, but I was in no condition to be running a soda marathon. I was much too drunk for that.

Then they were playing The Cupid Shuffle and Jessica was shoving me toward the dance floor. “Go do it!” I rarely turn down an opportunity to dance, so I went. To my complete surprise, Jessica was right behind me. That is a testament to her drunkenness. Jessica does not dance. She’s not the most coordinated of people. Patty joined us, too. So I’m counting beside them, “Right, two, three, four. Left, two, three, four. Kick, two, three, four. Turn, turn turn, turn.” Simple, right? They got it, and we danced our asses off. Well, no, mine is still in its place. But we worked up a bit of a sweat.

Paying my tab was quite the adventure. I just couldn’t keep a grip on the pen. It was a slippery little devil. It wasn’t me, I swear. Well, I dropped the damn thing. I bent down to pick it up, but sitting down seemed a better plan. So I sat. On the floor. Only for a second. And it wasn’t because I fell. I chose to sit. Once I got back to my feet, with the help of some kind strangers, I dropped the damn pen again. So the nice woman standing next to me said she would get it. Which was good, because I think I would have ended up sitting down again. I like to sit down when I'm drunk.

The rest of the group soon grew weary of this place, as well. I think ADD must be common among lesbians or something. I went off looking for Jessica and was rewarded by having my boobs grabbed and some drunk woman’s lips on mine (I’m pretty sure she thought I was someone else. People seem to think that all women with red hair are the same person.). It wasn’t a long kiss, and it was quite enjoyable. I’m not one to go around kissing my girlfriends for attention (I think that’s kind of disgusting), but kissing girls isn’t a bad thing. It’s totally and completely different from kissing boys. Which seems weird because we all have the same mouth configuration and we all grew up kissing one another, but it’s different. This kiss was mostly just drunk, though. Oh, and just for the record, when we get together for girls’ night, we do pillow fight in our underwear. You’re welcome.

I didn’t find Jessica. Apparently, she had gone outside to take a phone call. Once we were all together, we piled into Jamie’s car. Six of us. I had to sit on a lap. We weren’t going far. I don’t know where we ended up, but there was a Tina Turner impersonator and a dance off. I got to put a dollar down the dress of one of the competitors. She was a friend of Jamie and Patty’s. I don’t know if it was actually a competition. I was up to my sixth vodka press with a spicy bloody mary thrown in the mix. I was drunk.

There was a lot of dancing. A lot. I was busy dancing with all the lesbians. And Jessica. Who, by this point, had removed her sweatshirt to reveal her overalls and white t-shirt ensemble. She was still getting her white-girl-overbite groove on. “I’m not drunk,” she said over and over. Uh huh. Sure, Jessica, we all believe that. They played The Cupid Shuffle at this place, too, and by then Jessica was an old pro. Then The Electric Slide. I was a sweaty, dizzy, giggly, drunk mess.

After all the dancing, we were starving. We met up at Taco Cabana for some eats. The opportunities for “taco” jokes were abundant.

And the obsession begins...

Last night was the premiere of America's Next Top Model (ANTM) (and why can't I ever just type "America"? I always type "American," then erase the "n." Oh, well.) Cycle 12. How has Tyra still not gotten calf implants? Seriously. Those things are just puny, woman. You were a supermodel for cryin' out loud.

Lucky for me, my friend Mamanda is also an ANTM freak. She chose to prioritize LOST over ANTM on her TiVo, though, so she had to come to my place to watch it. She's getting ready to leave town for 10 months (10 MONTHS!) in Peru, so this is the only episode she'll get to see if the aliens at HULU can't make it happen. They better. Who else am I going to obsess with? We're probably the only females over the age of 16 or so who watch this show.

And no, I'm still not going to read those damn Twilight books.

Mamanda and I went for sushi (her last sushi for 10 months...you wouldn't eat sushi in Peru either), then crashed on my couch for the two-hour premiere. Last season was kind of a snooze-fest, from what I hear (I missed it due to my head being up my ass while in a relationship), so we weren't sure what to expect.

It started in Vegas. With 34 girls. They all had to dress up like goddesses and embody some un-embody-able quality in a pho-to (this is what is sounds like to me, every time they say it). Yeah, really, how would you embody success? Justice? Truth? Go ahead. I'll wait while you make it come through in a pho-to.

Done? Couldn't do it?

That's what I thought.

Almost immediately, Fo became my favorite. She's adorable and apparently not Asian, though she looks it. She calls herself a "Blaxican." I'm guessing on the spelling, and please do not direct your racist comments at me, I'm quoting here. She is just the cutest thing I've ever seen, right down to the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her real name is Felicia, but she gave herself a kick ass nickname, so we decided to use it.

Unfortunately for the rest of the girls, Mamanda and I had to make up our own nicknames. Hehe.

If you've never seen the show, it is an extravaganza of screaming and crying and drama and ridiculousness and skinny girls. And Tyra Banks. Personally, Miss J is my favorite. He can walk a mean runway. Mister Jay ain't too shabby either, but he wears a little too much makeup for my taste.

All the girls get together for some kind of unmade-up pho-to, conducted by Mister Jay. Then all the girls meet with Tyra, Miss J, and Mister Jay and show off their stuff. Usually there's a lot of crying and ridiculousness involved in this process. Each girl has to do what she can to stand out, you see. So they talk about their babies, their abusive husbands, their stripping gigs, how their moms didn't love them, how all these other bitches are intimidated by them, etc. You get the idea.

One cute little girl brought in her pen collection.

Tyra ripped her a new asshole. "Oh, these pens are important to you? Name five supermodels who are working right now." Yeah, that's important in life. I guess it is, if you want to be on Tyra's show. And c'mon. It's cycle 12, sweetie. Don't you think you should read a fashion magazine or two before you stand your ass up in front of Tyra Banks with your pen collection?

I sympathized with her, though, because she reminded me of my 15-year-old cousin. And because she had a lot of pens.

They narrow down the field after the interviews, and then everyone has to do another pho-to. This is the one where they have to embody truth, justice, and the American Way...with their eyes. Whatever. They always look ridiculous.

Then Tyra announces the girls who will live in the sweet mansion thingy in NYC.

"The first name that I am going to call...is..."

Really Tyra, work on that tense problem, eh?

And our finalists are:

1. Fo!
2. Googly-Eyed Blood Freak
3. Bergdorf Goodman
4. Jesus Freak, the Street Preacher
5. Mocha Choco-Latte
6. Prom Queen
7. Smushy Face
8. PUERTO RICO!
9. Burn Victim
10. Cornflake Girl
11. No-Waist
12. Afro-licious
13. Six Head

I'm already waiting for the day they send Mocha Choco-Latte home. She was in the bottom two in the first episode, but I know she'll be around for a while. Tyra has a soft-spot for the dark-skinned girls and the producers really like drama. This bitch has already pissed off nearly everyone in the house.

Googly-Eyed Blood Freak just hurts my eyes. I think her eyes are on upside down. And she's apparently obsessed with blood (I'm obsessed with bones, so I don't judge, but I wouldn't be spouting off about it in an interview with Tyra freaking Banks, yo). She's jealous of everyone who's ever had a nose-bleed because she's never had one. And she thinks they're beautiful. Um, yeah...freak. And her eyes are on. Upside. Down. She looks like that thing from The Grudge. I know she's hiding in my bed, waiting for me. Cause she wants to make me bleed.

Afro-licious is insanely tall. I love her. And her lips. Are. Awesome. Nuff said.

Now, I know I'm going to seem insensitive about this whole "Burn Victim" vs. "Burn Survivor" thing. And I probably am. But here's the thing: if you were in a fire and you almost burned to death, but didn't...yeah, you're a burn survivor. If you poured hot coffee on yourself when you were a baby...not so much. Yes, you have been burned. Yes, you have scars. Yes, I totally think you're brave for trying to be America's (yes, I typed "n" again) Next Top Model. But I don't know if I can call you a "survivor" unless you almost died. I'm a bitch, what can I say?

If you've ever watched ANTM, you know that they're always talking about "wind in the hair." It's a way of walking down a runway in which the model looks as though she has a wind machine on her. Or something. I speak English, not Model. Well, apparently, Six Head (cause her forehead is just that big) has what Tyra's is now referring to as "wind in the face." Because she looks like she's trapped in a wind tunnel all the time. Yeah. I wouldn't have thought that was a good look, but what do I know?

Jesus Freak calls herself a Street Preacher (and talks about Jesus all the time), which I personally think contradicts her whole dressing-like-a-whore-in-ripped-clothing thing. Her eyebrows really need some help.

None of the other girls are worth talking about. At any given moment, Mamanda and I were like, "Is that PUERTO RICO!? Wait, no...it's Smushy Face."

Next week - MAKE-OVERS! Stay tuned.

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter "D"...

And the word "Douchebag."

Have you ever gotten back in touch with someone you haven't talked to in over a decade?

With the social networking options on the internets these days, I'm sure you have. The question is, what was that experience like?

I've changed a lot in the last ten years. I would expect that most people would between the ages of 19 and 29. Those are some serious transition years. And yet...some people don't.

I've received communication from some people from my past lately. They don't seem to have changed a bit. And really. They should have.

Things that may have been amusing to my naive, self-conscious 20-year-old self aren't even remotely laughable to my 29-year-old self. I don't enjoy being called a "skank" for no reason at all. And using a myspace message to let me know that you'll gladly be my "rebound lay" is about as enticing as swimming in a tank of hungry sharks with an open wound in my leg.

Are there women out there who find this pleasant? Does this ever actually work for you? I find this approach similar to the construction workers who whistle and cat-call at women from their trucks. If it hasn't worked yet, try something else.

Mostly, I'm starting to think that "douchebag" is the only variety of man still left in existence. If you can't speak to me like a grown-up, I have very little use in conversing with you. Period. And your brand of humor is clearly lost on me.

I think the problem is that these guys still all hang out together. Just like they did in college or high school or whenever it is that they met. Some of them have managed to get married (though how these women deal with them is beyond me), but as far as I can tell, they're all the same. I would imagine that at home with the wife, each man's behavior changes significantly, but as a group they are as obnoxious and rude and disrespectful as they always were.

I went to a Halloween party with a whole group of them last year. It was the least fun I've ever had at a party. One of them kept going on and on (in front of the dude I was actually dating) about how he was so proud of himself for not fucking me back in the day when we knew each other, while all his friends were egging him on. Uh, no. You had no chance. Ever. At all. You smell and you're an asshole and I don't find you even the slightest bit attractive. You're lucky I didn't tell your wife about this little conversation.

Then someone else came in the bathroom as I was trying to get out and shoved his tongue down my throat and his hand up my shorts with the words, "Don't tell my wife." Gross. It was all I could do to not knee him in the crotch. I left immediately. And I have no urge to see or talk to any of those people again.

And the kicker? After the party, I got a myspace message from the guy who thought he ever had a chance with me that said, "Next time you come hang out with us, don't bring your boyfriend." Ugh. Fuck you.

I'm sure you're thinking that I'm just an uptight bitch and I should get over it. Maybe so. But maybe these men should grow the fuck up and learn to treat women with any kind of respect. I feel sorry for all their wives and all their children and really any decent human being who has to come in contact with them.

Shoplifting

**Possibly another reason not to shop at Target...but I love it there. Where else can you get cheap stuff that you don't have to feel guilty about throwing away in a year?**

I went shopping with my friend Nathan this weekend. I say “my friend Nathan,” but truthfully the boy has a mad crush on me. Which should be obvious since he volunteered to go shopping with me, right? But he’s 19, so I think I’ll pass. Anyway, we shopped at the mall for a while, and then we decided to go to Target.

I love Target, and I can stay there for hours, but this time I had a mission. I was out of blush. Major crisis! Nathan’s not crushing hard enough to actually stand with me while I find the perfect shade of blush, however, so he made his way over to the Music/Movies section where he ran into one of his friends. I had dinner plans at 6:00, so by 5:30 it was time for me to go. Nathan’s friend said he’d take him to his car (still parked at the mall). Cool.

We were walking out the door, when some overzealous first-day security dude ran up out of the blue and grabbed Nathan’s arm. “Get back inside the store! I’m store security! Get back in the store!”

Nathan did what any person would do when caught off guard by some screaming freak. He tried to shake his arm away while saying, “Dude, what are you talking about?” So security dude kicked his feet out from under him, and Nathan fell on his face. Two other guys rushed over to help him get handcuffs on the poor, confused, embarrassed boy.

I was standing in the doorway in absolute shock. In all my years working retail, I was told that you couldn’t touch a person unless they tried to attack you first. But, hey, maybe Target has special rules. Who knows?

So they hauled Nathan off to some dark room in the back, presumably to do some sort of strip-cavity-search, and left me standing there wondering what the hell just happened. I found someone to ask how long it would be and what was going on. I mean, I’m supposed to go to dinner, but I’m not going to just leave him there, you know? So the guy came back and told me to go sit in the Snack Bar area. Someone would be out shortly to talk to me.

Nathan’s friend (I apologize, but his name slipped from my memory…about two seconds after he said it) came with me and we waited for an eternity or 20 minutes, whatever sounds better to you. A police officer came over and told me to “Sit over there and stay there!” Yeah, that was necessary. He took Nathan’s friend out and searched his car.

Meanwhile, I’d started to wonder if Nathan really did steal something…and maybe stashed it in my bag. Thank goodness, no. Finally, some not-so-attractive woman approached to let me know that they’d been “exited” from the building. I went outside expecting sirens and police cars, but there was nothing. Nathan and his friend were standing by the car. They didn’t steal anything.

Apparently, Nathan’s friend had brought in a DVD with him. He thought it would be a great idea to show it to Nathan in the middle of the DVD section of Target. And Nathan decided to borrow it, so he stuck it in his pocket. As if there were no security cameras and/or the security dudes wouldn’t think of this as suspicious behavior. Yeah, be smart about that shit. I don’t want to have to wait around while you get questioned by the police for being a dumbass.

And to you, Target Security SWAT, be aware that you could probably get your asses sued for this kind of shit.

Not-so-cool jobs from my so-called life.

If you want the truth, I haven’t really had any cool jobs. I was never a spy for the Russian army. I never walked on the moon. I haven’t walked up the red carpet to my movie premiere. I didn’t – well, you get the idea. I’ve worked some places. I’ve done some things. I’ll tell you my stories.

My very first job (aside from the many years of babysitting) was at the only Jewish deli in El Paso, Texas. And if you’re wondering if there’s a real need for a Jewish deli in El Paso, Texas, you are completely justified. I think there are maybe 20 Jewish people in the whole place. Nevertheless, there was a Jewish deli, and I worked there as a hostess/busboy/waitress/cashier for two-and-a-half years. The waitresses taught me everything I know about being loud and pervy.

It was owned by Richard and Joanna Bryar. I think when I started they were both in their 70’s. It was a pretty sad place. It was rarely busy. Richard (Dick, to his friends) spent most of his days napping in his office. He weighed about 400 pounds and constantly wore this giant yellow shirt that made him look like a depressed version of Big Bird. Joanna (Crazy, to the rest of us) only came in for a few hours every week, but it was her goal to drive all of us crazy in that short period.

Mostly, she would call every hour with questions for her husband. Let me give you an example. But first, I’ll remind you that I was 16. Now that we have that covered, here’s how the conversation usually went:

Me: “Thank you for calling Bryar’s Deli, how may I help you?”

Her: “Oh honey, is Dick up? I can’t remember where I put my (fill-in-the-blank).”

Me: (choking back the laughing tears) “Yes, ma’am, I’ll go check.”

Or:

Me: “Thank you for calling Bryar’s Deli, how may I help you?”

Her: “Honey, have you seen Dick? I need to ask him about (fill-in-the-blank).”

Me: “Well, no ma’am, I haven’t.”

My personal favorite was…no, actually I have two favorites:

Me: You get the idea…

Her: “Oh honey, I need Dick! There’s a mouse in the house.”

Me: “I don’t really have the right equipment to handle that, ma’am. Let me get Mr. Bryar for you.”

And finally:

Her: “Honey, I’m making cranberry loaf, and it calls for a cup of butter. But if I melt eight ounces of butter, won’t that make way more than a cup?”

Really? I’m pretty sure eight ounces of butter is eight ounces of butter no matter what you do to it. Unless you spill it, of course. She made the cranberry loaf, but forgot the sugar. That was the worst shit I ever tasted.

The Bryars were an interesting couple, to say the least. Across the street from the deli stood an Applebee’s. That’s right, the national chain restaurant. Dick and Joanna were convinced that the Applebee’s was conspiring (with whom, they never said) to put them out of business. They would stand and look out the window at all the cars in the Applebee’s parking lot. Once, there was a dead cricket in our lobby. Immediately, Joanna concluded that it must be the work of the evil Applebee’s spies.

Eventually, I had to quit working there when Dick and Joanna decided they should have a hand in my parenting. Crazy. On short notice, the only job I could find was at the Whataburger. Now that was an awesome job. It’s the only job I’ve ever had where speaking English was actually a hindrance. I worked the over-night shift a lot. I even had my very own stalker. He would wait for me in the parking lot and try to follow me home. I guess he was turned on by the plaid polyester. Have you ever seen a Whataburger uniform? They are supremely unattractive. And yet, my cuteness still came through.

I really improved my job skills at the Whataburger, though. I learned how to hit on the chick in the restaurant for the guy at the drive-thru window. I learned how to clean giant puddles of grease from behind the stove. I learned how to call 911 when one guy dropped a chicken strip in a vat of boiling grease and it splashed up onto another girl’s arm. Really, these things have come in handy. I decided it wasn’t the career path for me the night we got held up. I was in the back, cutting tomatoes (and my hands and fingers), when it happened. No one got shot. I hid under the tomato-cutter table. I quit the next day.

One of the jobs I love to hate was at Kohl’s Department Store. I was the department supervisor of the Lingerie Department. I know what you’re thinking. But it really wasn’t as hot as it sounds. Kohl’s is the place where I discovered how disgusting women are. Oh, the dressing rooms in that place. Women would go in there, take their nasty, dirty, diseased panties off and steal the pretty, clean, nice underwear from the store. Really. And guess who had to pick it up? Me. It was so gross.

I had a giant box of latex-free gloves that I stashed in my little secret drawer for these occasions. The worst day was what I like to call Day of the Period Panties. Yeah, it’s pretty much what it sounds like. Some woman left her nasty I-forgot-to-change-my-tampon-today underwear in the dressing room. The smell was atrocious. I’ve never smelled anything like it. I can’t say I ever want to smell anything like it again either. I requested a HAZMAT suit after that, but they turned me down.

For six years after that, I had a pretty awesome job. I worked for a builder, selling houses. You can translate that as, I got to sit in model home all day and wait for people to come buy houses from me. My boss and I got along great. She had some technical issues with technology (Read: Once I tried to show her how to use her computer and she put her mouse on the monitor screen when I told her to move it…), but other than that, it went smoothly. Then I decided to go back to college. And now…I’m an intern. (See previous post about internship. More to follow about my current job.)