Random Observations

Day Late and a Dollar Short

2007-09-10T22:09:00.000-04:00

Congratulations, Lisa!

2007-07-25T17:19:00.000-04:00

You were selected as a winner for our Harry Potter book
giveaway!

Your name was announced this morning on "Good Morning
Indiana."

We will mail the book to you later this week.

Thanks for visiting theIndyChannel.com and watching RTV6!!

This brings the grand total of copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in my house up to three. Perfect timing, too. A full week after the book is released. Awesome.

It feels good to be a winner.

It's not even engraved.

2007-07-14T16:20:00.000-04:00

This was delivered to our house a few days ago. I give you: the front...

The inside...
And finally, the back...

You're damn right I'm going.

What's new

2007-06-26T16:35:00.000-04:00

Wow. So, it's been a while, huh. Well let's do a recap of what's new with me, shall we? If anyone reads this anymore, which I doubt.

And the best family vacation EVER. Check the KFW blog for some good quotes.

I was accepted into Northwestern University's Genetic Counseling program for this fall. Woot! I'll be moving to Chicago, since the program is affiliated with the medical school and therefore right downtown. I've never been a big-city girl before, so that'll hopefully provide copious amounts of blogger fodder. My acceptance marks the first time in my academic career that I will attend a school with colors that don't totally suck. High school: maroon and white. Ugh. Valpo: brown and gold. I think I've already been quite clear on my feelings about that. NU: purple and gold! Loves it! The mascot is also an upgrade. I went from being a looting, pillaging Viking to being a politically incorrect Crusader to being a totally respectable Wildcat. Rowr. Interesting fact: three of the five kids in my family are now wildcats of three separate institutions. We're working on a cheer or something. So if you live in Chicago or know things about Chicago, let me know. So far I've been watching While You Were Sleeping and Return to Me to prepare myself for what my life will no doubt be like.
I executed the most incredible tactical defense of a shower my bathroom has ever seen. I went to take a shower the other day, forgetting that I had trapped a rather large, spindly spider in there the previous evening. I guess I forgot that spiders can, you know, walk up walls, but apparently so did he because that disgusting little bastard was still chilling in my shower the next day. With ninja-like dexterity I turned the shower head on and slammed the door before he could even move. I then retrieved a stool to stand on, allowing me to exact my aerial revenge on his very existence. The spray from the shower head wasn't enough to wash him down the drain, nor were the openings in the drain large enough for him to be washed away without chance of a spread-eagle hang-on. For reasons which I don't feel I need to enumerate, I have a line of empty conditioner bottles perched atop my shower door. I grabbed the first one and lined up my drop: a complete miss. Well, at least now my aim was calibrated. Second drop: direct hit. His scurries became frantic as I dropped my final deep conditioning missile, which resulted in a glancing blow. I had to finish him off or risk his eventual spidery revenge, so I found a face wash bottle and let it fly. Apparently the water had softened his exoskeleton (a phenomenon much like cereal becoming mushy in milk, no doubt) because he exploded in a shower of legs and abdomen and cephalothorax, all of which washed neatly down the drain. Don't even try to cross me, class Arachnida, because I will destroy you and my hair will look fantastic while I do it. BOOM, baby.

Today's my golden birthday! If you don't know what that is, you've clearly never lived in Wisconsin, because that's the only place people have ever heard of that concept. Also, I'm tired of typing this. So I'm out of here. Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes, and if you didn't send any, consider our friendship terminated.

Photographic Dregs of Valpo

2007-04-25T00:13:00.000-04:00

Okay let's shuffle the rest of these babies out into the Google-able interwebs. Go!

Here's Berg, home of the Sunday morning waffles. Mmmm. On the mornings I managed to wake up in time, that is. And of course, after freshman year, it was kind of a hike across campus for breakfast. But on the rare occasion I made it over there, they were damn good.

MORE new construction betwixt Alumni and Berg. A quick jaunt to Wikipedia tells me that it will one day be a 386-car parking garage. I'm guessing this is because the new $74 million student union's massage parlors, aromatherapy rooms and virtual reality internet simulators will no doubt cover most of what was once the ocean. Things I will never get to use bore me, so we'll be moving on now.

This is the old main entrance to the school. Notice anything missing? Anything at all? Like, say, a so-called eternally burning torch representing learning or knowledge or whatever that supposedly cost one student's full tuition to fuel each year? Extinguished, dismantled and put into storage. Or sold at auction, for all I know. Tragic.

Gellerson School of Engineering. I only had one class here all four years: Calculus. I took it the same semester that uber-nerd Catie was taking chemistry. It was an odd reversal of roles that put both of us out of our elements and threatened our GPAs. One day while I was walking to class, I heard an odd beeping noise. My heart leapt - Gellerson was obviously on fire, and the beeping was the fire alarms! Class would be cancelled! I charitably decided to show up anyways and express my fabricated condolences for the loss of such an important center of mathematical nerdery, and then head home for a well deserved nap. I closed in on the building, craning my neck to look for smoke billowing from the windows or flames licking the walls. Just as I passed the VUCA, I realized that the beeping was not the death throes of my own personal hell. It was the warning sounds of a bus driving in reverse out of the parking lot. I almost cried. Then I went to class and felt stupid. And let me tell you - there's no stupid like calculus stupid.

Also, once I lied and pretended to be a new engineering student to get free food at an engineering picnic with Catie, way back in the days before she decided she liked Jesus more than she liked numbers. Free hamburgers are the best hamburgers!

A quick shot of the logical, minimalistic sidewalk layout of Valpo.

Another time I wished I had night vision goggles: One night freshman year we walked to some field back here and played Capture the Flag for holy crap, way longer than I have tolerance for that game. Rachel and I began wandering out in the open in enemy territory we were cornered and talked to but never actually caught. I don't really remember how the game ended, but I think there was singing involved.

Some Chapel.

This used to be a Schlotzsky's Deli, the proximity of which delighted Rachel to no end. One time, during Catie's vegetarian period, the three of us went there for lunch. At the end of the meal Rachel and I had finished eating and Catie was almost done with her veggie sandwich. Rachel was impatient to leave for some reason or another, so I (in my infinite and often hilarious wisdom) said, "Well we can head out of here as soon as Peter Rabbit here's done with her meal." She got pretty mad at me. Sorry, Catie. I don't really think you're a rabbit. :) Now it's some Greek restaurant, which would also probably make Rachel happy. Greek food is harder to make than it is to eat, as we learned during the Harre-insulting, butter-soaked phyllo Space Camp Night. Space Hug!

And then it was back to the exciting and perfectly level landscape of northern Indiana.
My self-tour was over, and I had a camera full of pictures and a fuzzy new sweatshirt to prove where I'd been. Feel free to insert your own meaningful aphorisms regarding the past and/or future here. It's late and I'm tired.

Crusade to Valpo: Part Deux

2007-04-15T23:31:00.000-04:00

Okay, here I am again with another batch of Valpo pics to document so no one can comment on them and they can drift out in cyberspace, unacknowledged, until the interweb eats all our brains and digests them with its system of mechanical organs. Let's go, shall we?

Here's St. Teresa of CVS and the good ol' Green House where I lived senior year. I hear the life-size Mike Singletary poster no longer guards the top of the stairs; he was a victim of the fall cleaning we missed out on before we moved in. But I believe I discussed him in the last post. How about... ooh, when we got Lucas Paducas neutered in October, we held a Halloween Ball to celebrate the end of his potential for propagating his species as well as his impending desire to spray the walls of our house with his feline juices. (No, but really, get a cat. They're great animals. Amie knows what I'm talking about.)

But anyway, to expand on the theme, we served cheese balls, meatballs, mixed nuts and other vaguely testicularly named foodstuffs. Even though it was thrown in his honor, I think we had a better time at the party then Lucas. But even he had a better time than some anonymous cat from the anatomy lab whose one, two kitty testicles were left on our porch in a jar of some sort of fluid. Hooray for theme parties!

And boo to Kohl's. Yes, I realize that all Kohl's look alike and that this could be any of the no-doubt hundreds of extant Kohl's stores. You'll just have to trust me when I tell you that this is the Kohl's where I worked at P.O.S. and didn't really enjoy it and only two people came to visit me ever, so friend points go to you, Tara and Christine. I remember during orientation (a series of horrible, horrible videos from the 80s) we learned about the name tag incentive program. When customers filled out comment cards and mentioned you positively, you earned points. Everyone started out with a maroon name tag, but as you earned points you progressed to a silver and then a gold tag, and then you started earning stars to add beneath your name. I decided my goal was to be nice until I earned the silver tag. After that the name tags just got ugly, so I'd end the nice routine to maintain what was clearly the most aesthetically desirable tag. Did I achieve my goal? The maroon tag on my bulletin board mocking me to this day will be more than happy to answer your question.

It is also the very same Kohl's where a woman was piling clothes out of her cart while talking to her friend when I scanned a pair of baby pants. They rang up for twenty-two American dollars. They then began a debate on whether the pants were cute, and once they decided that they were they began wondering if the pants were twenty-two dollars worth of cute. "Well," said the woman who was planning on buying them, "If I don't like the price that comes up, you can offer me a lower one, right?" "Uh, no, sorry. This isn't a Venezuelan flea market. You pay what the tag says." I only said the first part out loud, but I think there was a tone that implied the second part. Maybe there's a reason I wore a maroon tag for the entirety of my employment.

New intersection in front of the aforementioned Kohl's, leading to countless venues of commercialized splendor. A twenty minute drive to Merrilville is no longer a necessity, which saddens me until I think of that time my stupid car started choking on its own radiator (or something... I don't know cars) and the 'check engine' light came on halfway home. Later that day on my dad's advice Catie and I bought some radiator fluid see if that would solve the problem. We successfully located the radiator cap and even opened it, only to find that it was mostly full. We opened up the new radiator fluid and poured some in - and holy crap, have you ever seen radiator fluid? I honestly believe it's the prettiest liquid that exists on earth. Like molten emeralds! It glittered in the late afternoon sun and Catie and I exclaimed over its beauty for an almost embarrassing amount of time, and then we wondered why there aren't more female mechanics. We bounced my car around by jumping on the bumper to, I don't know, settle the fluid in or something. Then I took it to a real mechanic and had to pay about four hundred bucks to really fix it. Memories.

More stores, including a dress barn for all your dress needs. Somehow I managed to survive four years at Valpo without this store. I had to bring a dress from home for the Sophomore Year Christ College Christmastime Gathering of Pretentiousness (or CCCGoP to those in the know) when I played first chair kazoo. I think that was the high of my Christ College career, too. Wait- no it wasn't. End of freshman year, a certain CC dropout and me filled out our evals in fluorescent gel pen. My favorite part was where we ranked the books we had read using a crudely drawn bar graph. I think our input really helped the program.

Okay last one before bedtime. I'm not sure if you can read that sign if you don't know already know what it says, but Mayfield Apartments hosted much stupidity over the first half of senior year. Like when we went to go see Tara's brand new apartment and during the ensuing celebratory drink, Laura spilled her red beverage across the beige carpeting. Whoops. The first time I ever saw the original Star Wars movies, and then watched them again for some reason, because even though there's apparently no black aliens the phrase "We got stheparated!" just gets funnier and funnier the more you say it.

And then that night after the Travis the Horse party we walked back to the Green House. There was frost on the cars and I spent way too much time using the side of my hand to make what looked like tiny footprints all over the car. I spent the whole time giggling over the fact that when the owner found it the next morning they'd undoubtedly wonder what baby had clomped barefoot all over their car, defying gravity by walking straight up the side of it.

There was another night where I came home from Mayfield to be alone in my house save for a bat fluttering around the ceiling of my bedroom and how the VUPD sort of saved me. But that's a story for another time, even though I'm sure you've all heard it before. It was a tale of valor and tiredness and utter embarrassment, and I milked it for all it was worth at the time. All right, I'm out. You behave yourselves til I get back.

Return to Valpo

2007-04-04T00:27:00.000-04:00

After an interview in Chicago this past weekend, I went a bit out of my way to stop by Valpo on the way home. I'd been there since graduation and had already seen the new library, including the Matrix-esque journal retrieval robot. Travel tip: DO ask to see this if you go back, DO NOT look at the rest of the library or the discrepancy between it and the library we knew will make your head explode. I present you now with a photo journal in however many parts it takes chronicling both my self-tour of campus and some precious memories of the time I spent there. Enjoy.

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Marvel at my cinematographic skillZ, my taste in music and my apparent aversion to using my windshield wipers.

The new road leading past "that Chapel" and the new library, a fine showcase of the wonderful opportunities Valpo has to offer. Strangely, Alumni Hall was not included on this greatest hits tour, but I'm sure the ongoing construction will eventually correct this oversight.

Memorial Hall, home sweet home of Sophomore "Everyone's Crying But Me" Year as well as half of Junior "Live in a Triple? Sure, I Can't Foresee Any Problems There: Love You Catie And Rachel BFF" Year. Now, apparently, there's a (gasp) road leading right to the front door, which seriously blows my mind. It almost makes the fact that the main doors of the dorm face in the complete opposite direction of the rest of campus logical. No, that's a lie. But I'm sure the campus feng shui went up a few points, or whatever units in which one measures feng shui.

Is it blasphemous to refer to the 'ass end' of a Chapel? I don't see why it would be, and since I'm too lazy to look up the real term for this portion of it, the ass it shall be. Also, the large stick of bells near the Chapel and the front of the CLI...R. It sure is shiny.

And opposite the Chapel... a disgusting muddy mess. The old library is gone, having no doubt collapsed in upon itself once the thirty books that once resided there were removed. Hmm library memories... Rachel used to work in the back room sniffing glue or something in exchange for minimum wage (hee-yah!). One time Catie and I decided to ninja ourselves along the walls and through the bushes to peek in at her through the windows and mock her with our freedom. I don't really remember the outcome of the story, so maybe it wasn't the best one to share here. Another time we were walking past the library back to Alumni and kicking white puffy dandelions. Most of them had been kicked, so we were fighting over the few that remained. I spotted one in the distance and thought the best course of action was to tear ass over to it and claim it as my own. When I reached the weed, however, I was cruelly betrayed by both my foam flip flops and the laws of friction as both my feet went out from under me and I landed square on my ass. And then my friends caught up to me, laughing their fool heads off, and kicked the flower I had suffered for. Ah, memories.

Skeleton of the new union, I'm guessing. See that banner on the lamppost? One time during the summer before senior year, I was walking around campus and saw one on the ground. I wanted one very badly, so after taking an inventory of my visibility, I scooped that baby up and brought it home, hiding it along my outside leg to hide it from any authorities. Hey, it always works in the movies. It lived on the wall of our fantastically decorated living room for the rest of the year, and has probably been thrown out along with the inflatable glitter guitar, the plastic glow-in-the-dark skeleton and the life-size poster of Mike Singletary. Sigh. Cleaning is not always a good thing.

That's all for tonight, kids. Tomorrow we'll explore the areas surrounding campus and some favorite buildings from the other side of the construction zone. G'night!

Marsh Bakery Report: Theirs No Spellcheck On There Cakes

2007-02-02T16:52:00.000-05:00

The cashier thought it was hilarious and told me to take it to customer service to see if I could get it for free for spotting the mistake. The manager at customer service, however, had no sense of humor about the grammatical inadequacies of his bakery staff. He took the cookie from me, saying he would take it back and have them correct it. Presumably after he beat them senseless with dictionaries.

Cars and Skanks and Naked Demi Moore - Oh My!

2007-01-27T21:31:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the delay... some stuff came up. On to the party!

One more thing... all credit for the photos goes Laura, whose photographic talents are matched only by her ability to remember the memory card in her digital camera, a skill I hope to one day master. You rule, girl.

As we had expected, our invitations were a last minute payoff for grinning and bearing our parking lot servitude. No pictures of the cars lining our street, because it was rainy and dark when Laura and I drove down the street to the party. Yep, we drove. I don't even think the tenth-of-a-mile place clicked on my odometer, but I drove to the valet station. I pulled up and a snappy gent led us under an umbrella to a Lincoln Navigator - or other overpriced facsimile - to be driven five hundred yards to the house.

Immediately upon our arrival it was obvious why he was not reprimanded for his parking transgressions: several police cars were parked right in front of the house. This guy clearly knows how to grease a wheel. One more short umbrella-led walk later we were inside. Yeah, it was a pretty big house, crammed to the rafters with seriously ugly art and skanks in varying degrees of undress and sloppy drunkenness. But we’ll talk more about the skanks later. We began a cell phone aided search for my mom and our neighbor, who had arrived before us. Eventually, we found them beyond the weirdest bedroom ever, containing the biggest entertainment technology gap I've ever seen.

I love the NES as much as the the next gal, but come on! Upgrade.

Mom, having already been exploring, proceeded to lead us on a greatest hits tour. First step was the car room. Correction: the FIRST car room. If I knew about cars, I'm sure the makes, models and years would have absolutely blown my mind; however I was more captivated by the sheer number of cars one person could own. Oh, and the shininess. And the fact that this man had at least two subterranean garages that he could have easily parked his guests cars in.

Some old red car

The insides of that red car

Laura had them valet park this one in our driveway

Looks like they had ugly banana yellow cars back then, too!

Sorry for the blur, we were in stealth mode... no flash.

In the words of Laura, "I'm sure this is nice… if you like old cars… which I don't."

Anyway, there was also food and a makeshift bar. We grabbed some food for the trek to the NEXT car room, which was infinitely more exciting because of THIS!

One point twenty-one gigawatts!

What the hell is a gigawatt?!

That's right, he owns a damn time machine. De Lorean. Whatever. I got to sit in it and crack wise about flux capacitors. Like it was even a question I'd do that! Please. Oh, and Frank Sinatra's last car... meh.

He did it his way... and his way was green and kinda ugly.

We found some stairs and wandered upstairs into a large... something room. I'd call it a TV room, but that really wouldn't distinguish it from any other room in the house. This guy must buy forty-something inch plasma TVs in bulk. At least one in every room, and in the kitchen I saw two mounted on either side of a 2-foot wide decorative dividing wall. The room we were in now had a television the size of a twin bed in a wall unit, and a smaller (though not much) television on a wall not 30 feet away. This room had several couches and a dedicated bar. And that brings me to the discussion of the skanks. The only reason I know there was a bar in the first place was because the bartender was tall and I could see him distributing the booze over people's heads. The bar itself was surrounded by an annulus of skanks, three deep in places. The layers was even thicker around a man with the most prominent brow ridge I've seen this side of a museum's wax exhibit of Paleolithic hominids. He had a voice several octaves lower than bass, which apparently functions as a skank magnet. The low frequency resonates with their lady regions and they cannot help but flock. Really - I read about it in a science journal. American Journal of You’re a Skank.

These were not just any skanks, either. Oh, sure, they looked like your typical, garden-variety skank from a distance. But upon closer inspection it became clear that the artfully spackled makeup was concealing their true age: approximately 139 in alcoholic years. Truly horrifying. Needless to say, we didn't hang out there very long.

The next door we came across that was open (or had an easily picked lock, whatever) was apparently DB's office. It contained all the typical office accoutrements: desk, computer, couches, oil portrait of Demi Moore, naked but for a painted on "suit." Yeah. What? The hell. I have no explanations for you; I can only present the facts in a derisive manner. What you do with the information is entirely up to you.

Essentials for productivity.

Next up, the exercise/antiquated video racing game/knock off (I hope!!) Venus de Milo room. I defy you to find a more natural combination – I’m sure it was a Feng Shui thing.

Get in a little workout...

...then drive the hell out of a 32-bit racing simulator while naked headless lady stands guard!

We hit the kitchen, where my sister drained the ice sculpture/scrimp dispenser (I haven't made anything up yet, why would I start with that?) and having thusly eaten the food and seen the house, we made our way towards the door where the wait began. We had to wait for the shuttle, so we stood by the door to feel the breeze and marvel at the skank parade. I have never seen - and hope never to see again - that much side-boob and lower-ass. Dresses too big and too small in dangerous places left them straddling the line between legality and whoredom. Ladies (and I use that term loosely) we don't need to see your baby factory to know you're female. Your preternaturally outsized boobs make it abundantly clear what sort of equipment you're packing, and your lack of clothing clearly advertises what you're willing to do with that equipment. Geez. Subtlety is DEAD, people.

During the wait, we received bags of gourmet popcorn (read: overpriced Cracker Jack without any prizes inside). My mom solicited help on an epic search for an umbrella that turned out to be right next to the door and probably made the help think we were involved in some sort of poorly planned umbrella heist. The knowledge that our house was in walking distance plus a woman smoking a cig and generously sharing her stench with all of us multiplied by two adorably precocious brats made the wait interminable. Eventually we tired of the standing around and of Laura's bitchiness (sorry, girl, the shoes are cute but they put you in a hell of a mood when they start cutting your toes off) and just walked down the damn driveway. Of course once there, we had to wait for my car. Great. Not five minutes later, the golf cart shuttle brought the very people we had walked away to avoid to wait with us. Fantastic. But wait for the silver lining, folks! As she was leaving the shuttle, the Marlboro Lady dropped her black purse on the driveway, where the darkness rendered it nearly invisible. Laura and I began a nearly silent campaign willing someone, anyone to run over the clutch, crushing what we imagined to be its contents: half a pack of cigs and a cell phone with a contact list brimming with numbers of local VD clinics. After near misses with both the golf cart and a real car, one of the brats ruined our fun, as brats are wont to do.

“You dropped your purse!” Little Lord Fauntleroy piped up. He retrieved the bag and handed it to her.

“He deserves a reward!” shouted some drunken moron from not two feet behind me. He had been monitoring the situation and decided to craze it up for his own amusement. “Give the boy a reward!” He was clearly hoping for either a kiss or a monetary reward to be bestowed upon the boy – the slurring made it hard to tell which. Either way, the woman was too drunk and/or dumb to coordinate such a complicated response. She mumbled a thanks and the boring wait resumed. Eventually, I saw lights coming down our street. Thank god. They began lining up in front of us, and the trained professional driving a pickup truck nearly hit another car (and I mean inches from a squealing, metallic mess) made me seriously doubt my decision to valet park. The Precious was clearly not in talented or even competent hands. Thankfully, it arrived with nary a squeal and Laura and I got in. It was go time. I turned around in the driveway, right in front of the valet bitches, and then drove right back to our parking lot home.

The verdict? Not even close to worth it. It would’ve been more fun to park every car we could lay hands on in our street and then saran-wrap all encroachers. Oh, well, there’s always the next party… because it’s only a matter of time before DB feels the need to flaunt his extensive popularity again. Whoopee!

Exciting New Development On A Story You Weren't Informed About In The First Place!!!

2006-12-20T13:11:00.000-05:00

Over the summer, new people moved into a house near us. (See lovely map below.) Construction began immediately on what appeared to be an entire additional house connected to the sprawling homestead they had just purchased. I'm not exaggerating at all. As a neighborhood off of the main road, we were clearly the prime location for parked work crew vehicles, construction equipment, quarry dump trucks (I don't know what half that shit was, I just know it was omnipresent and massive.) So that was fun, especially when the workers would eat their lunches and discard their chicken bones on the road for my dog to eat when we walked past. Let me tell you, there's nothing like sticking your hand halfway down a dog's throat to fish out a slimy chicken wing to finish a walk the right way. So thanks for that.

The construction has yet to cease, but they're valiantly not letting this fact affect their social life. One night, I returned to the house to see a 'valet parking' sign at the end of their driveway. "Hmm," I thought. "Interesting. I wonder where they're parking all the.... oh." As I began to turn onto my road, I saw. Both sides of our street were lined bumper to bumper with valet parked luxury sedans of varying absurd price, leaving a tiny conduit for me to carefully traverse to my house. The valets were zipping up and down in their little go-carts, shuttling the illustrious guests to the gala with nary a crystal-clad foot touching the dirty ground. Walking, after all, is for peons. We marveled at the sheer balls of the host’s decision to shanghai our private road for his personal use without even a note to give us a heads up, and briefly considered some sort of retaliatory action involving eggs and/or soap. We eventually just watched a movie or something. We’d make crappy revolutionaries.

A few weeks later, it was party time again. Several hours in, when our road was sufficiently clogged with cars, I called the police. Yeah, I did. Partly because if anyone who actually lived on the street had had the poor timing to have a heart attack or set their kitchen on fire, there would have been no possible way for an ambulance or fire truck to get through the narrow channel the valets had so thoughtfully left for us. I also called partly because I’d never called the cops on anyone before, and partly because I was feeling pissy and vindictive. I explained the situation, but I don’t know if it was ever followed up on. I don’t really know what I was expecting. Wait, yes I do. I wanted them to have to scramble to find parking for the cars, eventually allowing undersized twelve-year-old children to park the cars on their own front lawn, à la the film Father of the Bride. That’s what happened in my head, anyway. But imaginary retribution can only satisfy a girl for so long. For the next soirée, we have a plan of attack: as soon as we see the valet sign, we’re parking every car we have on the road, each approximately one car length apart. Our neighbors agreed to participate, and we have standing plans to invite people over for the additional vehicular volume and to eat popcorn while we relish the inevitable chaos. So for quite some time, that summed up our relationship with the Entitled Family – they use us as a parking lot, and we hate them with the fury of an endless procession of eternally burning suns.

AND NOW FOR THE EXCITING UPDATE!!!

A few days ago, there was a knock at our door. It was a woman bearing an apology for the parking shenanigans and an invitation to their holiday open house. And when I say ‘their,’ it’s because it’s a company party and this woman worked for the gracious host. I bet she didn’t know that glossing over her boss’s neighborly ineptitudes was included in her job description. Apparently, this guy part or mostly owns one of the most generically yet nefariously named corporations I’ve ever heard of. Seriously, I’m sort of mad that I won’t be able to use that name for an evil empire, should I ever obtain one. But anyway, I am so totally going, as are one of my sisters and my mom and some of our neighbors. It’s going to be awesome, I can just feel it.

FURTHER EXCITING UPDATE!!!

So I called to RSVP, naturally expecting to speak to the woman who had delivered our (shamefully last minute, according to Emily Post) invitation, because whatever evil plan she had botched to earn herself invitation delivery duty would surely also warrant RSVP duty. As it turns out, not so much. It was an RSVP hotline. 1-800-WeHaveTooManyFriendsToTakeTheirCallsPersonally. Wow. We’ve organized a small posse of neighbors to go, but we can’t decide if we should walk, or each drive separately and have our cars valet-parked on our street in front of our own houses and then be go-carted to the party. I think you know what I’ll be voting for.

Nerdy is Relative

2006-12-19T00:54:00.000-05:00

I was informally challenged to make genetically-themed Christmas cookies to bring into the hospital tomorrow. Here's what I came up with...

This is an inheritance pattern for the dreaded green-sprinkle disease, which is recessive. Symptoms of the disease are pink frosting and deliciousness. As you can clearly see, the mother (top left) is an affected cookie, while her husband is a carrier. Should they choose to procreate, they would have a fifty percent chance of baking an affected cookie and a fifty percent chance of baking a carrier cookie. Knowledge is power.

Here we see a cookie afflicted with a spontaneous mutation causing him to be an albino. Note the characteristic red sprinkles.

Another cookie family. This example includes an unaffected mother and a carrier father, and their two cookie children.

You know I didn't stop at gingerbread man inheritance charts.

Noah video

2006-10-25T01:39:00.000-04:00

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Jessie and Adam hold Noah for the first time

James and the Giant Beep

2006-09-03T23:45:00.000-04:00

As anyone who is fortunate enough to have both my cell phone number and a basic grasp of our numerical system will tell you, it is not that hard to successfully press the series of digits that leads to me. Unfortunately, it has been my experience that it is also not hard to accidentally press my unique cell phone number. I get an inordinate number of wrong numbers, especially for a cell phone. A gentleman we’ll call ‘James’ – because that’s who everyone asks for when they call my phone looking for him – has a gaggle of easily confused, stubby-fingered friends who keep trekking through the ethereal net of telephone connections, making wrong turns at Albuquerque and ending up at my dial tone. Lucky me. During a recent bout of wrong numbers, I decided to conduct a little experiment in patience. No humans were harmed during the course of this experiment. Mildly annoyed and inconvenienced, yes. Hurt? Unfortunately, no.

One night, around 11.30, my phone rang. While this experience is ordinarily a joyous affirmation of my own popularity, this time something was different. My phone began beeping the particular sequence I’ve set to indicate that someone is calling me to talk to not me. I checked the display and sure enough, it was a number I’d never seen before. Great.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” a girl chirruped. “Is James there?”

“Sure, just let me find him.” Speakerphone: on. Mute: on. Phone on desk. This girl – let’s call her Janell, because I’ve never met a Janell I’ve liked – had someone else on three-way calling, which may skew the results of this study. She waited patiently for a while, chatting quietly with her pal about such erudite topics as ‘what James has done now’ and ‘whether or not this will work to gauge my lip piercing.’ I never found out what she was trying to use, and it haunts me to this day. I sat enthralled, and also watching TV and chatting online, so I use the term ‘enthralled’ rather loosely, for a full six minutes. After a brief discussion about ‘where the hell James was’ in which no clear conclusion was reached, they decided to give and then hang up.

“Surely,” I thought, “Janell will check the number, realize her mistake and redial correctly. And then my fun will be over.” I needn’t have worried. Pressing ‘send’ is way easier than pressing seven tiny, numbered buttons in the correct sequence. Janell and I shared the exact same greeting, and then it was speakerphone-mute-experiment time. This eavesdropping session was much more informative. Apparently, there was some sort of illicit love triangle action going on between Janell, James and, for the sake of pointless alliteration and capricious confusion, the gent on three-way I have dubbed Jamal. They continued their hushed, stilted conversation, no doubt wary of James picking up at any second. Fools. It seems that although Janell was currently involved with James, she was more interested in a liaison with young Jamal. The three-way call was the method they had chosen to confront the situation and make known the fervent desires of their young, lustful hearts. I was clearly standing in the way of true love with this experiment. Their raging libidos would only allow them a tense four-minute wait, and after Janell hung up, I have not heard from them since. So for all the hopeless romantics out there on pins and needles about Janell and Jamal’s future… I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sure they’ll end up happily ever after for at least a week or two.

A few nights later, I was given the chance to further my research. A gent we’ll call Samuel for reasons that will become clear later happened upon my number late one night. James is, apparently, nocturnal. Luckily for the boundless pursuit of scientific knowledge, so am I. He asked for the big J, and I proceeded with the same greeting as Janell to ensure scientific consistency. After an initial wait of four minutes, I sought the expertise of my sister scientist Laura. Samuel was staying on the line obligingly enough with nary a complaint, but boredom was beginning to set in on my end. I decided to add a new variable. ‘New variable’ being fancy-talk for ‘mashed a bunch of buttons to check for his response.’

“Hello? Hello? James?” Sam replied quickly, taking the beeps as a sign that James was indeed on the line. I beeped (bept?) indiscriminately.

“This is like talking to a computer,” he said. I beeped in response. “Was that a one or a zero?” he asked. “Are we talking in binary?” I beeped twice; clearly an attempt to convey my conviction that ‘binary’ was an awfully big word for someone who can’t press seven numbers in the correct order. Sam had a good laugh at the mere idea, I assume, of our half-beep, half-moron conversation. I beeped rapidly, several times in a row. He took this as an expression of sass.

“Don’t you take that tone with me,” he joked, making what I’m sure was an accidentally clever play on words. I beeped an SOS in Morse code, for lack of anything else to say. Sam laughed again. James had better hope that he’s never in a life or death situation where the only person he can contact is Sam and he is compromised in such a way that he cannot speak and must attempt to beep for help. God forbid, etc etc. ‘Cuz I totally blew any chance of that being at all effective. In any case, I have a feeling any call to Sam would be unavoidably doomed by dumb from the start.

Anyway, back at the ranch, Samuel had designated one beep to signify yes, while two beeps was a negative response. Sam was also clearly pissed at James – seriously, this guy must be a real ass – and was demanding an explanation of why they had not met up earlier that evening.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded. This was an unwelcome deviation from our yes/no question scheme that left me unable to respond accurately. I beeped three times, hoping he’d get confused and move on. It worked. “Do you want me to come over there?” Shut. Up. This kid was starting shit I could only have dreamed of starting – with me practically an innocent bystander. Okay, not at all innocent. But this? Was going to be awesome. Start it up.

BEEP.

“Because I have the car tonight. So I’ll come over.” I love this so much.

BEEP!

“Is Tyler over there?” Sure. Why not drag his ass into this?

BEEP.

“Okay. I’ll be over there in a little bit.” So trusting, this kid. Never disbelieved fake-James and his beeps for a second. I beeped a goodbye and we were parted by dead air. I felt pangs of disappointment. Would I find out how this charade I had set in motion would end? Only time would tell.

Thirty seconds worth of time, as it turned out. Sam called back to verify that James really wanted him over there. I beeped an affirmative and we were on our way. Again.

The next call from Sam evidently came from James’ front porch.

“Dude, let me in.”

BEEP BEEP. At this, Sam became quite irate, spouting all sorts of obscenities at James. Heh. Short fuse. There was a scuffle, and suddenly Sam was talking to some new people. He was inside and looking for James and Tyler. Sweet. Somehow, possibly with liberal amounts of help from yours truly, he got the impression that James and Tyler were hiding somewhere in the house. He stayed in the kitchen, though, trying to amaze whoever was in there with his beeping buddy. Predictably, no one was amazed. I could hear him rummaging around for a while, and then the phone went dead. Uh-oh.

He called back fifteen minutes later, but did not say anything when I picked up. After a few seconds’ silence, he beeped once, loud and angry, if I may presume emotion and intent from his beeping technique. I didn’t respond. No dice, buddy. I’m the beeper in this relationship. A few more seconds of silence were all he could take.

“Look, that was a really crappy joke to play.” He sounded really pissed.

“I don’t know why you would do that. It was really mean.” I stayed silent, an admission of guilt as much as an inability to express “you are an idiot who brought this upon yourself” through our simplistic communication structure. He hung up without another word. I guess we’re not friends anymore. But on the up side, I haven’t gotten any wrong numbers since the termination of this experiment.

IRRESPONSIBLY GENERALIZED RESULTS OF EXPERIMENT: The average (and this is a total guess on age) late-middle to early-high schooler tends to believe you when you tell them the person they want to talk to is coming to the line. These individuals are also extremely open to alternative forms of communication. They are dumb. I am mean. End of study.

The Very Model

2006-08-15T15:04:00.000-04:00

Today, the impossible happened. On our walk, my dog Max was held up as the standard of excellence toward which all other dogs should strive. As we passed a woman walking a small black ball of fur, Max remained calmly by my side as the other dog exploded into a frenzy of yapping, straining at the end of his leash and nearly choking himself. "Why can't you be more like that dog?" she chastised her spasmodic oversized dust bunny. "Look how good he is!" Ha! Well played, Max. Well played.

He's come a long way from being the pride of his puppy kindergarten class who, upon receiving his Canine Good Citizenship award, promptly took a dump on the floor squarely in front of his teacher.

Dirty Weasels

2006-04-26T00:34:00.000-04:00

Okay, I get the hint. I'll blog more, but let's start slowly. I don't want to sprain something.

The other day in a mentoring session my friend Lora and I lead, a group of students asked us over for some help with their skit. They were looking for ideas for a ridiculously absurd product that no one would want. Lora suggested non-alcoholic beer. Reasonable. What did I suggest, you ask? Well, I said the first thing that sprang to mind. Weasel Shampoo.

Yeah, I got called a weirdo. But that turned into the funniest damn skit out of the whole class.

Professor Insanity

2006-03-08T23:48:00.000-05:00

I was going through my notes from last semester and I decided to make a list of things my professor said that were weird and/or funny enough for me to write down. No promises.

Biochem - I bet you didn't think biochemists were funny! Yeah, you were right.

"You don't have to remember this stuff. This is just me talking."

"Chlorophyll... more like BORE-ophyll!" (Whoops, sorry. That didn't come from that class.)

And there was one more about alcohol and a certain other professor but I'm guessing it was a 'you had to be there' joke and even though I was, it wasn't very funny.

Statistics - My prof was seriously crazy in love with stats. If it was a boy she'd totally marry it and have, like, a million of its babies. There should be a medication for this.

A speech that boiled down to "Babies will die if you don't learn statistics." It went on for upwards of twenty minutes and I didn't have the space to transcribe the entire thing.

"Do not use statistics to take over the world."

"We like just a bunch of dots."

"Remember that I danced today. This stuff is important."

Ethics - Taught by three profs, one of whom was a doctor with that weird doctor humor, one history professor who asked me to please let me allow some other people to answer but when I shut up, no one else talked at all so take THAT, and a woman who sat in the front of the room and just kind of wrote stuff down. Some sort of note-ninja.

"I'm just a humble whatever I am."

"We neglect our navels at our own peril."

"Yeah. He was a dope fiend."

"Wow, you're really exhilarated. What, did you just have a baby or something?"

"We could talk about mitochondria all day."

Yeah, I guess I thought there were more. I guess I make more fun in my head than I transcribe on paper. We could go into the crazy things VU profs said in class, but there's seriously not enough internet for that.

Seen on a webpage I frequent...

2006-03-02T19:01:00.000-05:00

...and I DON'T think that's butterbeer, young lady.

Noch steckend es zum Mann

2006-02-23T23:42:00.000-05:00

Sad that Christine was the first, I am the second, and we have YET to see a real, live blog entry from Ms. Tara regarding her expatriation. (I am not as brave as Christine, and have been chastened to the point where any further disclosure of Tara's last name will NOT come from me.) Anyway, in what I will pretend is a tribute to Christine's great blog but is actually flat-out idea theft I too have come up with a list of things that will remind me of Tara as she hookers it up in Germany...

gutting rental cars, DERifting off to sleep, staying up WAY too late, countless acts of nerdery including but not limited to the attendance of two concurrent midnight showings of HP4 as well as our subsequent 4 a.m. discussion thereof, that thing with the cactus that doesn't need to be brought up again, Dr. Mario, those awesome, awesome CC evaluations, font-matching on Mary's door, PENIS (and I shudder to think of the Google searches that little inclusion will bring me), watching that kid fall off the bike in While You Were Sleeping until I think we wore a hole through the video, Lois and Clark, shotgunning wine (never, ever a good idea no matter what Tara may say), the 'wind beneath my water wings/ do you know who you remind me of?' night, the noble interrobang, that monkey on the roof, "I'm what doctors call 'tired.'", Denny's, The Sims, Alisha's grandpa, the Gamer, Scarlett and how she copied me, and oh my God this list is quite long but last and certainly not least what do you have GOATS in there for?!

Fifteen Minutes (and Sixteen Hundred Words) of Fame

2006-02-15T01:51:00.000-05:00

Our society is inordinately obsessed with celebrities. The trials and tribulations of Brad Pitt and the epic sluttery of Paris Hilton are, for one reason or another, more intriguing than crap like international relations and the government. These topics are in fact so boring that I probably lost a few readers just by mentioning them. Sorry. You can come back now… I promise not to talk about them again. I think I read somewhere that people like to read about the exploits of the rich and morally inept (judging!) as a sort of replacement for the tales of polytheistic hijinks of ancient Greece and Rome. Whether that’s true or not, that sentence has fleshed out this introductory paragraph quite nicely.

As I’ve never been to California, my celebrity exposure has been limited to occasionally clicking past one of the shamelessly numerous celebrity reality shows on VH1. Accidentally, of course. What follows is my personal, real-life experience with people of varying degrees of fame, presented in a hopefully humorous narrative for your amusement.

When I was seventeen, a certain famous magician came to my city, and my family and I went to a show. I won’t use his name because I fear retaliation for certain aspects of the show that I may or may not reveal. Aw, who’m I kidding? Of course I’ll write about them. For the purposes of this tale, I’m gonna come up with a nickname to ease my pronoun burden. He shares a name with a well-known Dickens novel, but we’ll call him Cavid. Cavid Dopperfield. Yeah, I think we’re on the same page here.

The show was progressing nicely. The objects were disappearing, the audience was oohing and aahing at all the appropriate points, the underwear swapping went off without a hitch - yeah, that was a weird trick – it was altogether a good show. Then came time for the Big Trick. The Show Stopper. Cavid was gonna disappear somethin’, and he was gonna disappear somethin’ BIG. An event of this magnitude calls for dramatic, theme-appropriate music, so the sound guy cued up Cher’s “Do You Believe In Life After Love?” Come on! I can think of at least five songs off the top of my head that have the word ‘magic’ in the title alone. Appalling lack of creativity, sound guy. Hey- I just did some research and it turns out Cavid was going through a nasty breakup with a certain supermodel around that time… so maybe I was just mocking his personal vindication theme song. Whoops. You go, girl. Stay strong. All you need is you.

In order to choose the lucky audience participants, we played musical beach balls: whoever was holding one when Cher stopped wailing got to be in the trick. Apparently they made some announcement about having to be eighteen years old to participate, but I, erm, didn’t hear that. Anyway, a million years later the song ended, my dad awesomely set me up to end with a ball, and I was told to head onstage. Obviously. This wouldn’t be much of a story otherwise. My quick thinking ensured my place in the trick – a magical lackey asked how old I was as I climbed the stairs, to which I suavely replied, “Sev-eighteen!” Smooth, Lis. Smooth.

Dopp had us all sit on some presumably magical bleachers behind him. He then asked my (and some other guy’s, an unimportant detail) name and gave us flashlights so we could waggle them like idiots to prove that we were still behind the curtain they then drew around all thirteen of us. After that, Dopp levitated us. We heard a low buzzing noise and then we were suddenly backstage, twenty minutes later!

No, that’s not what happened at all. Truth be told I am a little scared of some sort of Magicians’ Alliance coming after me. But really, what are they going to do? Pretend to cut me in half and then pull quarters from my ears? And Dopp is such a sham I feel this exposure is long overdue. Nothing you couldn’t figure out if you thought about it, keeping in mind the basics of physics, conservation of matter and being a total tool.

Where was I before my fear made me lie to you good people? Oh, yeah. So what’s-his-face and I are waving our flashlights stupidly while the curtain closes around us and our fellow ball-catchers. As soon as we are hidden from sight, two beings who I can only assume were magical ninjas come from behind us and begin herding us out the back of the stands into (gasp!) the big empty space behind the curtain-covered bleachers. They took over our flashlight-waggling duties while we all stumbled to an area backstage to watch a VHS tape of what the audience would see. Eventually the man himself (not to be confused with the Man) came back and we got to meet him. Woo.

Magicians have a certain mystique about them. For me, it’s the frustration of not knowing how they do their tricks. Now that was dead. Not that I really expected to be disappeared, but come on. Couldn’t we have incorporated a trap door or some strategically placed mirrors or something? That said, Cavid Dopperfield is quite tall and almost comically thin- like a shorter, normally proportioned person who has been taffy-pulled. He also sports a Swayze-esque mane of (probably dyed) hair that I’m sure is the envy of other magicians and clearly the pinnacle of Aquanet technology.
He inducted us into the Guild of Magic Trick Participants, in the ‘Shut the Hell Up’ chapter. I let my membership lapse within fifteen minutes of orientation, which must be some sort of record. We had our photos autographed like good little how’d-he-do-thats (anyone? anyone?) and were then ushered out to our confused, waiting families. Debunked magic trick and autographed photo in one night? Not bad, not bad at all.

NEXT! I saw Elijah Wood in London’s Heathrow airport on the way home from my semester in Cambridge. I’m guessing he was there for the London premiere of The Lord of the Rings, but I’ll never know for sure. I wish there was more to this story, but I only saw him for a second before the crowd shifted and he was lost to my view behind someone’s knees.

He’s very short is all I’m saying here.

Moving on. Much to the delight of many of my friends, I live near Reggie Miller. We’re practically neighbors and all but best friends. Er, were best friends. Until I flipped him off.

My sister Laura and I were leaving the neighborhood one night. As we came up on Reggie’s house, I noticed a car on the road. Ordinarily this in itself would not throw me. Cars frequently appear on the road; it is their natural habitat. The fact that this car was sideways in the road blocking both lanes is what gave me pause. He’s lucky I had my headlights on and was looking out the front windshield and know how to work the brake or we could have had a seriously ill-advised game of chicken on our hands. And judging by the size of his (Excursion/Navigator/insert euphemistic gas guzzling SUV name here), he would have won easily. I implicitly conceded defeat and slowed down to allow him to creep backwards into a driveway across the street. As I zipped around this mystery stranger’s grill, I flipped him off and somewhat less-than-politely enumerated my concerns about his driving ability, two unfortunate and rarely-used habits lingering from my commuting days.

Now before I go on, allow me two explanatory digressions. First of all, the speed limit on this road is significantly faster than the standard Reggie-gawker speed of 3.5 miles per hour. As my mother is fond of shouting, the speed limit is 45, not ‘stop and look at Reggie’s house.’ Second of all, I am not usually so explicit in my hand gestures. I’ve only flipped off one stranger before, and that was an old man in a Buick. Long story. I generally prefer shouts and have recently come into my own in the horn-honking arena. I was just in a hurry and feeling particularly animated, I guess.

So after my display, we continued down the road. Laura turned to determine the cause of this car’s bizarre behavior. The verdict was that the mystery car was not a typical gawker, as they are rarely allowed within the iron gates where this car was currently heading. Oops. I have just flipped off Reggie Miller, albeit in the dark of the night through heavily tinted windows, because he was waiting for the sprinklers to turn so he wouldn’t get water spots on his car, a personality trait which sort of makes me glad I did it.

Now, to you naysayers who I know are out there, no- I didn’t actually see the man. In fact, I’ve never seen him in person, nor would I be very likely to recognize him. I live in Indiana and don’t like basketball, but I haven’t been tossed out yet. I’m a curiosity, I know. But the members of my family who have had CRSs (Confirmed Reggie Sightings) tell me that he always appears in a large black SUV. That plus deductive reasoning equals I flipped off Reggie Miller. And I’m sure he’s seen and heard worse at games but this is MY story and I’ll focus on what I want.

Well, that pretty much sums up my limited experience with the glitterati. Not very impressive, now that I look at it. Though for all I know, there could be many more meetings. I am amazingly bad at recognizing people. My life could be lousy with unrecognized celebrity encounters and I would have no idea. Case in point: two of the three encounters documented here had to be pointed out to me by others. (I figured out Dopperfield on my own, thank you very much).

Our society may not have gods and goddesses to gossip about, but there are always modern parallels. Tara Reid, the goddess of “accidental” silicone exposure; Ashlee Simpson, the demigoddess of GERD; and Tom Cruise, god of the Batshit Insanity, all residing happily together atop Mount Tabloydus, occasionally descending to give me something to blog about. Thanks, guys. Keep up the crazy.

Hamwine or no...

2006-01-23T23:18:00.000-05:00

Let it never be said that Tara punks out on dares.

Your Mom Goes to Hogwarts.

2006-01-18T23:34:00.000-05:00

Those prefects sure know how to live when it comes to bath time. Countless faucets spewing all sorts of mysteriously colored liquids, including but not limited to scented bubble baths, artesian spring water and bleach, judging by Harry’s complete lack of skin pigmentation. But here’s what really got us. You may not know this, but the actress who plays Moaning Myrtle is forty. Now we defy you to watch that scene again without getting creeped out.

Apparently the HP folks learned from the failed merchandising of the recent Star Wars films. Tara attempted to locate some fun HP stuff as an act of goodwill for her recent visit to Lisa’s pad. An hour in Target ended with nothing except some chocolate and bug gum, both completely unrelated to HP. Where will Tara get her blue Beauxbatons tracksuit? Will Lisa ever locate a Hogwarts hoodie? These questions will never be answered.

Both authors also feel confident in their ability to fire off a biting insult to the average British citizen should the need arise. Nothing puts fear into the hearts of your enemies like a good “You stink!” or an angry “Off to bed with you!” Thankfully, Moody is around to properly school young Hogwarts students about the proper way to harass others. It’s nice to see someone else who shares our belief that transfiguration, rather than communication, is the best way to deal with any problems one may encounter. Good thing this movie taught us the correlation between ferrets and crotches in the Hogwarts establishment that may otherwise have gone unnoticed.

Here’s what you need to succeed at the second task: a kick-ass calf wand holster and some flora phlegm. Consider yourself warned: even that won’t ward off the creepy shark-tailed merpeople. This sentiment may stem from a too-early viewing of Jaws that left Lisa permanently scarred. But those are her issues… maybe Tara should finish up this paragraph. Speaking of the merpeople, we’re pretty sure that Ariel didn’t look like that. If she did, becoming a human was the best choice she ever made. Other issues with this task come from Harry’s failure to recall that he is a wizard until after the task was officially over. Could he not have used his blast-out-of-the-water spell at the beginning of the task rather than waiting until he was about to be drowned by the MIB underwater alien babies? Honestly, Harry. You could have won that task. What would Pappy Potter have done? He would have acted like a wizard, this much we assure you. He also would have tapped into the wizard cappuccino machine sitting on the viewing platform. Any respectable wizard would have.

And after several more scenes about which we can’t think of anything snarky to say, we come to the final task. The Hogwarts students gather round to watch the Champions enter the labyrinth and then sit there, essentially blind to any goings-on of the task for however many hours it takes for someone to find a Triwizard cup in several square miles of hedge maze. Sounds like a blast- where can we buy tickets? At least they’ve got the bizarro-wizard instruments to keep them entertained. Geez, and we thought regular baritones were bad.

Dumbledore gathers the Champions around him to give them some mysterious and basically unhelpful words of pseudo-wisdom: “In the maze, you'll find no dragons or creatures of the deep. Instead you'll find something much more challenging: A waning CGI budget.” Or something to that effect. Then, they enter the last task: Attack of the Killer Shrubbery. Most of us have had a horrifying experience or two involving shrubbery. Whether it be an unfortunate incident involving excessive mixing of certain beverages with a Metro ride gone horribly wrong or a childhood game of hide and seek ending with a terrifyingly translucent spider crawling menacingly towards you, shrubs are something we can all unite against. At least we can be safe in the knowledge that we have never had hedges that would attack with little to no warning. Simple blessings. It could be hoped that a tournament reliably known to end in the gruesome death of at least one of its participants would have a bigger final challenge than restless shrubbery and the occasional errant vine. Gone are all the daunting creatures that filled the book-maze; they’ve been omitted in favor of the Stiff Wind of Bad Sportsmanship.

So Harry and Cedric grab the cup together, blah blah transported to a cemetery blah. And while Lisa did not take Tara up on her twenty dollar bet to stand up and shout this to the masses in the theater, she will here:

CEDRIC IS IMMEDIATELY AK’D BY WORMTAIL.

Sorry, Ced. Then it’s time for Cooking with Pettigrew: a dash of your estranged father’s femur, a pinch of your lackey’s entire right hand, a tablespoon of your arch nemesis’ blood and baby, you got a stew goin’. Creepy giant naked fetus stew. BAM! Lord Voldemort has returned with less of a nose than Michael Jackson, and he’s super pissed about his terrible manicure and his lack of flip-flops. This calls for an evil class reunion: the still-loyal Deatheaters zoom in from parts unknown and prepare to rock it old school, but not until after Voldy rips off their hoodies and Mardi-Gras masks and makes them cry like little girls. That man is the master of the “your mother” joke genre. Perhaps Malfoy should invest in some Deatheater static cling spray- he definitely had some frizzies when his hood came off.

Voldy then turns his attention and his insults to Harry, who promptly hides behind a gravestone before eventually facing him in a combination magical laser light show and cage match to the death. Lisa sat a bit close to the screen due to a misunderestimation of travel time, and the sudsy magic that flowed freely from their wands was so bright her eyes were watering. Were we ever involved in such a duel, we would do well to remember sunglasses, is what we’re saying here. The tears of a sensitive-eyed individual are not very intimidating.

Now, we aren’t going to ruin the ending of the movie for you. Maybe Harry Potter dies in the end of the movie based on the fourth book of a series of seven books, all of which are named after him. We’re in no position to spoil that for you. Go out and enjoy the movie while it’s still in theaters- God knows we did.

mischief managed...

Harry Potter and the Never-Ending Blog: Pappy...er, Partie Deux

2006-01-11T23:01:00.000-05:00

A week has passed since the first installment of Tara and Lisa's wisdom. It's good to see all the hard work inspired two comments, a full half of which were posted by the authors themselves. Our dedication to ourselves is astounding. Thank you, Tara, for your insight.

It’s a shame we couldn’t have seen the other Champions in the first task, but we accept that this didn’t happen in the book and based on our previous nitpicking, this wish would make us complete hypocrites. No one wants that. We waited in the tent with Harry, and that’s fine. We got to see the trunks of ‘Hogwarts Field Supplies,’ which should be available for purchase at any upscale outdoor sporting goods retailer. When opened, they reveal a small placard that reads “Your damn wand, because you’re a wizard, you idiot.” The tent also held beds for the sleepy Champions to rest a bit before their task. A little nap before you face your dragon. “I’m just gonna take a nap while you guys tackle the dragons. Someone set an alarm for me, ‘kay? I don’t want to sleep through my task. Good talk- I’ll see you out there.”

Maybe we don’t have the flair for the dramatic timing that Mr. Potter does, but we’d be Accio Firebolt-ing it as soon as we set foot into that rock quarry, especially knowing that the broom was going to take the scenic route to get to us. And to hell with the broom anyway- why not Accio the egg and be done with it? Unless you think the egg had charms on it to prevent such actions, in which case congratulations, you have officially over-thought the first task.

Once the Firebolt decides to arrive, though, we must commend Harry on flying right through the professors’ tent. That was an awesome dick move apropos of nothing. And one would think that the spectators would be mildly curious as to what Harry was doing after the dragon broke its chain and chased him out onto campus. You’d be wrong. Not even a magically conjured Jumbo-tron to let them know if their classmate has been charbroiled. The safety measures discussed in the book were obviously eschewed in favor of rooftop tension- and Harry doesn’t even get a spotter. These Triwizard organizers aren’t screwing around with the death and the peril. Not even the Hogwarts roof shingles or random stone aqueducts were safe. “Welcome to the Triwizard Tournament! Our first task will be sponsored by the Wizarding Roofing and Masonry Union Local #142.”

After the first task, Harry has a huge cut on his face, which we later see is being held closed by (presumably) mystical, magical butterfly bandages. You’d think they’d have a spell for that. Speaking of things they should have spells for, several times during the movie I was tempted to raise an imaginary wand and shout ORTHODONTIUM! at a set of particularly British teeth. And Karkarov… Remind us not to sign up for the Azkaban Dental Plan. EVER.

The Harry Potter series is known as a set of books that are appropriate for both children and adults. If this is the case, why must all readers in their twenties be disenfranchised by the obvious lack of any twenty-ish characters in this movie? Two opportunities were usurped by the moviemakers’ attempt to cut down on time as well as their obvious lack of nerdiness concerning book details. Example one: Ron’s brother, Charlie, is cut out of the illicit dragon-viewing scene. Many may have wondered what Charlie would look like. Unfortunately, he looked like he’d cost too much to have in the movie, so we’ll never know. He is described as being good-looking in the book, so why deny the Gen X crowd a little eye candy? Thanks a bunch. (Author’s note: This is particularly disturbing to Lisa, who likes the occasional redhead. Other Author’s note: That’s a lie and you know it, you dirty bitch.)

Example two: It’s a common misconception that ghosts don’t age. This is clearly not the case in HP world. When we see Harry’s parents, they are somehow the same age as their living classmates despite the fact that they have been dead for going on thirteen years. Oops, another way to cut out some 25 year olds.

This change may not have been as noticeable had the actor chosen to play James/Pappy not been such a complete nerd. (Glossary: Pappy Potter – Affectionate term used to refer to Harry’s deceased father/pappy, James Potter. Phrase coined following the unanswered question, “Whatever happened to Harry’s grandparents?”) The badass Pappy Potter of the books should not appear onscreen looking like a forty year-old accountant whose most significant accomplishment in life is his remarkably extensive sweater vest collection. He doesn’t look like someone who would stick it to the man, as Pappy frequently did. (Author’s note: This is especially distressing to Tara, who enjoys a good case of crazy-hair and sports an unhealthy obsession with what she insists on calling “sticking it to the man.” We’re not sure what “it” is, and we don't care to find out. Other Author’s note: There’s nothing wrong with sticking it to the man, as he’s out to keep us all down. And at least I don’t dig on the redheads, ass.)

Snape beating the hell out of the backs of Ron and Harry’s heads? Best scene in the movie. Also, kudos to Fred and George on getting some acting lessons. Not cringing after every line they speak is definitely an improvement.

We loved how anyone at the ball with any hint of some sort of foreign nationality to them shopped at Ethnicities R Us for their dresses. And as Harry and Parvati walked in, she was waving around at her adoring public like she had just been crowned Miss Hogwarts 2005. Keep it in your sari, princess. You’re a last resort. And while everyone else was hitting up the Stereotype Stripmall for his or her Ball couture, Ron did his shopping in Elton John’s trashcan. You’d think Hermione could’ve helped him out with a little DE-LACE-IA! and a couple blasts of SARTORIAL ADJUST-IUM! Then maybe his tuxedo-dress could’ve been as pretty as Harry’s. Geez, Hermione. Quit bein’ such a bitch. Surely Mrs. Weasley would have a book on this matter. Hell, even a pair of scissors would’ve helped.

The wizard band and their Muppet-skin outfits were apparently good enough in the wizarding world to inspire a midget mosh pit, which is always a good time. But honestly? Their lyrics were trite and the singing was a little bit pitchy, dawg. Ha- kidding. Midget mosh pit equals an automatic A+.

And finally, hooray for Neville “I Could Have Danced All Night” Longbottom for finally getting one day in his life where no one’s telling him how useless he is… or how his parents are insane gum wrapper collectors… or how bad his teeth are… and wow, we hope this kid never goes on the internet and Googles himself. Sorry, Nev. But really, way to go on the dancing.

In the next installment: water and nudity in varying degrees of creepiness, angry shrubberies, the ferocity of British verbal dueling and reasons not to grab pretty, shiny objects.

A word to the wise...

2006-01-03T23:04:00.000-05:00

I mock because I love. Don't doubt the extent of my nerd-love for HP- there's still two more blog sections to go.

Merlin's Beard! The Long Awaited Tara and Lisa and the Goblet of Fire Blog: Part One

2006-01-02T23:40:00.000-05:00

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. 154 minutes, rated PG-13 for sequences of fantasy violence, frightening images, Ron saying "piss off," giant sexuality and creepy fetal nudity. Opens November 18th, 2005 so yes, this did take us over a month to complete. Shut up, we’re very busy and important.

A word to the wise – if you’re, hypothetically, debating in the car if you should wear your Gryffindor scarf into the theater, and some guy walks past you in an unruly black wig and round spectacles, you can rest assured that your scarf will not mark you for mockery. You are among friends. However, if you wear sorting hats AND bring books to read, some guy working for a newspaper will photograph you, and I will hate you for outdoing me.

Harry Potter movies are also excellent for eighteen flavors of Mom vs. Mom seat hostility. In some perversion of the natural instinct to protect one’s young we can observe the fierce instinct to get ones bratlings the best theater seats possible, even if it be at the expense of ones own senses of propriety and human dignity. Hilarious, really. Unless you get in the middle of such an encounter- it’s best to stay an uninvolved observer in these cases. Get there early and set up a blind of Goober boxes and popcorn bags so as not to disturb the delicate balance of nature.

Any movie that is based on a book is bound to be plagued by our arch nemesis: the Lecturing Scholar. These individuals can vary in age, volume and veracity; a single scholar can ruin a movie, and there is currently no screening process to weed them out. Under the guise of either helping out or showing off, they feel the need to name each character and explain in detail his or her importance to the plot, how the cast actor or actress differs from the scholar’s own mental image of him or her, and any memorable quotes from the book they can recall. As there are usually no outward physical symptoms of this condition, avoiding them during the seating process can be difficult: they do not reveal themselves until the theater is dark and the opening credits are rolling. The only remedy for an L.S. is the Anonymous Angry Shhh or, failing that, the Half Head Turn and Peripheral Vision Glare. Advanced individuals may feel comfortable combining these two techniques into an exceptionally effective silencing method, but your average moviegoer should practice at home before attempting this in public. It’s best to silence the L.S. rapidly and immediately lest he or she fall under the impression that anyone is interested in their undoubtedly encyclopedic knowledge of “who Nagini is.” Thanks for the tip- we read the books too. But we have the sense to keep our conspiracy theories to ourselves until we can elaborate on our blogs.

What conspiracy theories, you ask, even if you didn’t? Tara, for one, wants to know what’s up with the conspiracy against women in this movie. Here’s a probable conversation between author J.K. Rowling and GoF director Mike Newell.

MN: We need to cut out some time. Let’s lose Momma Weas, Cedric’s mom and Mrs. Crouch. While we’re at it, let’s make Moaning Myrtle and Rita Skitter creepy, creepy pedophiles.

JKR: That sounds fine, but don’t destroy too many female characters, because I did that a lil bit already. I made Fleur the most worthless champion. Harry’s mom is only in GoF because I needed someone to play the secretary announcing the arrival of Pappy Potter. Oh, and don’t forget that Nagini, the evil snake, is female.
MN and JKR slap each other five and call it a day.

One thing from the book that was (sort of) left in the movie was the Quidditch World Cup. If you don’t know what Quidditch is, we’re not exactly clear why you’re reading any of this. It’s only gonna be down the steep, slippery slope of nerd-dom from here on out. Some viewers were freaked by the Sonorus-ication of Fudge (see what we mean with the nerd?) while others were freaked by Vertigo Stadium, which hosted what little we saw of the QWC. They cut out most of the Quidditch for Ron’s recitation of ‘How Do I Love Thee, Krum? Let Me Count The Ways.’ Some contributors to this blog think that Ron is worthless. These individuals nearly wet their pants at the line “Ron Weasley, Harry Potter’s stupid friend,” and felt that it summed up their attitude perfectly. Others just kind of laugh and try to reiterate that book-Ron is really quite humorous and that also that he’s a fast runner. So Ron’s pretty much a mixed bag.

Some aspects come with an explanation for why they were cut, while others were added for no discernible reason. Case in point: the ceiling freak-out when Moody entered. Elements of Harry Potter movies should not confuse twenty four-year-olds. Also, how did young Barty Crouch Jr. know all the magic that Moody, an experienced auror, would know? Perhaps as a boy he held some sort of internship with The Man, or else was enrolled in some sort of fast track to the Upper Echelons of Ultimate Evil grooming program. The world may never know, or even wonder about it too much. Oh, and speaking of grooming- Crouch? The Hitler ‘stache went out for a reason. Please shave accordingly. At least we can be grateful that Sporadic Evil Snake Tongue is not a heritable trait. Unfortunately, his Chicklet front teeth à la Mr. Wilson in Dennis the Menace would be passed on to the next generation – and yes, feel free to marvel at the depth of my cultural allusions. Inexplicable random creepiness in lieu of actual story events: curious call, filmmakers.

By cutting straight to the QWC, we also miss out on our yearly Dursley fix. And in this book, that means no embarrassingly over-stamped letter, no busting of the wall in front of the fireplace, and no twins slipping Dudders the infamous toffee. In short, no magical bitchslap of the Dursleys at all, unfortunately. Since they didn’t have to pay the Dursley actors this year, you’d think they could’ve splurged and bought Dumbledore more than one effin’ robe for the entire movie. Surely his Muggle equivalent would have his own clothing line. Dumbledore’s Duds. Dumbledresses. “D.” Albie-D would definitely have been invited to many a friendly game of Butterbeer Beirut. His pimpin’ dress did nothing to cover the Butterbeer belly that was obviously cultivated with constant dedication to the art of the drink. The question remains: Butterbeer or Firewhiskey? One could guess that it depends on which choice could give his nail beds the creepy pallor of recent death they seemed to have. However, don’t ask Dumbledore about the estimated one billion rings he wore throughout the movie. He doesn’t like talking about his flair.

Hermione stated that the whole purpose of the Triwizard Tournament was to improve international magical cooperation. Not going to lie here: it’s a little difficult to take visiting schools seriously when their students either flounce around exhaling butterflies à la American Beauty or stomp around doing a magical dance with sparking pimpsticks. When did we have time to learn that, boys? Sample Durmstrang schedule: 8:00 - Charms; 10:00 - Potions; 1:30 - Tumbling and Dance.

Question: Why were the eventual champions not involved in the ShowOff-tacular designed to astound and amaze the students of Hogwarts? Answer: Dancing like a circus monkey does not an angry champion make. And Fleur didn’t want to wrinkle her satin whore outfit. ‘Nuff said.

In the next installment: HP goes mano a dragon, we cover some spells that should have been, expose some GenX disenfranchisement and play a little Dance Dance Revolution – Wizard Edition.

Now on DVD!

2005-12-06T12:16:00.000-05:00

See Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs wear a bikini! Marvel as Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs kick some guy! Wonder how Jessica Simpson's boobs, ass and legs got a career as they "sing" and writhe around on a dance floor! Also included: some extra scenes with girls' boobs, asses and legs who AREN'T Jessica Simpson, and the movie The Dukes of Hazzard.

Creepy things the cable guy said to me today

2005-12-01T23:46:00.000-05:00

1. "I can't come in unless you're 18."
2. "Whoops, dropped my knife!"

Coming soon...

2005-11-19T22:28:00.000-05:00

a joint Lisa-Tara HP4 blog. Be still, your beating hearts. :)

In Which They Actually Get Married

2005-11-01T00:34:00.000-05:00

Rehearsal dinner, I’ve noticed, is a bit of a misnomer. It should be called a rehearsal and dinner. It’s not a dry run of getting food from the plate to your gaping maw so you don’t embarrass yourself at dinner, although that might not be a bad idea to pursue on your own time. I’ve seen some of you eat. But enough of this pedantry. The first part of the rehearsal takes place at wherever the wedding will occur, whether it’s a church, a beach, a park or Graceland. Hey, I’m not judging. Snickering a little bit, but not judging. The rehearsal goes over each step of the ceremony in mind numbing det- er, to ensure a smooth ceremony the next day.

Proper wedding procedure is impressed upon the wedding party, and the timing of everything is fine-tuned: everyone knows what music plays when, at what pace to walk down the aisle, and how often to cry. The whole ceremony is run through once, and then again going backwards, and again in pig Latin for good measure. Barring any unmistakable signs from God, you should be good to go.

The dinner afterwards is a chance to kick back and relax before the chaos that is a wedding sets in. You’ll get to mingle with the wedding party and family members, and meet new people. (Who’s that? Who, indeed.) After the rehearsal dinner, it’s a good idea to get to bed early so you’re well rested for the wedding. You won’t, though. There are holes to be punched and ribbons to be tied and photos to be matted. You’ll wish you had slept, though, when you get up at an ungodly hour to be brushed, teased, pinned and sprayed into tonsorial and cosmetic perfection.

First up is hair, where a stylist will attempt to defy both gravity and humidity with up to one metric ton of bobby pins. By the end of your session, there will be enough metal covering your head to block out the alien overlords’ mind control messages sent through the ozone hole all the hairspray used created. Trust me on this: I have an inside source. When getting your makeup and hair done, it’s a good idea to take a look at the makeup and hair of the artist working on you. That can be a pretty good indication of whether you’ll end up looking like a mutant Technicolor mime. Just a heads up.

Okay, on to the wedding, yes? The wait is over, The music is beginning, people are walking down the aisle. Don’t trip, that’s frowned upon. And as far as processional music goes, you don’t get more for your money than with one Ms. Heather, P.A. and I.T. extraordinaire. Everything from ‘Canon in D’ to the Spice Girls’ timeless ‘Two Become One,’ nothing says impending wedded bliss like the piano stylings of Heather. That's what we were talking about in the front seat.

After the wedding, guests are sometimes given nuptually approved projectiles or noisemakers, depending on whether the bride and groom prefer bodily or aural assault. As P.A.s Heather and I were bell hander outers, and we figured out immediately that bell distribution is not so much an art or a science but rather an alarmingly accurate popularity contest. She whose basket runs out first is obviously cuter and has a better sales pitch. Yes, we were making sales pitches for people to take free bells. What of it? I can’t remember who emptied their basket first, but there were some undocumented trades that no doubt skewed the results.

Next up? Can you say, ‘limo ride to the reception?!?’ Because I can! Sorry if my excitement is disproportionate to what a limo ride would seem to warrant, but the last time I had been in a limo was when I was six, and it had a phone and a TV in it, and that absolutely blew my mind because it was 1987. Cut me some slack. Limo advice: try to snag a forward or reverse facing seat. That long side bench seems like a good idea, but I ran some numbers and leather seats plus formal wear equal zero butt traction and potentially embarrassing situations. Enjoy your imaginary celebrity status and how all the other peons in regular cars are wondering who you are and what’s going down in Mankato that demands your presence. And once you return from your brief fugue from reality, it’s time to go to the reception.

First on the reception agenda is some serious mingling. Eat, drink and if you’re a P.A., forcibly eject people from seats that you were too slow to mark ‘reserved.’ Now that’s a party! When the mingling winds down, and if you’re lucky you get to sit at an exclusive booth with Gare-bear and Jan. But that’s only if you’re really special. The rest of you will have to settle for one of the other tables. Dinner was punctuated with guest-induced bouts of head table PDA, teary speechifying and plenty of photo ops. More mingling, and before you get to embarrass yourself on the dance floor, you must be embarrassed by the announcement of the wedding party. Have fun with that.

Enter the usual wedding reception folderol: bouquet toss (Heather, your vertical leap is envied by bachelorette gazelles everywhere), garter toss (revealing the blue sneakers the now Mrs. Kim was wearing… awesome.) and the assorted dances (father-daughter, mother-son, bride-groom, me-handsome/funny/smart groomsman… oh, wait. Wrong wedding. Wrong plane of existence). Then it’s time for the mandatory - trust me, I asked - starting of the public dancing as hosted by the wedding party and watched by everyone else.

Now, I’m not much of a dancer. At least at DC’s everyone else in my area was too busy trying not to roll an ankle to watch me look ridiculous. Unless of course, you’re Tara, who was too cool for line dancing and instead chose to spend the evening in a more dignified manner: perched atop a bale of hay amidst the townies. But anyway, the key to reception dancing if you’re a rhythm pariah such as myself is a child. As a dance partner, a child allows you to play off your dork-dancing as silly dancing for the sake of said child. Patented dance moves include ‘Modified Ring Around the Rosie,’ ‘Look What My Arms Can Do!,’ ‘Yes, My Dress Is Swishy, But You’re Right, Yours May Be Swishier,’ and ‘Oh, Are You Thirsty? I’ll Be Back Soon, I’m Just Getting Her a Drink.’ The rest of the reception will be a blur due to factors unknown.

Upon return to your hotel, the wedding detox process should begin immediately, for sleep is looming in your near future, bidden or no. It’s customary to wait until you actually enter the hotel room to begin, but choosing to change out of your dress in the hallway outside of your hotel room is purely a judgment call on your part. Next up is makeup removal. Good luck with that one. Be sure your sandpaper is non-comedogenic. Onto the hair. Here, you have some options. The first is the standard removal by hand. This is tedious and can take upwards of way too long. I am currently mentally beta testing a new method I think shows great promise. Based on nothing more than my experience with Warner Brothers Saturday morning cartoons, I think that if you could obtain an oversized horseshoe magnet and then hoist it over your head it would suck all the bobby pins out of your head in one fluid motion. It’s an essentially flawless plan, unless you have a metal plate in your head. But chances are you’d be aware of that and have the presence of mind to exclude yourself from my human trials. If you’re lucky enough to accomplish all of that before collapsing from exhaustion, consider yourself a wedding superstar.

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T20:50:00.000-05:00

Flabbergasted.

2005-10-29T15:54:00.000-05:00

The scene: University College (the department of redundancy dept.), IUPUI last Wednesday.
Outside temperature: A bone-chilling 50 degrees.
What I saw: Some girl wearing a jean mini-skirt, gray wool leg warmers and black ballet slippers.
What I thought: Nothing. My brain and all thought processes completely shut down for the next two hours thanks to the utter stupidity of that girl's ensemble. I can't even imagine what she must have done to her roommates to piss them off enough to allow her to go outside wearing that.

KEEM! + Jota

2005-09-11T20:04:00.000-05:00

Weddings. These days, it seems like you can’t swing a cat without whacking someone who’s married, engaged or yelling at you for swinging cats around. Seriously though – everyone is getting married. And yet here I sit… baby-sitting. I would’ve thought that thirteen years of being paid to take care of someone else’s unruly children would be enough for anyone. Trust me- it totally is. Anyway, where was I? Weddings. Read on. Or don’t, because there’s a fairly good chance that this may be that dreaded “you had to be there” type of humor. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?

In these days of information, technology and ya damn kids and your music, families and friends are able to travel from far and wide to celebrate together when one of their own gets married. Planes, trains and automobiles are all popular forms of transportation, and also combine to form a humorous John Candy movie. They also include two of the means I employed to reach a recent (I don’t want to hear it from any of you; in the grand scheme of things, including dinosaurs, Pangea and the Big Bang, five months ago is very recent) wedding. After a thankfully Iowa born-and-bred-crazy-free flight to exotic Wisconsin, it was time for some errands and general milling around. Side note: if you think packing and wearing unusual and bright colors will make you unique, you are wrong. It will only make people think that you and your friends plan your outfits like some trans-state Bobbsey twin weirdos, but also for some great photo ops. Once everyone has assembled, pack the car, being very careful of your friend’s outfit for the rehearsal dinner, because it’d be really bad if it got caught in the trunk latch and got grease all over it. So would any guilt trips said friend kept throwing at you even after you apologized approximately one million times. Also, road trips can only be improved by a box of fresh and presumably delicious baked goods on your lap which you are forbidden to eat.

Music is important for entertainment reasons, and also to deafen the person in the back seat to the discussion the front seat people are having about her. Er, I mean… we were just singing. Really. Singing so intently that we got lost and ended up in Austin, Minnesota, the home of a 16,500 square-foot SPAM Museum. You might think that a town with that particular claim to fame would smell terrible, and you would have no idea how correct you are. The air is pregnant with SPAM. Lost in SPAMopolis and trying to find the road out of it is the perfect time to spice up your road trip experience by agreeing to converse only in Español. No, really. Adds a whole new dimension. Or dimensión, if you will. This tactic should be abandoned a while before you reach Mankato – or wherever your final destination may be – with two of you singing loudly with voluntary lisps and the third not exhibiting any such sense of fun while she irritably searches for the correct street. This is fine, ethpethially if you’re one of the lithperth.

It’s important for the wedding party to look their best on this day. Approximately two billion photos will be taken and besides, after that everyone will be looking and pointing at them and telling them how nice they look and how smart and funny and talented they are. Ahem. First on the agenda are manicures. Whether it be for aesthetic value or a specific function – perhaps so that your new acrylic talons can latch into the bouquet as you soar over the heads of the less ambitious eligible bachelorettes – nice nails are a must. You can bring your own homemade nails to use; otherwise they are more than happy to harvest some from one of the cadavers they keep in the back. Ha, just kidding, the nails are acrylic. But wouldn’t that cadaver thing be gross? ‘Cuz of that myth where your hair and nails keep growing after you die. But in reality, that’s not true. That is where hair extensions come from, though. Not really. News flash: I may be a compulsive liar. Where was I? Oh yeah. The nails are actually acrylic, and they glue them onto your own nails so securely that there’s no way to get them off except to chew them off in AP Chemistry like some kind of feral dog and oh my God that was terrible, I’ll never do that again. Sorry- I have some weird cuticle-claustrophobia thing that seems to manifest itself every so often. But that’s MY issue. Let’s move on to pedicures before I stroke out.

If no one’s going to see your feet, I suppose this step isn’t really necessary. But come on, it’s fun and everyone else is doing it. The first step is to soak your feet in boiling (shut up, it was really hot) water while trying to find a setting on the massage chair that doesn’t induce a spinal cord injury. After a prolonged soak, an experienced pedicurist can gauge when your “foot soup” is done. Hopefully said soup is a broth or consommé rather than a cream of corn. If you’re one of the latter maybe you first head to a podiatrist or at least have a very large tip ready. Really good pedicures include a foot massage, which is pretty much just an extremely one-sided tickle fight. Accidentally kicking the pedicurist is frowned upon. The pedicurist then clips, chips or sands away anything that’s not legitimate foot material. With a fresh coat of polish in the color of your choice and perhaps a design or rhinestone if you’re feeling spendy, you’re good to go. Just know that the second you walk those feet off the lot, they depreciate by about thirty percent.

Tune in next week (I promise!) for an exciting recapitulation of the rehearsal dinner, hair and makeup, and if space allows, the actual wedding with all the inherent wacky hijinks.

Valparaiso University

2005-04-18T20:19:00.000-05:00

is a fine, respected institution. Full of virture, one might say.

Check your diplomas, kids. That's right. Virture. And I'm still on the fence on which is worse: the fact that there's a typo on my degree... or the fact that I had to be told by someone else that there was a typo on my degree.

Sigh.

People from Iowa are Insane.

2005-03-07T01:34:00.000-05:00

Considering the possibilities, I've been quite lucky when it comes to the crapshoot that is airplane seating. The people I sit next to on planes are generally about as uninterested in me as I am in them. This past weekend, my neighbor completely decimated my record of non-crazy seatmates. Thanks a lot, lady.

It all started innocently enough. There was a baby two rows up I initially pegged as a source of annoyance. I had a window seat, which I enjoy because I'm twelve, and was waiting for takeoff and the pilot’s announcement that I could listen to my music without inadvertently taking control of the plane via my MP3 player. As I was looking out the window, I heard a soft voice behind me. I turned to see an elderly woman talking to herself. Or maybe to me. It was hard to say, so I let her mutter uninterrupted. One of the only things crazier than talking to yourself in a public setting is answering a person who is obviously talking to herself.

Perhaps she was muttering to the overlarge tote bag she was carrying. It contained a breakable Annoyance to Airline Personnel, which I helped her slide underneath the seat because I am polite to people I don’t know. Most of the time. She sat down with much harrumphing, buckled her belt over both her coat and purse, and settled into her seat.

“Ladies and gentleman, we’d like to thank you for choosing Northwest Airlines,” the pilot announced. “We’re going to be experiencing a bit of a delay, we just flew in from Minneapolis and we need to fuel up. Thanks for your understanding.”

“What?” the woman next to me asked. I filled her in on the situation at hand. “Well, I don’t see why they just didn’t get gas in Minneapolis.” She kept going on and on about the gas situation. “Do you see the gas truck? Do you see it?”

“Nope, I don’t.” But my window is only the size of my face, so my view of the outside world is rather limited. She rocked back and forth, trying to see out the other side of the plane. “I don’t see the gas truck. Do you see it yet?” I’ve never seen someone so distrustful of a simple announcement in my life. Personally, I’d rather have too much fuel than too little, so fuel away, folks. I’ll wait. She then regaled me with the epic saga of Her Flight to Chicago (Thrice Diverted for Fuel) and Her Expectance of a Steak Dinner for Her Inconvenience and the Receipt of Only a Can of Soda and Some Chips.

Sigh.

A million years later, when her story was finally done, the pilot announced that we were ready to go. “Did you see the gas truck? I didn’t see the truck,” opined my new conspiracy theorist buddy. “They’re very sneaky,” I replied. Luckily, the jet engines had just kicked in and she didn’t hear me. We taxied to the runway and began to take off. The ‘fasten seatbelt’ light was on. It was a completely full flight. I was still in the window seat. Chewing off a limb would not have helped me, and if it would have, let’s just say that this would have been much harder to type. I’m telling you this so you know that there was no way – at all - for me to escape.

“So,” she began abruptly, because going insane is like getting into cold water- it’s best to do it quickly - “did you happen to catch that special that was on the other night? It was with Peter Jennings, and it was all about UFOs.”

“No… I missed that one,” I said carefully. “I remember seeing the commercials for it, though.” “Well let me tell you,” she continued, “it was fascinating. They had interviews with some of the nurses at Roswell who saw the bodies…” she went on, further in depth than any TV Guide blurb, as if to prove to me that she had actually seen the whole show. She stopped just shy of humming the theme song. “Do you know anyone?” she asked. I shook my head. “Know anyone?” I asked, confused. “Anyone who’s been abducted,” she said, matter-of-factly. Oh. Duh. Abducted. By aliens. From space.

“Uh… no?” I said slowly. She forged ahead. “I don’t either. But there are documented cases and medical records of metal implants in people’s heads. Up their noses! There are records of this. And I don’t think the government is scammin’ us.” Yeah. Here I encountered a fork in the road of our conversation. I could either choose to be amiable, or I could play with her mind. I initially opted for amiable, as I was still strapped in beside her.

“Well, I used to watch The X-Files,” I began, half jokingly, for how do you hold a serious conversation with a person like this? Her reaction stopped me cold. “Oh,” she said, her over-plucked eyebrows rising in a non-verbal scoff. “I don’t watch The X-Files.” She said the show title like it was something disgusting, to be held pinched between two fingers at arms length - this fictional drivel was apparently blasphemy in the face of a true believer such as herself.

“I know a man who said he’s seen several things in the sky, you know, questionable things. And I think I’ve seen something in the sky once or twice myself.” Hmm. Play time. “You know, when you see something in the sky like that, you should look at the time.” “The time?” she questioned. “Yeah- lots of abductees report missing time. You wake up and it’s minutes or hours later, and that’s the only way you know you’ve been abducted.” Her eyes widened. I could see her brain filing this information away for later use. That kind of scared me. “Okay. Okay,” she said. Then came the moment of truth.

“Do you believe in aliens?” she asked, looking at me over her glasses. If there was one thing I wanted to focus on, it was to NOT disagree with a crazy person in an enclosed area. I decided on ambiguity. “Well, there is a lot of universe out there,” I said vaguely. “You’re right!” she exclaimed, apparently taking my hedging as a resounding agreement with her particular brand of crazy. “And there’s so much garbage out there, too! Just orbiting the planet forever, doing nothing!”

Turns out, I had recently learned that in reality, orbits degrade. Objects orbiting us will eventually spiral down towards Earth, most likely burning up in the atmosphere. I informed Crazy McAbductee of this.

“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening in newfound respect. “Are you… a scientist?” She said the word ‘scientist’ like most people would say ‘made of chipped diamonds’ and some other people might say ‘the scion of Elvis.’ “Well, I have a degree in Biology. And I read a lot.” I explained. Let her make of that what she will. “Oh, I read a lot, too,” she replied. And then, “Well, actually I watch a lot of TV.” If you could choke on a laugh, I would have needed the Heimlich maneuver. I feel a great personal sense of pride that I didn’t laugh at any point during the conversation.

She then proceeded to tell me about another program she had seen, about someone who had written a book after spending years in the Middle East. To her, a television program about an author seemed to be appropriate middle ground for us. He had been on “one of those fast-talking programs- Hardball,” she seemed to recall. Why haven’t they made the announcement about electronic devices yet? It’s entirely possible I just didn’t hear it over her subsequent lecture about Iraq. The way things were, are and should be were apparently well within her grasp. She branched out, telling me about the class struggles and discrimination of these people she knew so well.

“And they were just killin’ Jews!” she exclaimed later in the conversation. “They’d see a Jew on the street and just kill him!” That’s horrible… would you mind keeping your voice down? This isn’t a good conversation for people to overhear bits and pieces of. I tried to dissuade her from talking by replying with a series of disinterested ‘mmhmms’ and ‘ohs,’ and she eventually quieted down. For a grand total of about five minutes.

“Do you play the piano?” she asked, apropos of nothing. “A little,” I said, wondering where this was going. “You have such long, beautiful fingers,” she said. “Oh, uh- thank you.” More silence.

She hopped from topic to topic in this manner: periods of silence sandwiched between bursts of random insanity. Topics covered include her daughter’s take on retirement (take twenty years off when you’re fifty, go back to work at seventy), the height of corn in Iowa when she was young (twenty one feet), oceanfront property in Arizona (it may not happen in her lifetime, but it’ll happen) and places she’s traveled (my God make it stop). All punctuated with just enough silence to make me think it would be okay to reach for my music right before she began talking yet again.

“How would you like to stay in Hawaii for free?” Oh sweet Lord- don’t tell me you’re a telemarketer, too? “And how would I go about doing that?” I asked, ready to give up on life. She proceeded to tell me about some mission trip/university/cult with centers all over the world. She told me the real name, but for brevity’s sake lets just call it Jesus U. Apparently you can work there and stay for free for months at a time. She cleaned rooms because she doesn’t do computers and blah blah blah sunsets and foreigners and life-affirming experiences. “That sounds like a good program,” I said, my eyes glazing over. Apparently that was the phrase that triggered the hypnotically suggested sales pitch buried deep within her brain. “Well, Howard Somethingorother had a vision in 1973- no, 1972. He saw the waves on the shores of the island and thought that instead of waves, what if they were Christians bringing the word of God to all the shores of the world?” Um, the ocean life might suffer? She continued her sales pitch, and ended by telling me the name of the program again. “I’m sure you can look it up on eBay or email,” she concluded, proving why she was sent to work scrubbing toilets and not installing hard drives.

Finally, we landed. We started to head towards the gate, but ended up having to stop about seventy yards away, because God hates me. I could see the gate through the window, tantalizingly out of reach. Madame Mental Illness decided that this was the time to tender her goodbye.

“It has been nice talking to you,” she said thoughtfully, choosing her words carefully. “I wish you… fulfillment, and… enlightenment… and I wish you to be useful.” Bzuh? As it turns out, this was less of a goodbye as it was a launching pad for a tirade about the welfare system, or something.

"People just expect the government to pay for everything. When I was growing up, we depended on our family and friends. And my social security check comes each week, and my sister gets the same amount as these people with two, three billion dollars! The same amount of money from the government! How is that fair?"

"Well, I suppose you'd have to decide on a cutoff point, and that could get-"

"Three billion dollars! That's your cutoff point! And when my house was destroyed in Florida by a hurricane, you don't just expect the government to buy you a new one!" (Atrocious switching of person hers, not mine).

"Isn't that why people buy insurance?"

"NO! You buy insurance, and suddenly someone scratches your car, and they raise your premiums! And then they kick you off your policy! And then you can't go anywhere else to get a new policy, because it's too expensive!" Evidently she had some things to get off her chest. I sat silently, afraid to move for fear she would direct her rage at me. She calmed down as we pulled up to the gate.

"It has been nice talking to you! And one day, I hope to see your name up in lights! Even though I don't know what your name is!" I sighed- what harm could it do?

"I'm Lisa." Her eyes lit up.

"Oh! I'm Lois," she exclaimed, and leaned one shoulder into me, almost conspiratorially. She winked. "We L's have got to stick together.” And we did for a while longer, because the aisle was too narrow for me to get around her and run screaming into the airport.

UPDATE: Although it seemed disturbingly plausible last night, this is NOT the Lois who taught my Language 10 class. Exonerating evidence:
Phone: Ring!
Lois: Hello?
Lisa: Can I speak to Lois [insert last name here], please?
Lois: Speaking.
Lisa: Did you go to Seattle last week?
Lois: Uh, no.
Lisa: Oh- sorry, I think I have the wrong number.
Phone: Click.

Case closed.

He Who Smelt It... Invented Something to Mask the Stench

2005-01-24T16:36:00.000-05:00

I remember reading somewhere that every nanosecond after we encounter an odor, our ability to detect it decreases fifty percent, so that a bothersome smell can soon go unnoticed. I think I read it in my notes from a Principles of Physiology class, so to approximate the accuracy of that statement multiply it by however much I was paying attention in class that day. (Aside to my tuition-paying parents – 100. Full. Whatever the maximum amount of the ‘attention scale’ is. Always.) Theoretically, then, any unpleasant odors should be undetectable before they become annoying. But I’ve noticed that there is a growing epidemic in our country. No, an epidemic besides ring tones and Anna Nicole Smith. The epidemic I’m referring to is The Stink, and it’s everywhere. You’re not alone, Stinky McSmellyhouse. Well, maybe you are- because you smell. But you’re not alone in your problem is what I’m saying. Luckily, the arsenal of anti-stink paraphernalia grows everyday.

Perhaps the most common weapon is the aerosol spray. Simply spray a graceful arc of atomized chemicals through your problem room in the manner of a rhythmic gymnast with a ribbon dancer and voila! For days, everything will taste like a metallic spring waterfall. And by the time the spray wears off, the original offending smell will seem so much better in comparison, you’ll welcome it back into your sinus cavities. Unfortunately, these sprays usually contain CFCs which travel into the atmosphere and up north to club baby seals. Or something like that. So there is a downside.

Does that sounds like too much work? Is the thought of all that arm motion making your biceps ache? Or perhaps raising your arm in the air would only exacerbate the problem. If that’s the case, I’d suggest some deodorant and then maybe an air freshener that attaches to the wall, so you don’t have to bear its burden while freshening your space. According to the commercial, surely a non-biased source, you’re just two presses away from an odorless room. A faulty install could give you a scented, plume-shaped stain on your wall, but the people on the commercial sure seem to like it. Admittedly, I’m taking their word for how well it works. Smell-o-vision doesn’t exist… yet.

For those of you underwhelmed by the prospect of taking an active role in the Battle of the Stink, don’t worry. There’s the old passive aggressive standby of the candle, which offers so many options for scents that I may have permanently damaged my olfactory receptors when I worked in the candle room at Hallmark. The candle room was ostensibly open to the rest of the store but effectively separated by an unseen wall of stink. The unholy combinations were worse than anything you’d want to cover, and the horrors my nose endured in the name of minimum wage may have killed a lesser person. From ‘Storm Watch,’ which tried to purport that an impending lightning storm smells like dryer sheets, to ‘Green Grass,’ which smells like burning lawn clippings on your kitchen counter… but that’s enough Hallmark bitchery from me. Candles are great stink-maskers, but if your problem is such that this steady stream of scent is a necessity, perhaps your needs would be better served by something that doesn’t include an open flame. Never fear… read on.

A popular option is the plug-in variety of de-stinkers. Simply plug one in and you’re on your way to a life less smelly, all thanks to the miracle of electricity. And if you’re worried about that air freshener stealing your precious outlet, calm down. They come in so many configurations that you’ll be able to find one that will allow you to continue your stinky life unhindered. They come with an extra outlet, with a fan, with a night light, with an outlet and a fan, with an outlet and a light, with or without an automatic transmission. You could use a different kind each day for years without repeating. Okay, maybe not years. Months, then. At least weeks. And hey, if you’ve got enough time to deconstruct my hyperbole, maybe you could better spend that time finding out why your house smells so bad in the first place, jerk. Moving on.

“But Lisa!” you whine. “I have stink in a room with no outlets. What am I gonna do!? HELP!” First off, dial down the desperation there, buddy. Glade was built on the frantic sniveling of whiners like you (this may not be true). And secondly, why are you whining to me? It’s not like I can do anything about it. For now. (And the second I can do something about it, I’m escalating that can’t to a won’t. Take that, little people.) But it just so happens that the air freshener industry has heard your pathetic little cry. Behold, the portable air freshening fan. Put it anywhere, and it will spin its little battery-operated heart out, ensuring you a steady stream of fresh air, 2 cubic centimeters at a time for your olfactory enjoyment.

Recent additions to the freshening family is the Whisp, which contains a microchip to tell it to regularly belch visible puffs of white scent-smoke. I just hope it smells better than the liquid smoke used in model trains, because that stuff reeks. Someone I knew had one. No, not me. I am a dork in many different ways, but model trains are not in my repertoire of geekery. A plus side of these is they seem to be great entertainment, judging by the reactions of the (paid) people (acting) in the commercials. So if, say, you forget how to read and the cable goes out and all your board games are destroyed in a fire, you can happily sit around counting the puffs, making sure they all smell the same, or holy crap just TALK to each other already.

If electricity and batteries confuse you, which isn’t surprising considering the challenge personal hygiene and basic housekeeping seem to pose, listen up. Gel fresheners are available right at your fingertips, and have few to no moving parts. Some are pretty, with a sparkling crystal disc of colored gel, while other gels are covered by conical plastic sheaths. Ever wonder why that is? I did. Upon prying the cover off of one, I found it’s because depending on the scent, the hidden gel looks like a quavering tower of snot. Seriously. And those covers don’t snap back on too easily, so you’re left with cracked plastic shards and a shrinking phallus of phlegm until it doesn’t stink anymore and you can justify throwing it away. Feel free to learn from my mistakes here. Seriously.

If all these de-stinking promises sound good to you, but they don’t cost nearly as much as you’d like to spend, there is a solution. The ionizer operates on the premise that air smells bad because it hasn’t been filtered through the three easy payments of an expensive, unnecessary machine. Perfect for air snobs everywhere. So as you prance around your fancy house with your nose in the air, rest assured that anything you suck in through that schnoz will have blown past some metal plates and is now superior to other air.

Now that the stench of your living space isn’t interfering with your mental processes, let’s move on to the important issue: What exactly are you doing to create such a stench? Because if you can’t be in a room without it being artificially de-stunk, maybe you’re asking yourself the wrong questions. Instead of “Hmmm, am I in a kiwi-strawberry or a vanilla mist type of mood?” perhaps you should give thought to “Hey, has anyone seen the cat recently, because it smells like something is decomposing in a heat register.” It’s fun to throw money at the symptoms, but for God’s sake, take a shower or something- we’ve got to start eliminating possible sources.

Smell you guys later... or will I?

Road Signs En Route to Marion

2004-11-10T15:27:00.000-05:00

Welcome to Strawtown

(aka - Tornadoes: We Friggin' DARE Ya)

Free Elk Meat Tasting

(Just... no.)

We Practice Wholistic Medicine

(The unholy union of holistic medicine and a 1st grade education)

Purgatory Golf Club

(Their course isn't that good... but it's not that bad, either.)

And my personal favorite:

If you don't talk to your cat about catnip, who will?

Choked out a Polka

2004-10-31T13:05:00.000-05:00

I know, another song. I don’t question it, I just bow to the gods of timing. Actually this was written when I was neck-deep in Lutherans at Valpo. Just how hardcore these folk are was impressed on me at a Reformation Party held by some of my classmates. The party featured 95 Jell-O shots, 95 theses scotch-taped to a door and the pièce de résistance: a ritualistic chanting of The Reformation Polka sung around a roaring bonfire stoked with, let’s face it, probably Catholics.

Yeah, I don’t know why I went either.

Kidding! I went because of friendship and a little bit because of beer. I stayed because I was afraid any movement of a non-Lutheran object could ignite the rampant, airborne Lutheranism and make me a target. Then the singing began. The challenge had been made- the line was drawn, the weapons were chosen.

Unfortunately, it takes time to write a song, and returning to the site of the party a few days later when my song was complete would have reeked of a comeback that comes to you too late to be of any use (see also: jerk store). So in solace to all the other Catholics at Valpo and beyond, I offer this song. Use it wisely.

The Reformation Polka: A Catholic’s Response
sung to the tune of Supercalifragilisticexpialidoceous

We all know of our German friends, they can’t go many years
Without attempts to overthrow and conquer all their peers.
Once upon a time they made a list of why they’re bitchin’
“Can’t cut it as Catholics so we’ll make a new religion!”

Chorus
Martin Luther bobble heads, framed pictures on the wall
We’ve lowered all our standards so hey, folks, come one come all!
Join us and be Lutheran, there’s one thing you must do –
End everything you say with “This most certainly is true.”

“We don’t believe God’s in the Host, at least not all the way.
You don’t need to confess your sins to priests on each Sunday.
We’ll write down what goes on in church so there’s no need to know it –
Our reverends can get booty so they each can have a ho.” It’s…

Chorus

Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, sit next to Martin Luther.
We love him just as much as You, and really that’s the truth. Er…
Did we say that out loud? Now let us just get one thing clear.
God is really super. (pause) Let’s all go drink some beer.

Chorus

“Lutherans are right!” they shout. “Just look at all this proof!
Almost a hundred theses, it’s no wonder we’re aloof.”
When we’re all dead we’ll have to see if God gets pissed for libel,
I hope He doesn’t care how many books are in my Bible.

Chorus

When I first came to Valpo, I guess I was naïve.
I came here for a major but I’ll leave with a pet peeve.
Lutherans can lecture me for endless lengths of time –
As long as they’ve a bulletin so they know all their lines.

Chorus

Screeches of Me

2004-10-25T17:42:00.000-05:00

In honor of Asslee Simpson's performance on SNL... the first time I've laughed at that show in years

sung to the tune of 'Pieces of Me'

On a Monday I am grating
Tuesday I am faking
And Saturday? Still can’t sing
Then the show starts, what does live mean
When your voice comes from a machine
A recorded lyrical string

Play, they played the wrong voice track
No need to catch my breath
I’m a quack

Ohhhh
It’s funny how my “talent”
Wasn’t ever really there
And I have ugly hair
Ohhhh
You’d think if it was taped then
We’d have time to make a choice
They’d find a better voice
Than the screeches, screeches, screeches of me
All the screeches, screeches, screeches of me

I am tone-deaf and pitchy
My face is so twitchy
As I ride my career’s crest
I’m a phony and it pays bills
In a family with no skills
Thank God for Jessica’s chest

Play, they played the wrong voice track
When I realized it was wrong
I tried to dance

Ohhhh
My sexy belly dance is
Just a trick that I’ve been taught
And now that I’ve been caught
Ohhhh
I hop ‘round like an idiot
At least my mic is off
But please feel free to scoff
At the screeches, screeches, screeches of me

Now that you know
What am I supposed to say?
Wasn’t it obvious?
But just in case, I’ll blame my band
Who cares if they really played?
Yea

The next Monday I am waiting
For my contract’s negating
And my fall to
Obscurity

Ohhhh
Who knew that singers were expected
To carry a tune?
And not dance like baboons?
Ohhhh
And when I slunk off of the stage
I’m shocked they didn’t cheer
They didn’t have to hear
Ohhhh
Well, no one had to hear
Ohhhh
But everyone will jeer
At the screeches, screeches, screeches of me
All the screeches, screeches, screeches of me

Some Open Letters I've Been Meaning to Write

2004-10-16T23:05:00.000-05:00

Dear Man At Spiderman 2 and Woman Who I Assume Was Your Wife,

Wow, that sure was a crowded theater, wasn’t it? My sister and I barely found seats! (We were the ones sitting next to what I assume was your son). Normally, I try to leave a buffer seat, but there just wasn’t room.

People like your son are the reason I leave a buffer seat. See, while I appreciate the fact that the little guy likes Spidey, perhaps you should explain to him that other people do, too. And some of us want to listen to the expository dialogue (however stunted or corny it may be) as well as the fight scenes. I also like fight sound effects, but generally prefer them to be a. only during said fight scenes and b. performed by professionals, i.e. not your son.

I noticed you did talk to him, and that was a step in the right direction. I propose that you put him in between you and your lady friend/wife so you can both watch for telltale signs of irritating behavior and give him a look of death and/or smack upside the head according to the situation at hand. That, or dip him up to the neck in Botox before taking him to the theater. Because I think that’s the only way we can cure those muscle spasms.

Convulsively yours,
Lisa

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Boy Who Liked Spiderman 2 A Whole Lot,

Hi! I’m here with a fun science fact! I know it sounds logical, but even if you suck on your straw hard enough to collapse the sides of your glass and rattle the ice around, the resulting vacuum will not bring your soda back. No matter how many times you do it. It may cause unseen forces to whack you in the head, though. So seriously- knock it off.

Scientifically yours,
Lisa

P.S. Every time you kick the seat in front of you, your dog dies a little bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Uninterested Lady At Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,

Are you aware that we are living in a free country? That seeing every movie made is not mandatory? That you do, in fact, have the option to say ‘no’? (Although judging your book by its cover, as I am wont to do, you rarely say ‘no.’ But in this case, I mean ‘no’ as in ‘Thanks for inviting me to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, but I think I’d rather stay home and Febreeze my crotchless fishnet tights and tease my hair to untold heights.’)

Maybe you were there to showcase your arguably amazing gum snapping abilities. Because honestly, it was like you were chewing on regenerative bubble wrap. I’m sure your lingual abilities will serve you well in other aspects of your life. Perhaps I could have appreciated it more had you not been doing it in my ear. Imagine my shock when I realized that the snapping had stopped! I turned, positive that you were suffering from some sort of comatose state due to the end stages of some intricate combination of STDs.

I’m glad you are flexible enough to curl up and nap in the seat. I’m also grateful that the snapping stopped, the snoring never started, and you weren’t learning on me. But you should really get that drooling problem checked out. Drowning is a real danger here.

Soggily yours,
Lisa

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Woman Next to Me at The Bourne Supremacy,

More power to the independent moviegoer! It’s quite liberating, isn’t it? Whatever seat you want, focused completely on the movie at hand… the lone cinematic experience can be a great thing. I guess I didn’t realize the theater was going to be so crowded. Who knew a bloodied, amnesiac Matt Damon had such long-term box office draw? Mmmmm…. But anyway.

You know how there’s some noises you can only hear in your head? No, besides the voices. Well, I’m just letting you know that the symphony in which you were apparently playing first-chair Slurpee-straw violin was not one of those noises. We all heard it. And the general opinion was that you need some serious practice time, preferably served outside of a theater, or to take the lid off of that cup already.

Harmoniously yours,
Lisa

Found amongst my CC notes...

2004-09-20T13:13:00.000-05:00

I’d welcome death
I’d burn my skin
I’d find a box
To be locked in

I’d walk on nails
I’d tap a vein
Chew on tin foil
Drink acid rain

Slam my hand
Inside a door
Tear my hair
I’ll ask for more

I’d drop an anvil
On my toes
Put a cockroach
In my nose

Dance on fire
Lick dry ice
Bite the heads off
Five live mice

Bob for apples
In a piranha tank
Lie in front of
An army tank

Pick on leopards
Tease a bear
Eat old mayonnaise
Mixed with hair

Drown myself
In lemonade
Go to the vet
And get me spayed

Red hot pokers
In my eye
Shoot a bullet
In my thigh

Move to Russia
Break my knees
Fill my pants
With angry bees

Drive my car
Right off a bridge
Change my name
To Esther Midge

Dip my face
In boiling milk
Clothe myself
In rotting silk

Never sleep
And never laugh
I’d cut my fingers
Each in half

Swim in toilets
Buried alive
Drain the pool
And take a dive

Try to catch
A rabid bat
Always wear
A pimpish hat

Eat some cyanide-
Soaked flannel
Ride 80 miles
On a mangy camel

I’d rather drink
A backwash-pop
Live in jail
With Baby Bop

Be crushed by Roman
Architecture
Then sit through one more
CC lecture

Termination Rules the Nation!

2004-09-18T13:43:00.000-05:00

Gainfully employed. Earning a steady paycheck. Me. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things doesn’t belong…

That’s right, folks- perhaps you’ve guessed or even heard by now, but I am once again wandering the realm of the unemployed. Thank God- I’m exhausted. I wasn’t fired, because ‘fired’ implies incompetence, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s transferring vaguely colored water from one tray to another. If there’s two things I’m good at, they’re transferring vaguely colored water from one tray to another and crocheting tea cozies from hard to work with media, but that’s beyond the scope of this blog.

Apparently, the company I work for – say it with me – isn’t doing very well, and they’ve terminated all temporary employee contracts. I’ve been terminated. Feel free to insert your own joke about not being ‘bahk’ and I’ll meet you at the next paragraph as soon as you’re done talking in that Austrian accent.

You’d think I would have emotions about this. You’d be wrong. I, for some reason, am completely detached from this situation. Like, ‘plot of Contact’ not caring. ‘Carrot Top just incorporated a new prop into his stand-up’ not caring. ‘There’s a Cirque de Soleil marathon on Bravo’ not caring. You get the idea. I’m vaguely pleased that women who missed their callings as party planners for kindergarteners will no longer glare at me. Lack of a commute springs to mind as a plus. Beyond that, though, I’m coming away from my first experience in the real world wit ha distinct feeling of meh.

There are lots of terms that have come to mean a termination of employment. And since I’ve got significantly more time on my hands, I decided to explore a few of them. Come along, won’t you?

The word ‘fired’ comes from the connotation that a worker would be ejected rapidly from his or her position, much like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. I got two weeks notice – not exactly rapid ejection. Not like ejector seats in planes. They should make those for cars. You know, for the passenger seat. So if someone’s all, “Hey, wasn’t that your exit?” or “You really need to update your resume and find another job,” a simple press of a button would get them out of your hair. Also, I bet a sliding roof panel would come as part of the ejector seat package, because they’re either gonna rip right through your roof or slam into it, and either way that’s going to be a mess. Even if I had been fired, I probably wouldn’t be able to say that, because I’m pretty sure Donald Trump has copyrighted that phrase.

The term ‘canned’ was in use long before it meant jail or toilet or butt or whatever the kids are using it for these days. Probably the marijuana. But that meaning originated about ten years after they started selling food in cans, so who knows. Maybe when people were fired they were given a complimentary tin of Spam. I heard Spam stands for Scientifically Processed Animal Matter. But I heard it from a vegetarian, so I don’t think I believe it. Not that vegetarians are liars, I just can’t imagine too many of them spreading the good word of canned meat. Even if they were, I still wouldn’t eat it. I wonder if the folks at Hormel are mad that Spam is a word for emails peddling Viagra and cheap vacation properties. Or maybe they started all of it. All the more reason not to eat Spam, I guess.

I didn’t get a pink slip, either – I got a boss beginning the conversation saying he was nervous because he’d ‘never done this before.’ I knew right then he was either laying me off or propositioning me. Considering the fact that I had been wearing the same hoodie for four days and probably smelled of lab, I quickly deduced that it was the former. Too bad. About the lack of a pink slip, I mean. Woulda looked good framed.

In England, the term is ‘sacked.’ Hard to sound negative when it conjures images of potato sack races. Maybe they don’t have potato sack races in England, though. Or maybe I’m just weird. Anyway this might come from the fact that when you’re sacked, you have to take all your tools home in a sack. I don’t have any tools. I did bring my pens and photos home in a sack. Well, it was a Pier One bag with handles. Sounds more dignified than a sack, somehow. I couldn’t put my bonsai tree in a bag, though. I’ve always wanted a bonsai tree, and now I have one. Check that off the list. It’s very cute. I should get some tiny plastic animals – like monkeys! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Brilliant! I will found a Bonsai sanctuary for neglected plastic monkeys. Also related, I used to really like Garfield (shut up) and he used to leap onto lasagna and yell, “Banzai!!!” Yeah, I don’t know either. For some reason when I read this, I mentally lumped the ‘i’ with the !!!!s, creating the word ‘banza.’ So I may have jumped off things yelling ‘banza!’ So? What are you looking at? I didn’t do it at work, and it’s not why I was laid off. I don’t think.

Discharged is another term… but that sounds like something you should be telling your doctor about. So lets keep that between the two of you and not have that be a word associated with me at all.

Unemployed. I guess I’ll have to start making regular sacrifices to the gods of employment once again. Maybe the burning of my resume will appease them more now that it’s seasoned with a dash of real-world experience. Or maybe I’ll end up living in a refrigerator box living off of my complimentary tin of Spam. Only time will tell.

Rules in the World of X-Files

2004-09-14T14:18:00.000-05:00

10. Guards in top-secret government facilities shall have sustained eye injuries which render them completely without peripheral vision.

9. Shot in the face? And you think he's dead? Have you ever seen this show?

8. Vancouver's program to breed the creepiest child imaginable is well underway. Yikes.

7. I can reconcile with Krycek. Doggett's growing on me. But I will never hate Monica with anything less than the white hot fury of an endless procession of eternally burning suns.

6. Did you guys bring a flashlight? Because we didn't spring for lights. Ever.

5. No, Scully didn't see the (insert truth-revealing phenomenon here). She was unconscious/ locked in a closet/ ten steps behind/ performing an autopsy/ blinded by a voodoo doll (delete as necessary).

4. On second thought, guys, better leave that hospital set right where it is. We may end up using it. Every. Single. Episode. This season.

3. Flesh wounds, especially severe ones on the face, leave no scars.

2. Even if you velcro it to your hand, you will lose your gun in a fight. If you're Mulder, you will lose both your guns and a little girl will probably hit you in the face.

1. If you can get past the paranoia, contortionistic liver-consuming killers, ear worms, pyromaniacs, ancient nocturnal insect swarms, giant flukemen, alien abductions and implants, bovine stomatotropin testing, escalating fetishists, clones, alien oil-viruses, circus freaks, defeatist psychics, train cars buried in New Mexico, robotic cockroaches, dog-eating lake monsters, not-safe-for-cable inbreeders, reincarnation, government conspiracies, nose cancer, babies with tails, not-long-for-this-world mystery daughters, shape-shifting alien bounty hunterss with acerbic green blood, vampires, Bermuda Triangle, body swapping, ghosts, tofutti rice dreamsicles, an overtly Christ-figure baby we don't hear about after he is no longer a plot point, a disappearing male companion and basically the whole ninth season, being assigned to the basement office with the FBI's loose cannon conspiracy theorist agent isn't all bad.

Flirting With Death in a Safety-Tested, Family-Friendly Environment!

2004-09-10T15:52:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, I participated in the second annual Labor Day Weekend of People I Knew at Valparaiso University Roadtripping to be Stupid Together: PIKAVURST. Yeah, we're working on the acronym. This year's festivities took place in Sandusky, Ohio - home of Cedar Point, Tommy Boy and some of the sketchiest people and establishments I've seen these twenty-three years. It was great.

We rolled into Sandusky early Friday evening and began exploring the town. Aside from some excitement over establishments from my childhood (Tops, anyone? Friendly's? You mock the Clown Head Sundae and I'll kill you where you stand) there was a surprising lack of, well, everything. They should really just name the whole town Cedar Point and stop the dance of pretending it's separate from the park at all. Not even a sign of Callahan Auto. Although, as we were driving down the main drag we did discover the compact, 2-door version of the van from Dumb and Dumber. That's right: pup to that van's dog, it was a true mini-shaggin' wagon complete with fur, a tongue and ears. We told ourselves we'd come back for a picture, but when we did, it was gone... either stolen or purchased, each about as possiblity just as plausible as the other. There is no photographic evidence of the dog car, but if you at the very least don't want to believe that such a car exists, your heart is cold and dead. We also saw an eating and bowling establishment known as the Thirsty Pony, which featured something called 'fat burgers' and terrifying graphics of a pony morphing into a bowling ball. I suppose that's better than a pony morphing into, say, a fat burger, but either way I’m glad we didn't eat there. We, of course, watched Tommy Boy while we were there. Watching Tommy Boy in Sandusky- I'm surprised the Matrix didn't just swallow us up right then and there.

Saturday we attacked Cedar Point. Well, after taking the hotel shuttle to 800 other hotels first. On the way we were regaled with stories of shuttles past, drunk passengers of yore and the driver’s too-loud cell phone conversations. She sure was chatty. After that, and walking to the gate, and buying our tickets with Pepsi can discounts, that park was ours for the taking. We rode a lot of death defying rides, so I'll just recap.

Raptor
First ride we jumped on. Sort of a hefty line, but it gave us our first chance to do what would become a theme of the weekend- inconspicuously staring at people. I now know where tacky, "witty" t-shirts go to die: the theme parks of America. We saw one chick wearing a straight-out-of-the-80s off the shoulder shirt. It apparently didn't bare quite enough of the sisters for her liking, so it appeared that she had enlarged the neck with her teeth. Then, as if the shirt wasn't already shrieking it to the world, it read "I put out on the first date." So subtle- she was a true lady. Other shirts included "Cancel my subscription, I don't need your issues" "F.B.I. Female Body Inspector." I can only assume these shirts make up for some genetic function these people are otherwise incapable of thanks to generations of inbreeding. Oh, and Raptor was a pretty good coaster.

Millennium Force
Commonly referred to as the 'Millennium Falcon' because get off me, I only saw Star Wars a few years ago and I knew that name sounded familiar. This beast has a 310-foot drop and goes 92 miles per hour, which is even faster when compared to the average of -33 miles per hour you travel while in line. Millennium Force was my first experience with the greatness that is the Freeway Pass. You get your hand stamped and then can cut into line later in the day. Great time saver, but it gave me the feeling that everyone who had been waiting was glaring icy daggers of death at the back of my head. I could be paranoid. Or I could be projecting, because I know I did that when people cut in front of me with Freeway. Jerks. Anyway, Millennium Force was great. It totally pimpslaps gravity and is all, "Your services are not needed here, biznatch. Go get me a Slurpee." I appreciate that in a roller coaster.

Power Tower
Gave us a great view of the park and the phrase "I'd rather shoot up than go down." That is all.

Magnum
With a 210-foot drop and a top speed of 72 miles per hour, Magnum XL200 is known as the Best Steel Roller Coaster in the World. Who hands out these distinctions? More importantly, how did they get those jobs? You probably gotta know a guy. I don't think I do. Anyway, the 'Best Steel Roller Coaster' title must not hold much clout with Dragster looming in the distance, because this had one of the shortest lines in the park. We went on it many, many times trying to stage the optimal photo. And by 'optimal' I mean 'didn't have Laura's hair blocking half the shot' or 'sat Tara so you could see more than her eyes peeping above the seat back.' Hee. Short. We didn’t end up bying, but at least we have our memories...

White Water Landing
Let me state for the record that I have the worst luck on randomly soaking water rides. So you can understand my hesitation about this log ride. Tara insisted, and probably due to our whingeing in line, agreed to sit in the front, where you would THINK all the water would go. We called consecutive places in line, happy that Tara had agreed to be splash fodder. As the back position, I was especially pleased: surely, no water at all would make it back to me! Then a man in front of us turned around and informed us that the back seat is the wet one. Then he laughed. We'd called, stamped and double stamped our seats and no one would switch. Jerks. That man was very correct. At least it was hot out by that point, and the back seat gets a backrest. My cotton pants dried pretty quickly. I decided to ride the wave of good luck to

Thunder Canyon
…one of those white water rafting ride that bounces around and under waterfalls of lovely Lake Erie water. Mmm. On the path to this ride, people had left items they'd rather see stolen than wet on rocks and in bushes - always a good sign that the ride ahead will leave you competing in your own private wet t-shirt contest. We were herded into the raft and set adrift on the River of Chance. Moisture ensued. It'd be hard to figure out an equation to predict our chances of getting wet, due to the spinning and chaos theory and my hatred of math, but I can give definite percentages on the results of this ride. Fifty percent of us made it out dry. The other 50% were wearing wet denim the rest of the day, with 25% seriously regretting wearing a white shirt to the park.

Top Thrill Dragster
Luckily, they had plenty of time to dry off while we grew old in the line for Dragster. I freely admit hating the people with Freepass for this ride. The majority of the wait was weaving and standing and walking and tedium, so we'll skip to the boarding platform. It was the most fun I've ever had in line. We had divvied up into the car slots, the techno funk was blasting, and we were all that nervous kind of chatty you get when you think you might die, but probably won't because surely they safety test these rides, right? Right? We were united in sheer terror. We ran the gamut of age: all the way from an eight-year-old girl to some guy who I swear was Blue from Old School. We all rode it- and we have the photo to prove it. The next night, we decided to try it again, perhaps so some of us could open our eyes this time. Catie. But the Dragster is a fickle mistress. The second night, it took 2 hours and fifty minutes in line, three breakdowns and a rollback or two before we rode again. About two hours in, we vowed not to let the machine win, and eventually, humanity triumphed. Humanity even raised her hands the whole way and is more than a little proud of that fact.

This year's PIKAVRST was a total success. We showed that town a thing or two. We flirted with danger! We laughed at death! We ate amusement park food prepared by untrained college hockey players! And aside from the late-night Pitch ‘n Putt and throwing something off a bridge, we did everything there was to do in Sandusky Ohio. Not bad for a weekend’s work.

Which PIKAVURST participant are you?

The Familiest Friendliest Quotes from Sandusky

2004-09-08T13:26:00.000-05:00

“Am I pregnant inside out?”

“Do you want a suede cuddle roll?”
“No.”
“That’s okay. You can use me.”

“There’s a huge spider on the ceiling. I’m going to get it!”

“You’re like Jesus’ witty sidekick.”

“I’ll be honest with you. Your head’s on my ass and you’re grabbing my stomach.”

“I totally got a piece of FDR’s curve.”

“Hey, it’s all ‘Rut beer.”

“This feels great. I’ve got this thing up my crotch and I’m wet. Oh my God, what did I say?”

"House."
"Mouse."
“Rouse.”
“What’s a rouse?”
"A drink for me.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Get dehydrated all day; drink all night. We’ll turn into jerky.”

“I’m going to be a Confederate in two weeks!”

A Completely Random Assortment of Synonyms, I Swear

2004-09-01T10:30:00.000-05:00

10. Axed
9. Canned
8. Terminated
7. Laid off
6. Discharged
5. Given the pink slip
4. Expelled
3. Ousted
2. Downsized
1. Sacked

My Big Fat Olympics Blog Entry

2004-08-26T22:00:00.000-05:00

I invoke thee, Thalia, Muse of Comedy, to tell me of the ancient Olympics, so that I may compare them to the modern Olympics, and be generally snarky while I do so. Tell of the events and the origins, the purposes and prizes, the flames and the fanfare. And tell of them in as flashy a way as possible, maybe involving some well-placed literary devices and a laser light show, for I bore easily. Sing of the athletes, Muse, and of their feats of strength and endurance and whatnot. Tell me of their hopes, dreams and extreme nudity. Tell us this story, goddess daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will, but remember- don’t leave out the nudity.

There are many myths involving the origin of the Olympic Games, some of which I have casually glanced at. I didn’t really read any, because let’s face it: chances are good that they’re like every other Greek myth and prominently feature adultery, magic and deities being born out of other deities’ brain cavities with both living to be petty and jealous another day. A popular story is that the Olympic Games were held to celebrate Zeus’ victory over the titan Cronos in a wrestling match, with the prize being the entire earth. The prizes in the ancient Olympic Games were olive wreaths, since there was only one earth to give away, and no one wanted to ask Zeus to share. These were eventually changed to medals, because it’s hard to polish olive wreaths and then angle them to reflect an annoying circle of light into the eyes of the losers. Whatever the Games’ origin, though, the first few probably involved Zeus, leaves and lots of naked running- and that’s definitely not providing the kind of support you’d need.

For your arches- I meant for your arches.

As old as the Olympic Games are, several aspects are similar to the ancient Games. For instance, the motto of the Olympics – ‘Swifter, Higher, Stronger,’ is a loose translation from the ancient Greek motto, which was actually closer to ‘Let’s get nekkid and rastle.' Many events and even more brightly colored Spandex have been added, much to the disappointment of many ardent fans of male swimming I know.

Many of the events that were originally in the Olympics have myths associated with them. One legend is that of a herald named Phidippides running 25 miles to Athens from– who can see where this is going? – Marathon to announce an Athenian victory, and then promptly dropping dead. Other sources say that it was a man named Eukles who performed the run-announce-die shtick. I don’t know how fiercely this is debated; in either case, they’re both dead now. The fact remains that many people today voluntarily run in an event that ended with a dead guy. Good call, folks. Some events, like the late pankration, have been eliminated from the roster. To get an approximation of pankration, multiply wrestling with boxing, subtract holds and add legal punches to the stomach. Now that’s an equation for internal hemorrhaging. Whee!

The flame is an ancient Greek tradition. Originally, it is thought that the flame was lit at the Games to symbolize the death and rebirth of Greek heroes. It was lit using a parabolic mirror, which displayed the Greeks’ algebraic and metallurgy prowess as well as their ability to subjugate all ant species by fire. Today, the torch is still lit using a parabolic mirror in Olympia by an actress (I’m sorry, what’s my motivation in this scene?) dressed as a priestess. The flame is played by an actual flame. It is then run by thousands of people all over the world in an amazing spectacle of unity and compressed, lightweight accelerants.

The flame passes over the soil of every nation as well as through every gas station, warehouse, farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse as well as your house, if you play your cards right. It is then brought to the city hosting the Olympics and, in a symbolic link to the site of the ancient Games, used to light a gigantic joint. Seriously- did you see that thing? I don’t know what that architect was thinking, but I think I know what he was smoking. Swifter, higher, stronger, indeed.

Also, I haven’t been able to find any definitive information on this, because I haven’t looked, but I’m assuming that the current theme song hasn’t been around since ancient Greece. So that’s probably a ‘recent’ addition as well. You know the one- da, da! Da-da da da… hmmm. Perhaps that doesn’t translate very well to prose. There go my plans for Name that Tune: A Murder Mystery Novel. Anyway, you know it. During the ‘96 Olympics, in a fit of ‘vacation with your family’ zaniness, my sister and I choreographed a dance – and I use the word ‘dance’ in the loosest sense possible – to that song, and performed it at every opportunity. This was quite often, considering they play it when they go to commercials, when they come back from commercials, during promos and the in-depth looks at the struggles of all the athletes. Thanks to my subconscious mind and muscle memory, I now have an uncontrollable urge to perform this dance whenever I hear this song. This, as we’ve been through, is quite often. Luckily, it’s a hip, trendy dance with fist pumping a la Ace Ventura and large arm sweeps a la Vanna White, otherwise this involuntary performance might be embarrassing. Phew.

I also believe a new feature is that of the superfluous on-the-spot reporter who, as soon as an event ends, snatches the athlete and asks asinine questions so he or she can say something sportsmanlike whilst gasping for breath.

“Michael Phelps! Michael. That was a close race, congratulations on your win. What do you think you’ll have to do tomorrow for the gold?”
“Well, since we all have to start the race at the same time, I’m planning on swimming faster than everyone else.”
“Thanks! Good plan… can I touch your torso?”

I can’t imagine ancient Greeks waiting for an interview with microphone in hand, mostly because microphones hadn’t been invented yet. What do you think this is, some sort of anachronistic Disney movie? If they had, though, I would imagine the questions would be just as stupid as they are today:

“Nikos! Nikos! A minute of your time- you just received the beating of a lifetime from Papas over there. What will you have to do to win?”
“Well, (wheeze) I guess I’m going to try to avoid getting kicked square in the (gasp) stomach so much, I really think if I (choke) kicked him in the stomach a few times, instead of lying facedown in the dirt (gasp) swiping at the clouds of dust he kicked at me, I might have a better cha- would you excuse me? I think my kidney just fell out.”

Another new edition is the five-ringed Olympic flag. The five rings, of course, represent the five continents whose countries compete in the Games. Er, if you count North and South America as one continent. Note that we totally exclude Antarctica from this equation, because everyone knows that penguins are phenomenal athletes and would completely dominate all the events. So we just don’t tell them about the Games, rather than listen to them complain about how they’re running out of room on their ice floes for all these gold medals, but oh, that silver one is pretty, too and really, isn’t just competing an honor in itself? Stupid penguins.

As you can see, the Olympics have a great history, steeped in tradition and symbolism. Though the athletes now travel from all around the world and compete for shiny objects rather than circular foliage, the spirit of the Games remains the same: male swimmers should wear less clothing. What were you expecting, something unifying and profound? Pfft. It’s your first time here, I see. Thalia? You’re free to go. Why don’t you go see what you can do for SNL? I’ll meet you back here next week.

The Velveteen Armadilla

2004-08-13T21:42:00.000-05:00

In these reality television infested days, there is the ever-present danger of imitation: individuals see an action on TV, decide to try it, and suddenly we’ve got countless amateur rose ceremonies and civilians eating cow snouts all willy-nilly. At the risk of sounding like a wet blanket, the stunts on these shows can be dangerous without professional supervision. People don’t realize that there are dangers involved. Roses have thorns, people! And cow snouts have… well, please just put the snouts down. Really. I’ll buy you some crackers or something.

The dangerous and gross stunts are the main ones that seem to attract this mimicry. You never read about someone suing the producers of Seinfeld for a botched attempt at amiable sarcasm. But this past weekend, I was a willing participant in a cinematic reenactment of epic - or at least ‘double batch’- proportions. Tasty and danger-free – who could ask for anything more?

Let me set the scene for you. Apparently, in a little place I like to call “the South,” they have some unique wedding traditions. No, not marrying your siblings. A different tradition. While we northern folk usually have a single tiered wedding cake, these “Southerners” have been known to also serve what’s known as the Groom’s cake. Now, why the groom can’t just suck it up and eat the other cake, I don’t know. I’m not a southerner. I do know that ‘groom’ quickly stops looking like a real word, though. Groom, groom, groom. The Groom’s cake is usually a non-white confection, in compliance with the equal opportunity cake-flavor selection act of 1875.

Usually, the Groom’s cake is in an unusual shape, usually reflective of the hobbies or lifestyle of the groom. Most of these cakes are made in the South, and an extremely informal survey I just conducted reveals that most of the cakes are either the General Lee, some sort of visual tribute to illiteracy, or maybe a picture of his cousin or something. You know, as a tribute to “the one that got away.” Or as a tribute to his new bride, who knows.

About a week ago, I helped bake a red velvet armadilla Groom’s cake- complete with the obligatory gray icing and one of us saying “that looks like an autopsy” at least once every few minutes. Here follows the account of this creation.

“I can make anything – except snakes. I don’t have the counter space.”

We decided to make a double batch of red velvet cake, because according to Heather, we were, ahem, serious about this enterprise. We had already been to the store and purchased all the necessary ingredients. Then we had Jessie pick up more red food coloring, because we grossly underestimated the maximum recommended daily allowance for red food coloring. After a delicate and impressive kitchen ballet, it appeared that we were mid-way through the cleanup at the scene of Gumby’s grisly murder. The only real casualty was Kim’s shirt, which now bears a tiny red badge of courage. Way to soldier on, Kim’s shirt. We salute you and your resistance to laundry detergent.

Now, when you’re making a red velvet armadilla cake, it’s a commonly held tenet that crafting the beast out of seven smaller cakes is, well, a bit “too much.” And since five cakes is obviously too few, we decided to make six. Double batch, folks. We didn’t really have a choice. As luck would have it, the oven had a six-cake capacity. Sometimes, things just work out. This cake was meant to be.

“I can’t even begin to think how you’d make gray icing.”

Gray icing production can be quit complicated. First, you have to buy black food coloring. You still with me? Okay- I know this sounds crazy, but you’re gonna want to put a few drops into some white icing. Stir, and voila! Gray icing for all your gray icing needs. Incidentally, the process for making gray icing is remarkably similar to that of making gray teeth and a black tongue. Some of us knew that instinctively, Denise had to find it out through trial and error. For a more realistic looking armadilla, mix a few different shades of gray icing for the detail work. Also, Google armadillas for an appropriate model. So ugly they almost go right around the spectrum to cute again. Almost. Bonus trivia fact: gray icing is just as tasty as white icing, so how ‘bout you put some plastic wrap on that until you need it and get your fingers out of the bowl.

“Thanks, Ouiser. Nothin’ like a good piece of ass.”

Piece of ass, indeed. But once your cakes have baked and cooled, there’ll be pieces of lots of things on your counter. Pieces of feet, ears, me, you, torsos, ileums, aortas… it really depends on how detailed you want this thing to be. Now, be sure to refer to your Internet photo (no, not that one) to form a realistically posed armadilla, because the Internet is completely trustworthy in all respects. This could take some time, unless the picture you printed off shows an armadilla curled up into a ball, in which case it’s obvious to me you’re in this for all the wrong reasons. You may as well go buy a cookie cake from the mall for all the creativity you’re exhibiting. Please excuse yourself.

Now, the rest of you – you should have what looks like a naked armadilla, if skin were clothes and yours didn’t have any. That red velvet cake sure adds a disturbing amount of realism, doesn’t it? Ha! And eew. Let’s get some of that frosting on there. Quickly. You can used your knife to create the banded-plate pattern most armadillas have, or just spread it on there already, because we’re all getting hungry. If you’re into animalizing your food (well, more than we already have) you can put googly eyes on your cake. Or, if you forgot to buy googly eyes, raisins work too. You can also use cut-up Nilla wafers as claws. We don’t know if armadillas have claws, but we’ve been wanting to get rid of those Nilla wafers. Plus, they rhyme: armadilla, Nilla… I don’t know where I’m going with this.

“People are gonna be hackin’ into this poor animal that looks like it’s bleedin’ to death.”

Go ahead, dig in. The jokes really write themselves. Also, be sure to serve the cake by making guests specify what part of the corpse they wish to consume. It adds a whimsical touch to the event. Red velvet armadillo Groom’s cake is great to eat while watching the movie, best to eat at a wedding reception, but really, good to eat anytime. Well, not anytime. Calories, calories!

Brain Drain-O

2004-08-05T12:59:00.000-05:00

I remember reading somewhere that humans only use 10% of our brains. Admittedly I don’t recall where I read this, it could have been a medical journal; it could just as easily have been a Calvin and Hobbes comic. The source is not important, what is important is that I’m adopting it as true and basing the rest of this on that newly christened fact. Because wow- 10% - that’s a pretty meager slice of the brain pie. Mmm, brain pie a la mode with a Creutzfeldt-Jakob crust. Ymmm.

I’ve crunched some numbers with the help of Google and my algebra abilities, and I now know that we each have approximately six cups of gray matter jiggling about betwixt our ears. Keep in mind that this is only an average, some people will have more; others, considerably less. Your mileage may vary, but one tenth of this quivering gray mass is about one heaping half-cup of working neurons. The others laze about, napping and basking in the sunlight that probably shouldn’t be there, so why don’t you get that head wound checked out already? Surely there’s a reason that 90% of our brains are on perma-vacation. I actually thing they do work, albeit a kind of passive work. In my head, the lazy cells are receptacles for useless knowledge- and they’re good at what they do.

One area my brain specializes in is “knowledge so useless it would make the Trivial Pursuit card-writers roll their eyes and ask, ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’” I am an embarrassment when it comes to geography, but ask me about Stockholm syndrome and I’m there for ya. Stock market? I’ll pass. But if you’re curious about the intricacies of card organization at Hallmark, I got your back. I know strange medical terms, but would probably have to stop and think for a while if called upon to perform CPR, which probably wouldn’t bode well for the victim. I can tell you what a syzygy is (near-alignment of three celestial bodies in a gravitational system), the average number of dimples on a golf ball (336), or what Britney Spears has been subsisting on lately (Cheetos, Red Bull and whatever the complimentary meal tonight is on an acne-riddled one-way flight to oblivion). I can’t remember half the streets around my house, but I can lead you through the plot-arcs of X-Files (except for that last season, and I doubt even the writers could help you there). My Spanish is iffy, but I can tell a Burmese cat from an Abyssinian from twenty paces. I can sing Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week” with 100% accuracy, tell you who broke what during the filming of The Lord of the Rings, explain how luminol works, and I’m going to end this paragraph before I begin to wonder how I function as a normal member of society.

Another large portion (I’d estimate a cup of brain) is used for some knowledge that I didn’t even think I had retained. I played Super Mario Brothers 3 for the first time in many moons, and I’m happy to report that my Nintendo reflexes have not been dulled in the least. I know where the warp whistles are, how to get the white coin ship to appear, and that the princess isn’t going to be in any of the first seven castles. Let me also clarify that my skills have not increased, they have merely remained the same. I still cannot beat the memory card game. And while I can zip right to level seven without cheating, I then promptly lose every single 1UP I’ve earned and die with virtually no chance of ever saving Peach. Sorry. No, not sorry. She’s nothing but annoying in MarioKart. Also retained: all Dr. Mario ability, my feckless PowerPad skills, and my knack for grabbing the good controller. Congratulations, Player One.

I believe the majority of my otherwise dormant neurons are clogged with an oft-used repertoire of movie quotes. It’s amazing I can think at all considering the number of movie scripts I have stored up there. I could possibly have an entire conversation using only- oh, who am I kidding? I have done that. Without even really trying that hard. And most of them were probably from Tommy Boy, because really, is there anything to do in this town besides eat? Sure, there’s lots of stuff to do. Late night at the Pitch’n’Putt, throw stuff off a bridge- and here we go again. It is intriguing to think what I could accomplish if my synapses weren’t so encumbered with the likes of “Avoid the clap” and “If I could go back in time, I’d want to meet Snoopy.”

There has been speculation about what we would be able to do if we utilized a greater percentage of our brainpower. Besides just being really good at multiplication tables, but that’d be cool too. I was thinking powers like in the movie Phenomenon. But let’s not go there specifically, because A) that brings us back to movies again and B) that movie sucked. And also kinda because C) that was one of the most misleading trailers ever in life, I mean, come on- the trailer screamed “OH MY GOD ALIENS!” and the movie just chuckled derisively and said, “Thanks for your money, suckers- try tumor” and not even in a funny Schwarzenegger accent. Awful, possibly Scientology-linked movies aside, brains are a mystery. Lots of people seem to think that more brainpower could mean telekinesis. That’d be cool, like a metaphysical version of those shark-head-on-a-stick grabbers. But there comes a point where it’s like, come on, man. Just get up and get the cheese salsa yourself. This from a girl who didn’t get up to answer the phone until the machine picked up to see if it was first of all for me and second of all “worth it” to get up. (If I ever picked up after the beep when you called, heh- remember that? If you never got an answering machine pickup- uh, I wasn’t home.) Sweet, sweet hypocrisy. Delicious.

But, seriously? Let’s branch out a little bit. How about pyrokinetics? That’d be fun. And useful! S’mores, whenever you wanted ‘em! But probably, what you saved in not buying matches would be made up for in buying burn ointments. At least until you got the hang of it. Or how about flying? Well, I suppose that’s just telekinesis on yourself. Maybe you could... solve complex differential equations without a graphing calculator or an abacus. Read entire obscure Russian novels in a single sitting! Master the Spanish subjunctivo without the aid of flashcards! You know, if you read those claims like they’re the opening credits of the old Superman show, the lameness is decreased by... not much at all. Sigh. Maybe I could think of more if my brain weren’t so hopelessly clogged. Or maybe I should just go watch tv, since clearly, that’s where my mind is going anyway. Did you know the first wireless television remote was invented in 1955? Speaking of which, I can’t seem to find mine. The tv is so far away... maybe I’ll just watch- what’s this? QVC? Ah well, the phone is safely out of reach, and my brain’s not clogged enough to make me think I need a crying ceramic clown. Shill on, QVC. Shill on.

Long story short...

2004-07-27T14:47:00.000-05:00

9. ...I can't get enough of the tango.
8. ...my vertical leap is a thing of envy.
7. ...I invented the Flying through Space screensaver.
6. ...I'll never play the harpsichord again.
5. ...I'm now living off of my Cheeto-art.
4. ...Will Smith and I are no longer on "speaking terms."
3. ...I'm no longer welcome at Denny's.
2. ...his remains are back in the cemetary where they belong.
1. ...I have fourteen toes.

Any Similarity to Actual Facts is Purely Coincidental

2004-07-22T10:32:00.000-05:00

I’ve been on an inordinate number of cave tours lately. Okay, well, three. But after nineteen years with no caving outside of Splash Mountain in Disneyland, three tours is practically binging. It’s embarrassing when you consider that my unofficial major freshman year was Spelunking with a minor in Bat Psychology, although admittedly this was only for a few months before I switched to Espionage with an emphasis in Pyrotechnics. Actual knowledge and legitimate experience aside, I still think I would make an awesome cave tour guide. This is not only because I actually do find caves rather interesting, but also because I would have no qualms about totally lying when someone asked a question to which I didn’t know the answer. Or even when I did know the answer. Really, I don’t need a question to spout half-truths. Hopefully this isn’t news to anyone.

My first two cave tours were at Mammoth Caves in Kentucky. So named, of course, for the six perfectly preserved woolly mammoths (Mammuthus primigenius) which were discovered there in 1904 by Dr. R.J. Danzer.

See? Lie! I don’t know why they’re called Mammoth Caves. It’s presumably because they’re so big. But could that be any more boring? And now that I’m done channeling Chandler, my point is that I don’t know why they’re called Mammoth Caves. The tours were mainly a way to disengage my butt from the car seat for a couple of hours, and I would have been more than happy to believe anything told to me with virtually no fact checking initiative on my part.

Cave tours need to work on other aspects of naming, too. There were lots of named rock formations in Mammoth Caves. Some that I remember had relatively interesting names, like ‘Giant’s Tomb.’ But I’ve forgotten all the others, mostly because they were so boring: ‘Double Stalactite #87D’ or ‘Stalagmite of Ennui #648.’ I propose more memorable names for these formations, and furthermore propose that I am the one to make them up. Names like ‘The Boll Weevil Underpants’ and ‘Possibly But In All Likelihood Not Really Bottomless Pit of Despair and Shiny Rocks’ would be much more memorable. I’d warn tourists away from the ‘Fall of the Lentil’ and invite them to touch the ‘Rock That Used To Be Real Sharp So We Filed It Down So Tourists Could Touch It’ rock. The myth of ‘Fat Man’s Toe’ would delight all the children, and we’d all learn a valuable life lesson from the tale of ‘The Little Stalagmite Who Could.’

Any questions about these landmarks not bearing much resemblance to their names could be brushed aside by blaming any number of sources. Erosion, for one. Or those damn tourists who can’t keep their grimy hands to themselves. Or a wistful, long-winded rumination (to be composed later) about how the passage of time changes us all, whether that change be drastic or subtle, blah, blah, that’ll teach ‘em to ask legitimate questions blah.

My most recent cave tour took place in Virginia at Dixie Caverns, and is chiefly memorable for the grand finale of a toothless hillbilly in a repainted General Lee hitting on us. Or maybe he was cursing at us. The southern accent and the enunciation problems that come with only having one tooth made it hard to tell. Dixie Caverns was much different than Mammoth Caves, possibly because it looked like it had been the neighborhood moonshine repository for many generations- and not too many family tree forks. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do.

Our Dixie Caverns guide led us into the cave and began his spiel. After each segment he’d say "Watch your step, take your time" and then would vanish further into the cave. He said it in the exact same way every time, in a rushed, this-phrase-is-dead-to-me voice. That wouldn’t happen on one of my tours. There are so many ways that could be spiced up! (And Denise, me using the phrase ‘spiced up’ is about as close as you’re gonna get to an article about the Spice Girls- take it or leave it). Ambiguous or explicit, the list of phrases that could be tacked on and interchanged is nearly endless. How about muttering a shifty-eyed "Watch your back"? Or rhyming! With the exception of that (hopefully) accidentally rhymed line in The Matrix which annoys me to end, I defy you to name something that isn’t improved by a good rhyme. Hallmark cards, stalker notes, and now even cave tours can be improved with a well-placed syllable.

“Take your time and watch your dome
One head wound and you’re on your own.
If on your tail bone you have landed
Best of luck, cuz you are stranded.”

And that’s just off the top of my head. Hours underground can only improve my mad rhyming skillz.

At one point our tour guide told us that if we were interested, he would point out an upcoming bat. I was all over that, but others weren’t, for some reason. Something about bats caught in hair, even though your hair is short now. Not that that ever really happens anyway. Yes, I’ve heard your story.

Anyway, I voted for a bat introduction. Maybe because my first thought was, “How would he know a bat would be there... unless it was a fake bat and some super glue?” Perhaps the fact that this was the first thought I had reveals something about me. But probably not. At bat ground zero, I even asked him blow on the bat to make it move so I could see that it was real. He did, it did, it was. So he gets credit for putting his face that close to a fanged, leathery-winged mini-monster. Unless it was it a clever animatronic, in which case he still deserves credit, but of a different sort. Also, I don’t think he could’ve gotten away with not saying anything about the bat; it was right on the main path about six inches away from my face. I know curiosity killed the cat, but hanging furry rocks are just too much for me to ignore.

I’d be planting animals left and right. Well, maybe not left. Subtlety, people! We set limits for a reason. So, for a cave, let’s say, a handful of bats, a human skeleton, some polar bear droppings... and a holographic sea monster tentacle. But only if there’s a murky pool of water. Remember- less is more.

Surely there will be a sanctimonious know it all pre-pubescent in each group who retains more knowledge about caves than is probably health. Precedents have been set; everyone knows an insect or dinosaur equivalent to this little cave freak. What happens, you might wonder, if he should second guess my tour guide knowledge? It would, after all, be almost inevitable. Well, luckily I have a solution. Caves are very dangerous places, what with all the slippery silt and sudden drop-offs. All the book smarts in the library won’t help you if you don’t know where that sinkhole is. What up now, nerd?

So maybe once this pipetting job has lost its appeal (approximately seven months ago) I’ll head for the hills and become a cave guide. I have a feeling it might be quite lucrative. Come on down, and if you mention this website, you’ll get half off the regular tour price! Meaning, of course, that halfway through the tour I’ll turn the lights out and we’ll let the bidding begin for my services on the second half of the tour. Supply and demand... and no personal checks, please.

Meeting Thoughts

2004-07-21T14:45:00.000-05:00

1. I wonder if they think I'm taking notes.
2. Line maintenance? What is tha- oh, wait. I just remembered. I don't care.
3. 'Touch A Customer.' Hee hee. It's funny cuz I'm twelve.
4. Please, God- no Power Point presentation today. Aw, crap.
5. Q&N, EDMS, BMRDP... Now you know your ABC's, come make up acronyms with me!
6. Twister robot? All right. You have my attention.
7. You say teleconferencing room, I say kick-ass surround sound mini-theater.
8. Man, if velociraptors broke out of the cloning lab and attacked this building, we'd be screwed. Well, if they could fit through that window. Or open that door. They are pretty smart, if Crichton can be trusted.
9. My eyes have got to be glazed over by now.
10. I hope that doesn't ruin my contacts.

Just Plane Nuts

2004-06-26T17:40:00.000-05:00

For a long time, it seemed like buses had the market cornered on crazy. Who hasn't had a late night crazy person experience involving to a bus or related building? Or heard a story of someone else's? Or seen one on television? Or imagined one? You see my point, I'm sure. Buses were the designated 'crazy' transportation mode of choice: hobos have trains, scary men in yellow rain jackets with hook hands have fishing boats, and crazies have buses. I see those Greyhound commercials with the clean people riding the buses, smiling, excited to be using such glamorous transportation.

Right. I've 'gone Greyhound.' Where, pray tell, are the unwashed masses? The crying Amlids? The goopy smear on the window you want to wipe off but don't want to come in even indirect contact with your skin? Not in the commercials, that’s for sure. The commercial just features that humanoid with the head of a greyhound, which I'm guessing is the male of whatever species Paris Hilton is. Let's look into some sterilization options before they find each other, mate and fill the earth with litter upon litter of dog-faced Cheeto-colored skeleton monsters. But I digress. I can't speak for the hobos or the raincoat men, but the crazies are branching out to the nation's airports.

I sat next to who I think was a genuinely crazy person on a plane from Roanoke to Detroit. It’s not often I get to sit so close to un-medicated psychos these days. He was that special brand of crazy that holds animated conversations with windows, and as a bonus, he seemed to have a grudge against the pilot. After every altitude adjustment announcement he would laugh derisively and snort, "Yeah, right." At first, he made me think he new something I didn't, which made me nervous, until I realized that he was just insane, which made me MORE nervous.

I managed to ignore his shifty mannerisms and avoid direct eye contact until the beverage service. Flying coach is the norm for me, except for that one time I got bumped up to first class which was both random and awesome. But back with the peons in coach, you have to pay for your alcoholic beverages- $5 gets you one tiny bottle of your choice. I had always thought you'd have to be crazy to pay that much. As it turns out, I was right: Nutjob McTwitchypants was all over that deal like crazy on, well, him. The stewardess was more than happy to comply with Nutjob's request because really, when you've got a crazy person in an enclosed area, the situation can only be improved with the addition of alcohol. She hurried off to get his change as he began mixing whatever crazy cocktail they're drinking in the loony bin these days. (Drink Skye Vodka! 9 out of 10 of the voices in your head agree, and the tenth might ease up on the maniacal ranting after a drink or two!)

I turned up my music and checked my watch. Soon, the stewardess returned. She was very sorry, but they didn't have enough change for him. Would he like to buy another drink instead? Of course he would! What's another $5 bottle of vodka between schizophrenic splinter personalities? With my music turned up, I could barely hear his arguments with the double paned oval window. I was waiting for him to shout "This conversation is over!" and then slam the molded plastic window shade. Everyone knows windows can't sass back when their shades are shut.

He probably would have gotten in trouble if he had done that. Why do they always insist on the windows being open during takeoff and landing? Not that I’d never shut the window if I had a window seat, even if I wasn't actively using it. Only jerks with no concept of other people's window-love who always end up sitting next to me do that. Jerks. But they rabidly insist that the shades be open, and I can't figure out why. We used to have a conversion van that had shades on the windows, and we would always have to leave them up so my dad wouldn't take someone out when he had to merge. I can't see that being a very relevant issue on an airplane. First off, don't they have air traffic controllers to manage where the other planes are? And short of having a spine that responds to the verbal command of "Go-go gadget neck!", there's no way those windows are gonna do anything for your visibility.

They're only more insistent about the uprightness of seat backs and tray tables. In that polite yet stern stewardess voice that you must not defy. Which is why I was so shocked when I encountered Those Who Would Not Obey on flight 74CRAZY. Before takeoff, I was stowing my carry-ons like a good little passenger. I sat and watched the dramatic reading of the airline safety guidelines, accompanied by the seat belt and oxygen mask interpretive dance. I really only watch because no one else does and I feel sorry for them, performing for a bunch of safety hating philistines. I care, I say silently with my eye contact. Help me to be safe and give me extra peanuts for my cooperation. Hasn't happened yet, but I remain hopeful.

When the safety skit was over, I glanced (in my quest to avoid eye contact with Nutjob) at the people across the aisle- only to find them openly flouting all the rules I hold dear! CD players, no doubt blasting something rebellious, out on top of tray tables! The stewardesses were making their way down the aisle; surely a highly anticipated aero-beat down was not long in coming. Imagine my disappointment when nothing happened! They leisurely put up their trays and continued their illegal music listening, totally missing the announcement about how wrong they were. Wow. When I’m climbing to 37,000 feet above solid ground, I'm pretty likely to follow any directives given to me, on the off chance that my tray table is connected to the turbines or something. Their rebellion did inspire me on the next flight, however. Let's just say curly hair and small earphones can hide a multitude of indiscretions, and also if my music was transmitted over the pilot’s airwaves, I didn’t hear any complaining.

I suppose one crazy flight out of four isn’t too bad. The crazy migration isn’t complete; your odds are still much greater on a bus. Unless of course, you are the crazy person. If that’s the case, I don’t know what to tell you. Except to not sit next to me.

Alternative Rubber Glove Uses I've Explored Today

2004-06-23T15:19:00.000-05:00

10. Inflatable turkey
9. Unreliable water balloon
8. Ineffective sock
7. Hard-to-aim slingshot
6. Dancing inflatable turkey
5. Stress reliever
4. Fingerprint-less crime
3. Far-reaching geyser
2. Finger muscle builder
1. Unpoppable, dot-covered trash turkey

What I Learned in England

2004-06-14T10:04:00.000-05:00

10. If you need to 'get used to it,' it probably isn't good for you.
9. Everything is not a crisis.
8. Torp is a great multipurpose word.
7. Sleeper trains- one of the many things that sound like a good idea, but aren't.
6. 'Ziznevy Pez' means 'The Thirsty Dog' in Czech, but when said with a slightly off accent, it means 'tell these Americans what these words mean and then give them incorrect directions to get there.'
5. Spanish is handy for negotiating shower coins in Austrian castles.
4. Ewan MacGregor makes a comfy bed.
3. If you ever find yourself in the midst of a Flemish festival with giant scary arm creatures and a naked statue, just go with it.
2. Cambridge students know how to make queues fun.
1. It's easy to pick out the rich penguins.

The Night Amish

2004-06-10T13:28:00.000-05:00

I recently had the opportunity to experience life through the perspective of our nation's Amish. My long-standing fascination with this group is no passing phase: I was born in Pennsylvania, and feel a sort of kindred bond with this enigmatic group. It transcends race, religion and zipper utilization. My journey into the heart of the Amish lifestyle was one of self-discovery, patience building and enlightenment. I’d like to share my story with you.

Huh. It sounds so noble and Discovery Channel-worthy when I put it like that. Flowery prose aside, we had some bad thunderstorms and our power went out. For three hours! Right before my Sunday night TV shows came on! I know! It was awful. The things I go through just to have something to write. So I figured, hey, I’m curious about the Amish. Once while some of my family and I were at an aquarium, we noticed there was an Amish family there, too. After a few minutes, my aunt nudged me. "The Amish are watching the fish," she said. "We're watching the Amish. Who's watching us?" But being curious about them doesn’t mean I think I could cut it as one. The power outage and more have convinced me that most likely, livin' the vida Amish is not for me.

I’m sure there are perks to being Amish. Like, that tree the thunderstorm took out in my backyard. Were I Amish, I could no doubt grab a couple of my fellow Amish and whip up a barn out of it in no time. You never know when you'll need a barn. And say what you will about Amish clothing, the fact remains that black is very slimming. However, with all the butter churning that'd be going on, your arms would probably be toned within an inch of their lives anyway. Also, you get to be around horses a good deal of the time. If you ask me fresh off a viewing of the Lord of the Rings, which I am, this is very cool. Of course, Amish horse related activities probably lean more towards 'driving a buggy along a highway to town' rather than 'tearing ass through a sparsely wooded area to escape Ringwraiths.'

So the horse aspect is a mixed bag- which brings us to the reasons why I could never last as an Amish. For one, I enjoy using zippers, and have nothing against them. They've been, for the most part, quite faithful for holding my snow pants, jackets and head wounds closed. (Ha, ha. Also: Eew.) All this zipper-love despite the fact that until about three months ago, I didn't even know how a zipper worked. Seriously, you ever try to zip a broken zipper? I was convinced there was some sort of sorcery at work in that little metal slide. Maybe that's why the Amish don't like them. Someone should tell them that they're not of the devil, they're of simple machines. They'd be all over them, I'd imagine.

Another problem I foresee is the bonnet. I'm not really a bonnet kind of girl. I don't think. I mean, I look ridiculous in a baseball cap, I can't see headwear that enfolds my melon into a covered wagon being an improvement. Let’s not even get into the hat hair issues. I think I read somewhere that the Amish have actually developed a genetically lessened hat hair response through natural selection. Well, either I read it in a scientific journal, or I made it up just now. Either way, I am passing this knowledge on to you. Do with it what you will.

Of course, one of the major reasons I can't be converting anytime soon is the electricity. I fully admit it, I love it and the gadgets that slurp it down. I want to be like that woman in the jewelry commercial, but with electricity: snuggled up to its chest, I'd murmur, "I love this utility! I love it, I love it, I love it." Sweet, sweet gadgets: the more specialized and obscure, the greater my desire to possess them. The Sharper Image is one of my meccas. Incidentally, I think my altitude is directly proportional to my gadgetphilia, and the airlines are fully aware of this. I confess to lusting after several objects in the Sky Mall catalogue on a recent plane trip. Coffee mug with a battery powered stirrer in the bottom? Electronic key locator? I'm looking at you guys.

A close cousin to this lack of electricity would be the dark. No, more than a cousin. More like that annoying neighbor kid who's always at your house, even though you told him to leave God knows how many times, his mother obviously needs to keep a better eye on him, and he can't take a hint to save his. Ahem. And for the purposes of this analogy, by 'kid' I mean 'marrow-craving undead humanoid monster.' Because if there's something worse than total darkness, it's darkness lit only by a quavering candle flame. I'm sure my bonnet and butter churn would take on creepy nocturnal lives of their own when lit only by a (no doubt hand-dipped) candle.

Without my various electric devices whirring and glowing, it'd be infinitely easier to visualize a slavering hell-beast hunkered down beneath my bed. And with naught but a candle lighting my way, the dancing light would surely find something that looked like red-rimmed, carnivorously evil eyes watching my every move. Of course, as an Amish, it's very likely I would not have watched as many movies as I have, and therefore would have a greatly diminished mental store of such images. Unless the Amish are allowed to have illustrated Bibles, their monster experience is probably limited to imagining satyrs, unicorns and the occasional dragon. Dragons, I'll give you that one. But satyrs? Half goat- so they can climb reasonably well in rocky terrain and probably have a propensity for eating tin cans. Yikes. And unicorns aren't nightmare inducing! They dance with rainbows and sleep on clouds! Psht. Nice try, Bible.

I might be scared of a unicorn at night, though. Case in point: I know I've mentioned the llamas that live near me. Well, these llamas cohabitate with a goat and a pony. Yes, it's like an admittedly lame but rather cute and fenced-in barnyard safari. Anyway, driving home from my sister's graduation, the car full of us was silent as we passed the llama-stead. The headlights suddenly illuminated the lone pony. His eyes flashed behind his ashen forelock before he dissolved into darkness as the road veered away from his paddock. In the creepiest whisper I could muster, I breathed, "night pony." Silence. A tense silence. "Wait. Did you just say 'night pony?'" Someone asked. Cue laughter. That comment ruined the mood. Nevertheless, I distinctly felt at the least a little weirded out and at most a lot weirded out by that night pony.

I think a night satyr or a night unicorn would have much the same effect, with a dash of 'the hell?' to taste. I urge you to try the night-object game - it's surprisingly creepy. Don't go for the obvious and clichéd 'night stalker' or 'night light'. Flex your creativity. 'Night pants' and 'night Elvis' are ready and waiting to freak you out.

So for now, I think I'll stick on the non-Amish side of this fence. Or barn. Whatever. I think if I had been born Amish, I'd be a rather confused individual, with an inexplicable yearning for complex arrangements of simple machines and a bad case of bonnet hair. I'd have saddle sores, really toned arms and about the same amount of fashion sense as I do now. Is there even an Amish conversion program available? I mean, outside of that Tim Allen and Kirstie Alley movie? So far, I’ve done okay without a plethora of barns or a orange slow-moving vehicle triangle braided into the tail of my primary transportation. And based on that no electricity experience, and maybe the trailer from that awful-looking movie, I'm gonna have to pass. Thanks, Amish, but I’ll stick with watching and wondering from afar. With my electronic infra-red binoculars. Which, let's face it, I’ll be ordering shortly, probably from a car on a cell phone.

I love you, electricity. Let's never fight again.

Top Ten Quotes From Roanoke

2004-06-02T16:13:00.000-05:00

Lisa: ...and they say Achilles' heart grew three sizes that day.
Catie: Is that from The Illiad?
Lisa: Um, no. The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

Mugatu: That Hansel is so hot right now.

Everyone: Give me a platform!

Lisa: What am I supposed to be focusing on?
Catie: I don't know. It doesn't matter. I forgot the eggs.

Lisa: That's some fromthing, isn't it?

Tara: Best pickup line ever: Hey- you played a great first round.

Catie: I can't even focus, what have you gotten me into??

Lisa: I'm glad I can provide you with knuckle-biting excitement.

Catie: One of the three of us is not drunk. I'll give you four guesses.

Lisa: I know! We'll each pick a patron dick.

Life is a Highway... Literally

2004-05-20T09:21:00.000-05:00

I used to really love driving. That’s right – used to. I think my love affair with the road began after I passed my drivers test on attempt numero dos (no thanks to you, rogue purple minivan – who buys a purple van, anyway? A road test sabotaging jerk, that’s who) and sadly, ended a few months ago. What caused such a rift? Was it the strains of a long distance relationship? Or was everything moving too fast? On the contrary, I submit that it was moving too slowly, and that this has killed my love of driving. The following narration depicts a typical drive for me.

Garage
7:00 am
Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I’m awake and it’s time to leave for work. I insert a CD, the contents of which directly reflect my mood, which in the morning could be generously described as ‘miffed at the world.’ After navigating the gauntlet of garden paraphernalia that is my driveway, I’m on my way.

Back roads
7:04 am
Hmm, not much traffic on these roads. I feel powerful, with no slow cars reigning me in. What’s this joy I feel? Could I be… in love with the road again? Or is it the llamas on Florida Road? They are some cute llamas.

Intersection of Death St. and Poor Visibility Ave.
7:08 am
A blind left turn onto a 50 mph road: the first indication of what kind of a drive it’s going to be. Best case scenario: a school bus on the right stops all traffic, while wood nymphs and dancing squirrels lead me in an unrushed left turn. The peasants rejoice. Worst case scenario: Indy 500 tryouts rejected for excessive speed scream over the hill in a rainstorm; when I make a break for it, I inadvertently hit a school bus filled with puppies and children. Explosions, mayhem and a sense of ‘preventable death’ permeate the scene. Usually I shoot for somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. The other problem is that I have to execute this turn from a hill. I’m sure this doesn’t sound problematic to those of you with automatic transmissions. But I drive a stick shift. Now, I drive better than when I took a test drive and killed it five times in front of oncoming traffic. But that's a story for another time. I have improved a great deal, but hills are still a sticking point. So to speak. I can start on a hill, but another car idling in my exhaust pipe makes this harder than it needs to be. This morning, no one was behind me. Perhaps today will be different…

On-ramp to I-69 S
7:10 am
Today is no different. An eighteen-wheeler claims the right lane as his own, refusing to acknowledge the on-ramp peons. Thanks, buddy. Soon, though, I’m actually going the speed limit. I am hopeful for the future, but resigned to reality. Surely this won’t last.

I-69 S
7:15 am
And it didn’t last. I’m now going 4 mph. Time for a new CD- suddenly whatever I’m listening to is too cheery. It’s pissing me off. At this rate, I should get to work a little bit after lunch.

I-69 S
7:17 am
Completely stopped now. I can’t understand why; there are three lanes. Unless someone has built a cement wall across them, I see no reason for our complete lack of ‘go.’ Becoming increasingly irate. I glare at the tinted windows of my fellow commuters. I need to blame someone- I choose to blame them. Why don’t we GO?!? I put the car into reverse, as that is the inevitable next step.

Exit 0
7:29 am
Finally, my exit. The word ‘exit’ seems to imply a release, an exchange for something new. In this case, it means a lateral movement within the same circle of hell, or perhaps a move to a lower level if road construction is involved. But I bet that wouldn’t fit on the exit sign. That’s all right. Call me psychic, but the bright orange signs are giving me a clear indication of what lies ahead. Keep those belts on, kids. We’re halfway there.

I-465 W
7:36 am
Why do I always get stuck behind the hot-dogging semi driver who can “totally handle three trailers, no problem”? And why do all these trucks have modified mufflers that expel exhaust not as fumes but as 90 mph exhaust bullets that glance off of my windshield like, well, actual bullets off of Superman? And why does all of my music SUCK? CDs, you’re being shelved. You’re up, radio. Thank God for soothing, soothing scan. This is my first scan-enabled radio after years of coveting others’. Mmm, scan. There’s always something better on the radio.

I-465 W
7:40 am
Except for today, evidently. Because we’re stopping on static. STATIC. What’s so special about this static that I had to listen to it, scan? Did ya think I’d like it? You skipped all the other static, why’d you stop here? This is so NOT a station, it’s not even funny. I hate you, scan. Although, come to think of it, static might be preferable to, say, Radio Disney. The entire musical repertoire of that station consists of Hillary Duff’s album, the Baha Men’s seemingly eternal curiosity about dog liberation and the musical migraine that is the Hamster Dance. Yeesh – static’s sounding better and better.

I-465: Construction Ground Zero
7:46 am
These ‘reduced speed 35 mph’ signs are mocking me. I haven’t broken 15 mph for twenty minutes now. Shut up, sign. I think it speaks to my irritable state of mind when I say ‘shut up’ to things that a) are inanimate, b) cannot hear me and c) were not making noise to begin with.

I-465 S
7:47 am
Stopped again, for what seems like no reason other than the drivers ahead of me slowing down to gawk at the big yellow construction vehicles. Look – I’ll pony up and buy you your very own Bob the Builder video if you promise to watch it at home during rush hour. Then you can see the bulldozers all you want, and I won’t have to invent new curse words or hurt my throat yelling about how you should be rolled up in a carpet and thrown off of a bridge. Deal?

I-465 S
7:50 am
The last ten minutes of this drive actually go the fastest – even with the copious and erratic stop lights. Or the car seat (sans baby, thankfully) in the middle of the road. How on earth does that happen? I mean, I can think of a few scenarios. Most include Social Services and some jail time, or at the very least a very addle-brained consumer, returning home from a quick jaunt to Starbucks and her local car seat store becoming confused upon finding a mocha latte securely buckled in the back seat.

Parking lot
8:ish
After a drive like that, anything they throw at me during the workday would be fine, you’re thinking. You, who have obviously never been on the business end of an automated pipetter for eight hours. Your naïveté makes me smile wistfully, thinking of my own pre-pipette innocence.

It’s been said that we find value in the journey and not in the destination. However, I’d have to argue that this case ends in a draw, with both the journey and the destination awarded a big ol’ bucket chock-full of awful. I like to find my value laying by the pool, sipping multicolored beverages adorned with equally multicolored paper umbrellas. As for me and the road… our future remains uncertain. Maybe we’ll talk if I can ever get Tom Cochrane’s ‘Life is a Highway’ out of my head.

Words I Don't Like

2004-05-11T19:46:00.000-05:00

1. Slice
2. Ginormous
3. Scab
4. Y'all
5. Titer
6. Goodly
7. Ornery
8. Tattie
9. Nuzzle
10. Sump

Always the Variably-Named Wedding Participant, Never the Bride

2004-05-06T22:44:00.000-05:00

The last time I attended a wedding was just this side of the memory void that is my life before age three. I was a flower girl and I performed admirably, for those of you thinking about including me in your wedding party. Of course, the main point of the flower girl is to be cute. While it’s hard not to be cute when you’re four years old and wearing a hoop skirt, I like to think that I had that extra little sparkle that clinched the position. The fact that I’m four years older than my cousins, and thus probably the only one who was capable of walking of her own volition and/or surviving outside of a uterus hadn’t occurred to me until a few minutes ago. Huh. Nevertheless, I was dang cute. Yet after this charming (I’m told) performance, I was to embark upon a seventeen-year wedding dry-spell that would only end this summer. Speaking of which, I’d like to congratulate two people in particular. We’ll call them Theresa and Jonathan, because those are their names. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding and I hope you don’t mind if I write about it!

But let’s get back to business. It is my intention to debunk the wedding, beginning with the few preliminary events of someone else’s that I’ve attended. Probably not so much ‘debunk’ as ‘comment snarkily on them for a thousand words or so.’

I was asked to be a reader at the upcoming ceremony, most likely because of my mah-velous speaking voice. Ahem. But I’ll be reading someone else’s work. Uh, God’s. Cuz it’s the Bible and all. I suppose I could add my own flair to it. Say, an interpretive mime act, or a complicated shadow puppet show. Whee! Just kidding, guys. I’ll be good and learn all the big words beforehand. I didn’t buy Hooked on Phonics for nothin’! Just as long as you’re sure you don’t want it in Pig Latin. Okay! Inefay. Ebay atthay ayway.

Just last weekend I attended the bridal shower. From my tv- and movie-gleaned knowledge of such things, it was basically a G-rated bachelorette party, what with the extended family and impressionable young minds present. It got off to a good start as I walked through the door and was immediately proclaimed the ‘guest who traveled the furthest to attend’ prize winner. How great is that? I could be enticed to go lots of places with a song in my heart if I were presented with a spurious award as soon as I set foot in the door. The dentist and work spring to mind. I exchanged the gift I had brought for a drink and a seat on the couch in front of assorted snack foods. This party just kept getting better and better!

Pleasantly idle chitchat was followed by party games. I LOVE party games. With a judicious word addition and a quick case change, we learn that more specifically, I love WINNING party games. The first game, if I may be so bold as to whimsically title it using a serious learning disability and a copyright-protected name, was Dyslexic Scattergories. The couple’s names were written vertically on a piece of paper, and each guest was charged with coming up with a word for each letter that related to love and marriage. Hmm. The family friendly restriction and my burning desire to be perceived as funny made this an appealing challenge. Unfortunately, as soon as the phrase ‘love and marriage’ was uttered, the theme from ‘Married with Children’ began flouncing through my head, thoroughly disrupting any free-association creativity I once had. So aside from a few laughs at my more ‘racy’ answers (seriously… I may as well have used graphic anatomical terms for all the shocked laughs I got when I read ‘hanky-panky’) no awards would be forthcoming from my participation in Dyslexic Scattergories.

Next came a round of brandy slushes, which I suspect were served to give the under-twenty-one crowd an edge in the next game. Or maybe not. Either way, who cares? They were really good.

On to gift bingo, my son! Er- daughter, rather, seeing as all the men folk were banished upstairs to watch baseball and smoke cigars or equally manly activities. And now that I’ve shot the opening of this paragraph al to hell, lets talk about gift bingo. We received blank bingo cards and were told to fill in each square with a gift we thought she’d get, to be crossed out if it were opened. And so it became a race to remember what had been checked off of the gift registry I had looked at when I went shopping. Or, to find out what the people on either side of me had bought and, utilizing the free space, been one spot away from a guaranteed bingo. I can see your point how that might’ve been construed as cheating. And I don’t cheat at bridal shower games! At least not well enough to win more than second place, apparently. Guaranteed bingo… yeah right. My plot had not accounted for gift order. Perhaps next time a carefully drawn gift pile schematic would be in order, and my victory would be assured… Or I could begin my mental chant of ‘It’s just a game. It’s just a game,' like my psychiatrist suggested.

During the present opening, I noticed an almost rabid insistence that the ribbons on each gift remain intact. “Don’t break the ribbons!” they cried vehemently, as I sat on the couch wondering silently, “Why? What’s up with the ribbons?” As it turns out, what was up with the ribbons was an age-old tradition, according to resident wedding expert Kathy. By resident, I mean sitting next to me. And by expert I mean knows more about weddings than me, which could be anything more than the alternate lyrics à la second grade to the wedding march. Anyway, supposedly for every ribbon you break, that’s a baby you’ll have. Much like the ‘for every candle you don’t blow out, that’s how many boyfriends you have!’ thing we used to do at birthday parties. Or was that just my friends and me? Except since we’ve matured, the threat of cooties has been replaced with painful childbirth. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

After the party, all the ribbon is saved as used as a bouquet during the rehearsal dinner. Who knew? I’d never heard of this before, which kinda makes me wonder what other traditions I haven’t heard of. And also what’s stopping me from just making up some of my own. They gotta start somewhere, am I right? “Wait – if you break the ribbon on someone’s gift, you gotta give that person fifty bucks.” Or, “The ‘traveled furthest award’ is a day at the spa to relieve any road-rage tension. Come on. That one dates back to the 14th century. You wanna break tradition?”

So that’s what I’ve learned about the wedding process thus far. Maybe this will be but part one of this wedding exposition, seeing as I haven’t actually given any insight on or even been to one yet. Next time, we’ll delve into the mysteries of ‘something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.’ Speaking of what to wear, maybe I should get shopping. I’m pretty sure I’ve outgrown that hoopskirt.

Words I Like

2004-05-04T08:21:00.000-05:00

1. piratical
2. snarky
3. sozzled
4. histrionic
5. maniacal
6. feckless
7. muzzle
8. ply
9. aphesia
10. asinine

An Experiment in Safety

2004-04-30T16:38:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has ever taken a science lab can tell you how much rules about safety are stressed. I suppose I can see the point; there’s just so much potential for havoc. I should know; thinking about this havoc potential is what keeps me occupied during my downtime. Well, that and the Internet. And email. And music. For the purposes of this narrative, we’ll say lab safety is important in my job. Because I deal in dangerous substances, baby. Like salt. And food coloring. And my job sucks. Next paragraph.

Usually first and foremost on any lab safety list is ‘no horseplay.’ This doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Ed’s chances of becoming Dr. Ed, which are pretty slim anyway, but not because of this rule. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but that horse has been dead for quite some time. It also means that the lab is no place for fun. I can vouch for that: fun is the lab’s archenemy. Occasionally, they’ll have a brief truce when there’s a pile of dry ice in the sink or someone tries to wash out a glove and creates a latex geyser. But the truce is always short-lived.

Lab: Hee. That’s kind of fun.
Fun: Yeah? You like that?
Lab (noncommittally): It’s all right.
Fun: Girl, please. That was nothin’. I’ve got a lot more ideas if you’re interested.
Lab: I dunno. Maybe. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. [pause] And I friggin’ hate you.
Fun: Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?
Lab: Pretty much. Get out and stay out.
Fun (muttering under breath): Fine. Then you can play ‘Guess Which Bacteria Culture I Poured Into Your Lemonade’ all by yourself. Ass.

And speaking of mystery bacterial cultures, label everything. I can’t even imagine the ochlochracy that would result from a mix up of 0.1 M and 0.01 M fluorescein dye. On the other hand, excessive labeling could be an indication of obsessive-compulsive disorder. For example, a guy I work with, not naming names, not that it would matter, actually labels his coaster. And not just ‘coaster.’ It says ‘public coaster.’ Er, okay. So to fulfill my duty as antagonist to all who have weird habits that don’t make sense to me, I labeled mine ‘private coaster.’ And I put up a little fence around it. That’s right. Go find a public coaster to sop up your beverage condensation, proletariat scum. This one’s all mine. Mwah, hah hah.

But really, you probably shouldn’t be eating or drinking in the lab. Especially since we regularly flout the ‘no horseplay’ rule with our bi-weekly Lab-Lympics, with events such as the Dirty Beaker Toss and the Bacterial-Luge. So who knows what’s flying around and sprinkling in your drink? Broken glass, acid, some of the shorter lab techs…But what’s that? You skipped lunch? Go ahead, then. It’ll probably be fine.

With all the detritus flying hither and yon, it’s a good thing most labs have a rule about wearing goggles. Put them on. I don’t care if they mess up your hair. Hair should be pulled back in the lab anyway, lest a rogue Bunsen burner singe it off right to your very scalp. That’d be bad, because burning hair smells terrible! So wise up, baldy. We’re talking about protecting your precious, precious eyes! Since when have scientists been concerned with style, anyway? Goggles are very important! I mean, I don’t wear ‘em, but they are. The scariest thing I work with is dye. Besides, the elastic strap musses my hair and makes me look nerdy.

Should you manage to get something in your eye, there are eyewash stations at many sinks in the lab. When on, the eyewash directs the water from the faucet into two streams of water that can be used to clean your eyes, much like those golf ball cleaners at mini-golf places. But if you need that much cleaning, it could be an indication if improper eye usage. But eyewashes are good for washing chemicals out of eyes. Unless of course you’re wearing contact lenses, in which case your only recourse is to melon ball your eyes out lest the liquid trapped beneath the lenses eats through your corneas like so much tissue paper. Isn’t science fun? Eyewashes are also helpful to leave on, so when someone tries to wash a beaker, the water streams immediately soak the entire front half of their body. People can’t get mad at accident preparedness! Well, maybe they can. No running in the lab, you two!

There’s also a shower, in case you work real hard on an experiment and you’re all sweaty and gross and your lab partner doesn’t want to sit next to you anymore. I think. The only time I ever saw them used was during the first few days of a science class when we could usually talk the teacher into demonstrating how they worked. I remember being impressed by how well the shower shot water everywhere, and effectively wasted half of class while the teacher would squeegee the floor. Don’t never say my high school education never got me nowhere.

Another oft-covered topic is pipetting. As a quick refresher, a pipette is like a really precise turkey baster, and also what I work with. Er, along with several top-secret projects that frankly, I’d love to talk about but can’t due to the binding legalities of my contract being strictly confidential and what-not. Suffice it to say I don’t just work with pipettes. I am not a one-trick pipetting pony. Really. Where was I going with this? Surely not calling into question the mental stimulation quotient of my current job. Oh- pipettes. They usually come with a bulb (much like the aforementioned baster) or a dial or a cool battery powered suction thing I saw recently. But perhaps I’ve exposed my inner nerd and said too much. Anyway, we were always harped upon to not pipette by mouth! Don’t do it! I know that’s how we used to do it back in the day, but we were fools! FOOLS! Now where’s my novelty beaker glass full of ambiguously colored beverage?

The reasons for this rule are quite obvious in my mind. In the lab, we deal with some very caustic liquids, like concentrated acids and bases or Kool-Aid with two scoops of powder instead of one. Mouth pipetting can lead to accidental ingestion. And what if it turns out you really like the taste of nitric acid, and you can’t get enough of it? So you drink the whole class supply and we don’t have any left to do our experiments? So why don’t you quit thinking about yourself for once? And don’t think Tums are gonna do anything for the acid reflux you’ll get. You’re on your own there, bucko.

There are also lots of rules about clothing, and these work together to keep the scientists of the world looking as dowdy as possible. Think about it: lab coats, no open-toe shoes, hair back, gloves, goggles... smart is sexy, folks, but it’s hard to tell underneath all that nerd accoutrement. And we can’t have all the scientists running off to go clubbing with the beautiful people of the world! There are diseases to be cured! Phenomena to be investigated! Animals to be shrunk!

So what have we learned here today, kids? Safety first! Unless you’ve got a really good idea involving fire or liquid nitrogen. Well, try make safety is in the top ten, at least- somewhere after pyrotechnic difficulty and aesthetics. Y’all have fun with science, now. Ya hear?

Jelly Belly Flavors I'd Vote Off the Island (and Flavors I'd Be as Likely to Eat)

2004-04-27T08:16:00.000-05:00

1. Coconut - Mothballs
2. Cafe Latte - Mississippi River water
3. Cappuchino - Cockroaches with amoebic dysentary
4. Jalapeno - Monkey armpit, lightly sauteed
5. Cinnamon (Sizzling or otherwise) - Sulfuric acid
6. Black - Evil
7. Top Banana - Slug
8. Bubblegum - What is this? "I like the taste of gum... but not the commitment?" No.
9. Lemon (Drop) - Urea
10. Buttered Popcorn - Respiratory failure

Rose-Colored Lab Goggles

2004-04-23T20:39:00.000-05:00

I’ve been realizing that a lot of my articles highlight the negative aspects of my job. So to avoid, or at least take a break from, being called a cynic, I've decided to dial down the negativity and take a look at the good aspects of my job. Okay- engaging happy thoughts, because if I don't something soon, insanity is pretty much inevitable.

The first benefit would be the music. After the first few days of being bored to tears while working with a coworker who refused to play a game with me (refused! Who says no to a game?) I began to notice that lots of people were wearing headphones. Judging by their cube decor, it was probably either Björk, Japanese pop or audio from a surgical procedure performed without anesthetic. Seriously, they're weirdos. And not in the 'quirky' sense. Like, in the 'the F.B.I. should be monitoring you' sense. I've been avoiding the software area for a reason.

Once the construction started my mind was made up: given the choice between severe hearing loss from loud music and ruptured eardrums due to percussion-oriented construction, I chose music. And since I have it playing all day, non-stop, it's kind of like I’m in a movie, and it’s my soundtrack. Makes it seem less lame when all I'm doing is walking to the bathroom or entering data into a spreadsheet. Or AM I? Cuz it sure sounds like I'm sneaking into a top-secret facility disguised as a bathroom after weaving the correct path (by memory alone, mind you) through a laser maze. And then hacking into some top-secret files that have been encoded to look like spreadsheets. Had you fooled, I see.

On a related note, my job is a great setting for imaginary work settings. I mean, do you have any idea of how many insidious things can go on in a lab? I friggin' do. My imagination has been seeded with all the possibilities that mad science has to offer. Really, think about it. I watch X-Files. I know what's going on. Cloning, hybrid creatures, alien technology, super humanoids, new versions of computer solitaire... And while we’re on the subject, I'd like to extend a heartfelt thanks to all the mad scientists who are as dedicated to their inane causes as they are short on test subjects, forcing them to experiment on themselves. Way to take one for the team and fuel countless movies as well as my imagination. Because when you work in a regular office, what illicit behind-the-scenes drama can there be? Insider trading? Embezzlement? An office supply pilferer? Tame, when compared to the imagined violations of nature that can occur in a lab. And now that the applications lab has been moved to a new section, it has done nothing to assuage my suspicions. In fact, it has all but confirmed them. Obviously I got too close to the truth. Now to figure out what theory they're afraid of me knowing.

Another good part of my job is that I don't have to deal with people who assume that I know that they'll want the hideous plastic reindeer they're purchasing in a box, and brat to my manager when I don't put it in one. Even though you never asked, jerk. Or explain to women that I, in fact, can't offer them a lower price when they don't think a pair of baby pants is $22 worth of cute. In short, I don't have to be on the 'retail worker' side of the sales industry ever again. And I think we can all breathe (and shop) a little easier for that. If I never see someone drop $1,500 on ornaments again, it'll be too soon.

We're also on a bad power grid, so the power goes out rather frequently. This may sound like a bad thing. It isn't. Reason one: I can't work without power. But I do get paid without power. Reason two: Darkness only ramps up my willingness to believe my own crazy theories. Sitting in a dark warehouse lit only by blinking LEDs? Scary. Sitting in a dark warehouse where it's quite likely that an artificially created lab mutant has escaped from its cage because the deadbolts can’t lock without electricity (similar to that scene in Jurassic Park, but not to the point of copyright infringement) and now it's skulking in the dark, as mutants are wont to do, thirsting for the taste of some obscure internal organ secretion, as mutants are also wont to do? Petrifying. Almost as scary as run-on sentences.

Some other things I like about my job not worthy of a full paragraph by themselves? Glad you asked. I get to wear jeans everyday. I have loads of 'down time' to use the Internet and write. I can get pens out of the supply cabinet whenever I want them. The floors are made of Nerf, and shoes are optional - unless you have gross feet. Also, once you work here for a week, you receive a free cubicle kitten. Naptime is from 1:00 to 3:00 pm. Massage chairs are standard issue. We have the top-secret version of Windows that never crashes, and the only way into and out of meeting rooms are twisty slides into ball pits. Driving home, eating dinner and going to bed count as payable overtime. Employees are exempt from split ends and halitosis. Geese don't attack me in the parking lot and there's no creepy guy in software with a poem about babies with rabies hanging on his cubicle. Yahoo!

So this has been an interesting look at my job from this new 'the beaker is half full' perspective. See what I did there? I put a scientific nerd-spin on the classic optimism/pessimism... never mind. I see how it is. Maybe next week I'll write about how science isn't funny and how I'm just working with what I have, people. Come on.

Ten Habits of Highly Annoying People

2004-04-20T08:45:00.000-05:00

1. Writing out ‘Mr.’ as ‘Mister,’ unless you’re an early 19th century British orphan
2. Driving a pickup truck
3. Talking like a helium-voiced baby all the time
4. Being a happy morning person
5. Putting the WebBlocker on my computer at work
6. Working for, appearing on or religiously watching the WB network
7. Not writing me back
8. Being a Spice Girl
9. Having a faint but lingering scent of human bile
10. Dancing to ‘Pump Up the Jam’ in the Target entertainment section

Excitement, Cubed

2004-04-15T12:38:00.001-05:00

I'm constantly looking for ways to make my job more exciting. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that spending hours wrapping a piece of string around a small to medium sized rock would be, depending on the color of the string and the strength of the Euro, more exciting than my current job (tm They Might Be Giants). But I don't get paid to wrap rocks with string. And no, now that you mention it, I don't get paid to write this during work hours, either, but I- hey. Mind your own business.

So the other day while I was in my cube-shaped employee freshness container, subjecting my poor, unsuspecting brain cells to Microsoft Excel-induced torture, I started thinking about the cubicle. Mostly about how the potential for this extremely variable medium has been overlooked in the petty interest of corporate productivity. Normal cubicle setup has got to be the most unimaginative layout possible. Squares. There's a reason all the hepcats called the boring people 'squares' during the fifties. (And if it wasn't the fifties, it was some other era I wasn't alive for and about which I know only what the Back to the Future movies have taught me). They called 'em squares because the square is the most contemptible of all the geometric figures, the only possible exception being the line segment (source: This Century's Most Influential Geometric Configurations, by Edward Q. Schnellar). There's so many more exciting shapes out there! Give me a parallelogram any day of the week. Or an acute triangle.

Adhering to the standard cubicle structure may be practical, but it sure is boring. I think a strong case can be made for secret cut-throughs, specialized cubicle areas, and a general labyrinth-esque layout. I intend to make that case, so that at the very least my daydreams can be realized on paper. I'm pretty sure no one will help me reconfigure an entire office based on my whim. Spoilsports.

Now, I'm a reasonably tall person. Abnormally tall, according to some. You know who you are. Jerks. Short jerks. The cubicle wall hits me at approximately my nose. And by 'hits' I mean 'is about as tall as.' I don't mean to imply that I have to deal with abusive, anthropomorphic walls that lash out at my face regularly. Nor do I mean that I am clumsy and run into them. Look, I should have just said that the walls are about five and a half feet tall. But I digress. My height allows me to look out over the realm of Cubicleland to see the stuffed chicken someone keeps on their top shelf and the ten other people whose heads extend into the stratosphere of Cubicleland. Handy when I'm looking for someone, kind of awkward to hunch if I'm avoiding someone. Not that I've created enemies at work, or anything like that, but these secretaries will talk your ear off if they catch you. I'm just sayin'.

Secret cut-throughs are a simple way of improving everything, with no exceptions, and don't try to tell me otherwise. My current location leaves my secret cut-through options limited. Option One: I can have covert access to the copy and fax cubicle. Any possible benefit is offset by the fact that the door to this area is only about two feet away from my own door. And also by the fact that it's a copier. I was over being excited about Xerox machines after I copied my face in third grade. Moving on. Option Two is to have a door to the secretary's cube. This idea earns a coveted spot in the 'thanks but no thanks' category. Doing anything to facilitate the passage of sound from her airspace to mine could result in violence by way of me lobbing items of increasing mass over what little wall does separate us. But even if the secret cut-through option isn't an option for me now, that doesn't mean it won't be utilized in my overall imaginary cubicle design. Secret cut-throughs could increase employee cooperation, decrease travel time and would really come in handy should an impromptu game of Capture the Flag break out.

On to layout. Although a loose basis for this idea, the movie Labyrinth used to scare the crap out of me. Muppets are supposed to be cuddly and funny creatures, not baby-stealing evil myrmidons. Oh, and if there's any thing creepier than David Bowie singing while strutting through an op-art come to life while wearing those, uh, "pants," then please don't tell me what it is, lest my mind break into a thousand shining pieces and I careen into madness. The idea of the labyrinth itself has inspired my own maze, which I have dubbed Cubarynth, from the Latin for 'friggin' awesome.' Forget about clear-cut perpendicular hallways. I'm talking about twisted corridors, countless dead ends and a mythical creature or two that I'll have the folks in the lab whip up. I'm hoping for a unicorn and a gryphon, but I'd settle for a couple of centuars.

There’ll be prizes for the first one through, and to confuse matters, the walls could move, guided by my patented random-Cubarynth generating software. Complete with people-sensing lasers so no one gets smooshed. Come on, I'm a weirdo with an overactive imagination, not a sadist. The secret tunnels we went over earlier would factor in greatly here, as would specialized cubicle areas.

Now, when I say 'specialized cubicle areas,' I don't mean copiers and fax machines and mailboxes. How boring. I was actually thinking of 'specialized' referring to something more along the lines of ice-skating and various kinds of ethnic foodstuffs. Also, I'd like to request a lofted cube with a roof so I can run a space heater to thaw my fingers out a little bit. And maybe a fourth wall, if it’s not too much trouble. As a temp, I only warrant three and one-fifth walls. It's not like I'm doing anything illicit (most of the time) or am even in there for more than an hour a day. Half a wall, people. That's all I ask for. Or I'm gonna put up a sign that reads "Lisa - captured from unemployment Jan '04. Enjoys butterscotch pudding, hooded sweatshirts and shiny objects. Please do not tap on the glass.”

But back to specialized cubicles. Once my labyrinth superstructure is complete, they will form both a rewards system and places to take a break when participants get tired of the rat race. So to speak. Other possibilities include a smoothie bar, a petting zoo and libraries. I'd like to work in one cubicle where the entire floor is an old-school Nintendo Power Pad, if at all possible. A ball pit would be nice, as would a salt-water fish tank. As long as I don't have to clean it.

Yeah, I'd take Cubicleland to a whole new level. Where once there was mind-numbing spreadsheets and echoing empty keyboard tapping, there shall spring forth a new era of clandestine tunnels and confusing mazes. But more on the 'Wow, this place doesn't suck' end of the spectrum than the 'Looks like Chuck E. Cheese had a going-out-of-business sale' end.

Perhaps you're beginning to get the impression that I am not cut out for a life of cubes, what with my constant attempts to imagine a world where my job doesn't suck as much as it does now. That I would perhaps be better off choosing a different path. The path of, say, an eccentric billionaire, who came into her money under mysterious circumstances, but everyone’s cool with that, and they indulge any weird tendencies she may or may not have. And they all want to be her friend, but not because of the money, it's be because of her winning personality. And also she's married to Orlando Bloom. And she never has to do laundry and her cats don't throw up quite as much as they do now. And dibs on the Orlando Bloom part.

Until then, I’m working on it. For all you know, this job could be step one of my billion dollar mysterious circumstances. Shh.

Ten Non-Work Things I Do at Work

2004-04-13T09:16:00.000-05:00

1. Write emails
2. Run a moderately successful pony-ride company
3. Work on my breakdancing moves
4. Crossword puzzles
5. Wonder how you can get an online degree in Nursing
6. Stare thoughtfully
7. Debate if overtime is worth it today
8. Hope I never have to get treated by an online trained nurse
9. Switch keyboard keys around
10. This

So, Anyway...

2004-04-08T12:52:00.000-05:00

On my drive to work - and on my way home as well, oddly enough - there is a huge, confusing pile of dirt just off of the highway. It’s not the fact that the dirt is there that puzzles me. Large, random piles of dirt are consistent with and even necessary to Indiana’s unofficial motto of ‘Build Where You Land, ‘Cuz Subdivisionness Is Next To Godliness!’ It’s not even the sheer size of the mound, although it is about four stories tall and roughly the same area as a football field. That makes me wonder, but more along the lines of “Who’s building an underground lair, is it evil, and how do I get me an invite?”

I could get past all this and ignore the mystery dirt if it weren’t for one glaring abnormality: there is a plane resting atop this urban alp. It’s as if the pilot was flying along, noticed the dirt and pressed the button for ‘mountaintop invulnerability,’ but it failed to engage. Whoops! I hate it when that happens. No, that can’t be right. The plane isn’t damaged in any way. It looks like it was put there. But that implies intent and meaning and other things that I don’t see. But that’s not all, because next we come to the proverbial cherry of bewilderment on this hot fudge sundae of confusion: the sign on the mountain right beneath the tail of the plane. Logical sign text might include “Yeah, it’s dirt” or “For Sale: One Plane, slightly used” or “Why are you looking up here? Keep your eyes on the road.” This sign, however, says in large red letters: PUBLIC WELCOME. Welcome to what? I’ve never seen any public there, unless ‘bulldozer’ is now a synonym for ‘general public.’

Maybe there’s something really amazing on the other side of the dirt, like an interdimensional portal to CareBear land or free pony rides. Or just more dirt, which seems the most likely. I really don’t know, and further investigation is impossible because as I mentioned earlier, I’m driving. One must pay attention when driving, and this is especially true in the city of Indianapolis, where the DMV declares themed driving days and tells everyone but me. I don’t know how to get on the mailing list to know when it’s going to be French Connection day, but I’d like to find out. Just the other day it was, evidently, Rev’n Screech! Day. Truckers have their Bring Your Blind Dog To Work And Sure, Let It Drive And Feel Free To Take A Nap Or Something Because You Can Be Ding-Danged Sure Everything Will Go Just Fine Day. Other popular days include Last One To The Fast Lane Is A Rotten Egg and Rain Has No Bearing On My Driving Ability Day, weather permitting, of course.

I find the horn to be such an imprecise method of voicing my extreme disenchantment with theme day participants. ‘Beep’ really doesn’t express just how strongly I feel that perhaps the fifteen-passenger van with a partially completed game of ladder-Jenga on its roof doesn’t belong in the fast lane. Or that I wasn’t leaving room for you to cut me off, actually you just invaded my ‘bubble of safety,’ a procedure I adopted soon after the last Rev’n Screech! Day.

Hey, Rev’n Screech! sounds like Reverend Screech. Whatever happened to Dustin Diamond? I suppose he could be a clergyman now, I can’t imagine there’s too much work for a guy who was and will always be Screech Powers. But enough about Screech.

No, wait. I just did some digging on Dustin Neil Diamond. Yes. His middle name is Neil. Yahoo for parents who are either huge fans of ‘Sweet Caroline’ or just have really sick, twisted senses of humor. Also, he dated Candace Cameron. That’s right, Screech dated DJ Tanner. What?! Dude, don’t be mixing up my beloved sitcom worlds like that! Come on, Bayside is about 300 miles away from San Francisco, anyway. On a related note, which would be sadder: looking that up to see if dating would have been plausible, or knowing it already because you think about sitcom conglomeration regularly? I had to look it up, for what it’s worth. But really, let’s not even go there. Next thing you know, there’ll be bizarre crossovers like Angela Bower leaving Tony Micelli to marry Danny Tanner, and Officer Carl Winslow busting JT Lambert for some hijink or another. And they can appear in Uncle Phil’s court for the hearing. No- I won’t go down that path. That way, madness lies.

So anyway. Weird stuff on the road. Later on my daily journey, we come to the giant sculptures. I call them sculptures, because I don’t know what else to call a 20-foot tall hammer and sickle-esque objet d’arte. Or why someone would have it in their backyard. Or any of it’s nightmare inducing bretheren, for that matter – giant French carnies? Why, I ask you, why? Then again, maybe it’s not a backyard. I suppose it could be a park. Or an invisible modern art museum. What else could explain the giant metal segmented insect carcass and the oversized immobile slingshot next to the yellow Communist pillar?

At least I can be fairly certain those monuments exist. I've been known to see things that, strictly speaking, don't exist. And I'm not talking about the Loch Ness Monster or George Clooney's acting ability. I haven’t managed to spot either of those, though not for lack of trying. An example, perhaps. Once when I was driving I saw an unidentified object on the road ahead. Having searched my mental image banks without finding a suitable match, I logically deduced that it was, in fact, a buffalo-headed man, come into existence through a curse, a leap in evolution, or perhaps the reemergence of a long-forgotten Egyptian god, the enigmatic Buffiris. Have I mentioned that it was dusk, when the sun plays tricks on your eyes? And that I have an overly active imagination?

That being said, I was mildly panicking and in the midst of plotting just how to escape this beast which would inevitably charge my car as I drove by. For that is the attack method favored by four out of five buffalo-headed men. I had decided on the 'evasion by means of undue clerity' technique. Basically I was gonna floor it and get the hell past this monstrosity. The advantage was clearly on my side; I mean, a buffalo head, by the laws of aerodynamics alone, is not built for speed. Surely I would emerge victorious with minimal damage to my paint job.

I approached as stealthily as one can in a large green SUV, and was preparing for the burst of speed when I realized that the buffalo-headed man was actually one of my neighbors riding a horse. I know, I can't explain it either. I blame the early evening sunlight filtered through the surrounding trees and the ancient god Buffiris wished to remain incognito. In any case, I floored it so as not to waste the adrenaline that was already pumping through my system and managed to escape the shapeshifting equestrian unscathed. I forget where I was going with that.

But anyway as I'm typing this, I'm realizing how absolutely disgusting this keyboard is. It's covered in caked on I-don't-want-to-know-what. Seriously, it looks like someone did some X-treem keyboardin' over at the public dirt pile to the point where I don't even like to touch the thing. In a misdirected attempt at retaliation, I've decided to move some of the keys around. Ha. Now I feel superior to all those unfamiliar with the home row.

Man, it's hard to end these 'let's see where this thought leads' writings. So in the interest of motley continuity, I'll sum up in with a limerick, undeniably the noblest of poetic forms.

On the road the distractions abound
What with bisontine gods running 'round
This keyboard needs bleach
And what happened to Screech?
Help yourself to the pinko dirt mound.

And as an added note, limerics are harder to write than I initially thought. That one can count for the time I was actually in Limerick for an entire hour, and much to my chagrin, I couldn't come up with an original limerick to save my life. Count it.

Ten Lab-Related Jobs More Exciting than Mine

2004-04-05T14:22:00.000-05:00

10. Cloning dinosaurs
9. Working in a bar that serves shots in test tubes
8. Glassware cleaner (the person, not the liquid)
7. Hospital lab, because grossed out is better than bored
6. Glassware cleaner (the liquid, not the person)
5. Breeding Lab puppies
4. Level 5 CDC, Hazmat suit required
3. Mad science, any branch
2. An actual lab rat
1. Any job on C.S.I.

Beware of Rabid Badgers...

2004-03-25T22:33:00.000-05:00

I used to think senior awards superlative awards were a farce. This stems mainly from high school awards. I don’t want to turn this into a bitter diatribe about cliques a la The Breakfast Club, but a blonde wearing an occasional feather boa does not a best-dressed senior make. I didn’t vote for her, and I don’t know anyone who did. But I digress. So when I found out that colleges, well, at least Valpo, held such a contest, I was surprised. Why, I wondered, would an institution of higher learning feel the need to hold such an empty popularity contest? I thought that right up til I friggin’ won one! Yeah, funny how that’ll change your whole perspective on stuff like that.

“Mom, I won a senior award,” I said gleefully on the phone later that week. “There were categories like ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ and ‘Smartest,’ but I won ‘Funniest!’” I said, thus demonstrating why I had won. “That’s nice, Lis. Those other ones would have been good to win, too though,” she said dryly. Ha, ha. Hey, wait a minute.

Even before this title was bestowed upon me from on high, there’s been an implied obligation that comes with being the resident comic relief. For instance, I have one friend in particular who promotes this obligation at any and every opportunity. “This is my funny friend Lisa,” she’ll say when introducing me to people, animals and houseplants. “She’s so funny! Say something funny, Lisa, and validate your existence.” Unfortunately, this is the exact combination of words that invokes an ancient gypsy curse placed upon me years ago. It caused the sections of my brain that control speech to seize up, allowing me to only emit monosyllabic noises that cannot, in a technical sense, be considered words and cannot in any sense at all be considered funny.

This, understandably, is a bit frustrating. So in lieu of avoiding this person and at the risk of not being able to put it together again, I’ve decided to dissect my sense of humor a little bit, until I figure out how it works, or at least until I think of something funnier to write about.

A lot of being funny, just like in magic, is misdirection. People expect you to say one thing, and instead you yell ‘Shazaam!’ and make the Statue of Liberty disappear. Oh, wait. I think that is magic. Hmm. I’ll get back to that. Anyway, another part of humor is the ‘Rule of Three.’ I don’t know if it’s really called that, if it’s called anything at all. An old Indian guide told it to me when I was bumming around Arizona for a few years trying to find myself. Or maybe I heard it on Nick at Nite during a special about Bewitched. Either way, here’s how it works. Basically, you need to be listing something off. Make the first two items on the list relatively normal, lulling your reader and/or listener into a false sense of security, and then whack them with something completely ludicrous! Big laughs if you set it up right. You can use it when conversing with your family, friends or schizophrenic head-voices. See how I slipped that in there? Simple, really.

Masterful techniques aside, some things are just funnier than others. This ‘humor quotient’ cannot be quantified, strictly speaking. It takes an experienced comic eye to spot. Sleep deprivation and certain over-the-counter cold medications might do in a pinch. For example- howler monkeys and llamas are funny, sloths and paralyzed puppies are not. Knock-knock jokes are funny, but anyone who knows my mother can tell you that drug jokes aren’t. Airplanes, as evidenced by every single stand-up comedian’s routine ever, are funny; while submarines and trolley cars generally are not. Some of these distinctions can only be learned by trial and error- error that is annoying and won’t let me alone. Learn from my mistakes: biologist haircuts and social workers are not funny. Yeah, it was news to me, too.

I think I’ll end my first lecture on the fundamentals of funny there, hopefully giving you an understanding of the complex inner workings of humor, and thus why I freeze up when put on the spot in the aforementioned situation. Maybe I should have a stock response on hand. Or a miniaturized copy of my ‘Funniest Senior’ certificate to display like an FBI badge. Or a rabid badger to toss at anyone involved in that conversation, giving me a chance to escape or think up a legitimate funny response. Heh, heh. Say something funny, Lisa.

Thumbs Down, Nature

2004-03-21T01:18:00.000-05:00

I think we can all agree that for the most part, most available features on the human body turned out all right. Thumbs, for example. Without thumbs, we would live in quite a different world. Artists would have no way to hold their palettes, Roger Ebert would have no way to rate movies, and thumb wars would only be discussed theoretically. There’d be no spaces between words- how would you hit the space bar? Clearly a world without thumbs is one of confusion and fear. Seeing the simple genius of the thumb might lead one to infer that all human features would exhibit such flawless design. But you’d be wrong. There seem to be quite a few pointless extras included in the “person package.”

I present exhibit A: the blush. It has been said that no one can embarrass you unless you let them. This helpful piece of advice speaks volumes about self-esteem and assurance, and was obviously said by someone who never attended middle school. What is unfortunate about this quote is that you can’t tell it to the blood vessels in your face. No matter how nonchalant you may appear about, say, walking into a freshly cleaned glass door or continuing to sing even though the music has long-since stopped, your face emits a glowing testament to what you’re really feeling. What’s the point of blushing? It seems like this is a practice that would have been stopped a long time ago.

Blushing seems, at least to me, to be one of the most pointless activities we as humans can partake in. You might think that this is inspired by a recent embarrassing experience. To this I say, shut up and stop looking at me. No, just kidding. I can only assure you that it was not inspired by anything that happened lately. And it’s not like I don’t do embarrassing things. I do extremely embarrassing things all the time. I have plenty of embarrassing stories, and that’s only counting the ones that I’m not repressing. I’ve done the classic favorite ‘make fun of your professor for something he said in class, not realize that he’s standing right behind you.’ I told all my friends I was going in for my driver’s test, and then promptly failed it. Then, another time, I was at a summer resort with my family, and I snuck up to the staff quarters with a guy who worked there. He introduced me to the head dance instructor, and all I could say was “I carried a watermelon.” Aah! I could have died! Well, I’m pretty sure that two of them are my experiences. The last one might be a scene from Dirty Dancing.

But this wasn’t inspired by any event in particular, other than me watching X-Men recently. Which did get me thinking: how did we end up with the standard response to embarrassment being that your face turns red? I’ve got a suggestion. Instead of turning red, how about… instant camouflage? So, for instance, you’re traveling in Scotland. Unaware of the prevalence of kilts, you make an offhand comment involving transvestites and a pleasing Tartan plaid. Instead of being well received, your comment draws the scornful attention of the surrounding Scots. How embarrassing! Luckily, with your newly evolved blushing abilities, you quickly blend into the surrounding ocean of plaid. No harm, no foul. And when your humiliation fades and you become visible again, surely your comment would have been forgotten. And if not, England’s a beautiful country. Head there for a while.

Now about crying. What possible purpose could eye seepage have in relation to feelings of sadness or happiness? In my experience, it has only served to let everyone sitting near me know that I, for one, think the end of the movie is very sad, even though I’ve seen it before and I’ve read the book. I will admit that tears are helpful if you get something stuck in your eye, such as a piece of dust or a finger. Not a piece of a finger. If you have pieces of finger in your eye, I don’t think tears are going to help you. I’ve thought of an alternative for tears. Whenever you start crying, your tear ducts would emit both tears… and tear gas. That way everyone can share in the beautiful emotion that you’re experiencing. Who’s laughing now?

Another thing I don’t understand is fainting. Back in the day fainting, or swooning, was all the rage. All the cool kids were doing it. Just about anything could be used as an excuse for fainting, too. Heat, danger, a scandalous situation, small mammals, Elvis- all were acceptable reasons to lose consciousness and slump lifelessly to the floor. Real good defense mechanism, Nature. Bravo. Nowadays people mostly faint due to pain or gore. Now, pain I can understand. That’s your own natural anesthetic. But gore? Perhaps I should clarify. By ‘gore’ I mean blood and guts, not the former vice president. Well, maybe Al Gore makes some people faint. Be careful, though, because ‘fainting’ and ‘boredom induced narcolepsy’ can look remarkably similar. Back to gore, though, what good does fainting do? Sure, you can’t see it anymore. But you’ll wake up and see it and faint all over again, creating a vicious circle. I think a better reaction would be a feeling of nausea, or maybe a sudden urge to get a mop and clean up. Or both, for that matter. Someone’s going to have to clean that up.

On the whole, we’re doin’ okay. We got our thumbs, like I mentioned earlier. Eyeballs and livers are some other successes that spring to mind. And that whole inner ear balance thing- whoa- my commendations, because I never could have figured that out. As a final suggestion, instead of foot odor, how about mental telepathy? And telekinesis? And metal claws that spring from between my knuckles? I may have to wait a while for that one. In the meantime, maybe I’ll watch X-Men again. Roger Ebert may have given it a thumbs down, but what does he know? As far as I’m concerned, he’s taking those thumbs of his for granted. Pointing them up and down all willy-nilly. You’d better appreciate your thumbs- who knows what you could have ended up with?

Bored of the Dance

2004-03-11T22:37:00.000-05:00

I recently had the opportunity to attend a statewide high school dance competition. And by ‘had the opportunity to attend,’ I mean ‘was strongly encouraged due to sisterly bonds pointed out by my mother and thus decided, possibly under duress, to attend.’ It was like being an extra in ‘Bring It On,’ something I never wanted and still don’t want to do. I learned a lot, and I’d like to take you along to explore the seamy underbelly of the high school dance association.

The competition was held at a local high school, which serves a dual purpose: to remind spectators how glad they are that high school is over and to reemphasize just how absolutely and totally bleachers suck. I developed an acute case of bleacher butt syndrome, or as it is known in the medical community, BBS, to gain this data. I’m not trying to add import or a sense of validity to the account that follows. Yes, I am. It’s all true because I suffered for it. And any mental anguish from the BBS in no way influenced my final opinion regarding dance in general. Pinky swear.

I realized that as an audience member, I was fulfilling an almost sacred bond. Audiences are important because they watch the dancers. If a dancer dances in a gym and no one is around to watch, will he or she still have an unnaturally large smile on his or her face? It’s a philosophical question that has plagued our society since the beginning of time. Audience members are also important because they yell. Not words, necessarily, just noise. Why? It’s anybody’s guess. I was there, and I couldn’t find any discernable pattern. This particular audience seemed to favor kick lines, rows of spinning and any males doing anything dance related at all. Seriously, the mere sight of a high school boy in a leotard and these people could have out-noised a DC-10 jet engine. And I was lucky enough to be a part of this seething mass of rabid family members, some of whom even had shirts declaring how they were related to a particular dancer: ‘Kasey’s Dad,’ ‘Jenny’s Sister,’ ‘Trixie’s Half Cousin Twice Removed Through Marriage.’ I saw a woman wearing one that said ‘Lisa’s Mom.’ I nudged the Lisa’s mom who was sitting next to me and asked if she had been lying to me all these years. She shrugged, glanced nervously away and then quickly changed the subject. I’m still not sure how I should take that. Luckily, a leotarded prepubescent lad flounced onto the floor and any awkwardness dissolved into mindless screaming. Phew… dance saves families!

On to the aspects vital to a successful dance. From what I could tell, one of the most important aspects of a dance routine is the music. Therefore, it was also the loudest. Optimal volume will result in eardrum ruptures, so you can use aural bleeding as a sort of guideline. But before you can set the volume to the appropriate levels, you’ve got to choose the type of music. Here comes the fun! One possibility is to choose a single song. This song can be from any era, as long as it’s fast and loud. Feel free to pick and choose parts you like and then add enough bass to induce a heart murmur in anyone listening to it. You’re ready to go! If one song isn’t enough to encompass the full range of your obviously impressive dance vocabulary, you can create what’s known as a ‘mix.’ Creating a mix is a complicated process, but I’ll try to walk you through it. First, put a blank tape into your stereo. Next, turn on the radio and press the ‘scan’ button. Begin recording, and stop when you feel like it. Don’t worry if you catch some talk radio- the judges seem to like that. Especially if it’s a talk radio show about creepy and/or mechanical futuristic things. To finish off your mix, you’ll need to add some arbitrary audio clips (whips, birds, the Windows log on melody, etc.) and enough bass to induce a heart murmur in anyone listening to it. The final music option is an extremely popular one, so feel free to jump on this bandwagon. This method entails dancing to ‘Bring Me To Life’ by Evanescence. Yes, that’s it. We, as audience members, cannot hear that song too many times. Just make sure you add enough bass to induce a heart murmur and… well, you know.

Next, we’ll have to work on costumes. Costumes are critical, because they keep you from being naked when you perform. How far from naked you wish to be will factor into your costume choice. Some dancers evidently wanted to be naked quite badly, while others wanted to have skin made out of neon spandex. There was a huge variety, though, and to illustrate this I present the following two vignettes. (Vignette, of course, being French for ‘humorous description of what I saw.’) The first group danced to a Disney medley or something equally wholesome. They wore pink fluffy fairy outfits. If I were to choose a theme for their dance, it would be ‘we love puppies and pink chiffon and you! But mostly pink chiffon.”

The second group, on the other hand, wore black. “Well, what’s wrong with black? It’s slimming and chic and easily hides blood stains,” you say, assuming you are a homicidal maniac who is also into fashion. Well, I would reply, after backing to a safe distance, allow me to continue. Black is usually fine, except I think they ordered their costumes from the wardrobe department on the set of the Matrix, and were sure to ask for extra skank. Pleather, zippers and buckles. The theme to their dance, were I to assign one, would be ‘If you come near us we’ll kill you and then hack into the government and bring this country to its knees. But first we have to apply some more black lipstick.’ Very scary. And I’m sure their parents in audience were so proud.

Other costume highlights included some sassy little neon pink and orange numbers- I think the girls on that team were ambassadors who were competing on behalf of 1983. Another group looked like their costumes were made out of fire, apparently they went shopping in Hell to find them… and there was a sale. Basically, your costume choice can be based on lots of factors, including your music, dance moves and whether or not you want me to think you’re a whore.

I suppose another important aspect of the dance would be the actual dancing. Now, aside from a few years of tap starting when I was seven, I freely admit my utter dance ignorance. Even then, I didn’t know all the feet parts and my teacher put me in the back. As it turns out, the ‘feet part’ is rather important in tap dancing. Who knew? But dance teams aren’t about tapping. They’re more on the leaping-wiggling-jumping-and-landing-on-your-pelvis end of the spectrum. But I can tell you what I saw, in the hopes of helping you on to dance superstardom.

If you’re into tossing people, an activity which is usually frowned upon in say, a professional setting, the world of dance might be a good place to get that out of your system in a way that won’t end in litigation. Another group choreographed their dance according to the beliefs and teachings of Sir Mix-a-Lot. ‘We have butts,’ each of their dance moves proclaimed, and at the end of that dance, every single audience member was convinced… they did indeed have butts.

From what I can tell, you can pretty much turn anything into a dance move. “Hey guys, look! I call this one, ‘eating sushi!’” And then five minutes later, “I call this one, ‘I forgot I had a crippling seafood allergy!’” Feel free to get creative. Dance is, after all, life, if the hundreds of t-shirts being sold at the competition are to be believed.

I’ve got to be honest; I cut out long before the awards ceremony, having fulfilled my dance quota for the next thirty-odd years. As it turns out, there are a lotof dancers in Indiana. Perhaps they should consider seceding and forming their own state- of funk! You might think that’s a little extreme, but if so you obviously didn’t go to the competition. If you ever do get the chance… don’t. You’d be better off staying home and watching ‘Bring It On.’ At least then you don’t have to sit on bleachers, depending on your living room furniture, and you’ll have a mute button right there. Use it and be glad: you can slake the thirst for dance that burns within you without that pesky hearing damage.

Stalked by Electrostatic Discharge: A Day in the Life of Me

2004-03-04T13:39:00.001-05:00

There is a monster lurking in the laboratory where I work. This monster waits silently and patiently for an opportunity to strike. He has no glowing red eyes or any razor sharp teeth, no low warning growl to allow me to prepare for the ineluctable attack. He prowls the lab, randomly assailing the innocent. He is terrifying. He is treacherous. He is static electricity. Come on, now. Stop laughing- getting zapped hurts.

Allow me to set the scene in a less dramatic tone. The lab I work in is very dry. Your average desert, should you happen to have one, has about 10 to 20% humidity. We have to measure the humidity in the lab every day, and it’s a red-letter day if it reaches double digits. “Grab the ponchos!” we shout. “It’s like a rainforest in here!” No, we don’t. Working in a lab is serious business. One day I think the humid-o-meter in the lab will report a negative number. If that’s even possible. I think the air would instantly crystallize and come shattering to the ground. Or, if you set foot in the lab- what’s the polar opposite of drowning? That’s right, instant mummification. I haven’t found any scarab beetles on my person, so I’m pretty sure the humidity hasn’t gotten that low. It’s really dry in here, that’s all I’m saying, and a dry environment is the natural habitat of static electricity.

Another aspect of the lab that makes static electricity come a-runnin’ is that it’s partially carpeted. This is totally unnecessary, and could probably constitute cruel and unusual punishment. It’s equivalent to coating yourself in Shake’n’Bake before going swimming with Jaws. He’s gonna eat you whether you have a tasty, crispy coating or not. Might as well save yourself the trouble. Dropping that simile and moving on, the lab does provide us with shirts that are supposed to deflect static electricity. Uh, they don’t. It’s a nice idea, though. They look like button up football jerseys, but without the numbers. Maybe they thought numbers might encourage horseplay. “Hey, Bill- would you pass me that beaker of Ebola?” “Sure! Go long!” If you can’t tell, I don’t put much stock in these ineffectual pieces of clothing.

We do have an alternate weapon in the war against static electricity: the wrist strap. These are worn, not surprisingly, on your wrist, and keep you ‘grounded.’ Not grounded in the sense of ‘I can’t believe you shaved the cat’s tail again, you’re grounded.’ More along the lines of ‘I’ll be able to walk around without building up enough charge to jettison my teeth from my still-smoking gums when I touch the table again’ grounded. The wrist straps work pretty well, if you wear one. It’s the wearing that presents the problem, really. The strap is connected to the table with a coiled cord, so that when I wear it I feel like an unruly toddler wearing a kid-leash. It gives me an urge to eat sugar, demand a new toy, and then sweep everything off of the table in a temper tantrum. And it’s pretty much unavoidable that I knock something over while reaching for a plate, because I forget that I have a telephone cord attached to me. I feel Pinocchio’s pain.

Prior to discovering the wrist strap, I had developed my own ways to combat the zaps. Firstly, if you try to just avoid touching the metal, it will only end in tears, and static electricity will win every time. The charge will continue to build and when you finally do touch the metal, your hand will explode. It’s true; don’t question me. Initially, every time I returned to the table from other lab-related (or not, depending on my motivation level that day) activities I would slap the table in an effort to lessen the sting of the zap. For some reason, this hurts less than having the spark jump to your finger, which is comparable to having a tiny crowbar used to lift your fingernail like the hood of a car. I did this enough that it became a habit, which was good in the sense that I didn’t have to think about doing it before touching the table, but bad in the sense that it carried over to my everyday life. Normally static electricity isn’t a problem for me, yet out of habit I now slap everything I came into contact with. Not a slap that could be passed off as ‘whoops my depth perception’s a bit off and I misjudged the distance from my hand to that object.’ It was a definite girly slap, in the same vein as those performed while squealing “Icky! Get it away!” or “Oh, you!” This becomes an immediate problem when I need to touch something, which I have been doing quite regularly ever since I discovered I had opposable thumbs, because it is also accompanied by an involuntary wince. This applies to everything I touch on a fairly regular basis, including car doors, finger food, circus performers (don’t judge me), plants… the list goes on and on. It’s a recipe for disaster, really.

A little while ago I discovered that the demon zap also travels through clothing. So, in the interest of protecting my fingers, I’ve taken to hip checking the table every time I approach it. Fortunately, this habit has thus far remained in the lab. Let’s hope it stays there, or I’ll look even more like an escaped mental patient than I do now: wincing as I slap or hip check everything in sight. At least mental patients can blame these behaviors on the electroshock therapy.

Inevitably, this shocking will have some disastrous effect on me. One day, after the atoms in my body have lost and regained electrons one time too many, a critical charge will be reached. My cells will begin to morph, my body processes will be irreparably altered, and I will become… a comic book supervillian. That’s right, I’ve been looking into it. And as much as I’d like to be the hero rather than the villain, an individual imbued with static electricity-based powers seems more suited to evil rather than good. I mean, come on- ‘The Static Avenger’ is a lame name. ‘Protecting clothes from clinging socks and underwear in a major metropolitan area near you.’ Nuh-uh. Besides, the hero is always saddled with annoyances like morals, a conscience, an exploitable weak point and the traumatic death of a beloved family member. As an evil villain, I’d be entitled to witty banter, peons to do my bidding, a chance at world domination and a lair. A frickin’ lair! Mine would be great- I’m thinking inside a giant Van de Graff generator. And just between us, my weak point would be something totally unrelated to my power- like, a mild peanut allergy. Nothing so obvious as dryer sheets. So back off, Snuggle. What superhero would try to fight static electricity with peanuts? I’m totally set!

So I guess copious amounts of static electricity is a mixed blessing, albeit a little heavy-handed on the negative side. No pun intended. Sure, sometimes I feel like a monkey in some bizarre psychological button-pushing experiment where all of the buttons are electrified, even though he was told that one of them would yield a banana reward. Or another monkey-approved reward- Cheerios, kittens, Bobby McFerrin tapes- whatever. Static electricity has become both the bane of my existence and the catalyst for my villainous transformation. What it boils down to is this: no pain, no powers. So if I’m gonna get this transformation underway, I got me some slappin’ and shockin’ to do. And then (mwah hah hah hah hah) let the Battle of Electronegativity begin. Bring it on, Snuggle. Bring it on.

How to Succeed in Business By Someone Who Hasn't and Doesn't Really Want To

2004-02-26T23:15:00.000-05:00

I've been a quasi-member of the business world for almost two months now. I feel confident that this qualifies me to write, based solely on what I've seen and have by no means tested in any way, a comprehensive guide to the business practices of today. So if you desire to dominate in business, read on. I'll take you through the ins and outs of presentations, meetings and some other topics. Honestly, those are all I've thought of. But if I think of anything else, I'll be sure to tack it on to the end of this extensively researched and very well-written instruction manual to commerce.

First, I feel it is beneficial to the complete understanding of business to look at the word itself. Business. Look at it. Just sitting there. No, seriously. I meant we're going to look at the etymology of the word. Or perhaps the entomology... well, one of 'em means word studyin' and one of 'em means bug studyin'. I'll be leading the word one, but what you do on your own time is no concern of mine. So business- let's break it down. First, we've got 'bus.' Lots of people take buses to work in business. This isn't to say that a career in business doesn't pay well enough to let you buy a car. Maybe these people are concerned about the environment. Or, they really like meeting new people. Or maybe their son needed to borrow the car because he had a dentist appointment, at least he SAID he had a dentist appointment, he better have one, because if he gets arrested one more time, he can just stay in jail and maybe it'll teach him a less- but anyway. Public transportation. The second part of the word business is 'i.' It's a dog eat dog world out there, and I gotta look out for me. Or I, if it's you talking. I think you'll find my logic quite flawless and self-explanatory on this point, so we'll just press on. The last part of the word business is 'ness.' This harkens back to Loch Ness of Scotland. This lake may or may not be home to Nessie, a legendary aquatic animal. Business is like Nessie in three main ways. First, they both make a lot of money. Secondly, they both are very elusive. And thirdly, they both have flippers. Now that we have that cleared up, let's talk business.

One of the most integral parts of business today, I've noticed, is meetings. These meetings occur in specialized areas of the company known as meeting rooms. These rooms can be greatly varied; for example, the company I work at has one very technology-oriented meeting room. It has big screen televisions (yes, that's right, plural), projectors, surround sound and enough Internet hookups so that every participant can have upwards of eight computers. This is to facilitate teleconferences, supposedly. To this, I say, hey, howzabout I bring in some DVD's and we can teleconference with them while we do some online shopping on the company’s dime? No one gets hurt. Would all those with a strong work ethic please step forward? Not so fast, me. Other meeting rooms have a table and old, bad books. I don't mean 'bad books' as in a limited edition leather-bound copy of the Matrix: Reloaded script (I love you too damn much), nor do I mean graphic romance novels which prominently feature codpieces (no pun intended). I am normally a fan of books. But with titles like “Business: 1,000 Treatises on Micromanagement” and “Zen and the Art of Cubicle Organization,” these books were destined to die alone and unread on a shelf in a windowless meeting room. Perhaps they are meant only to spew the funk of good business practice into a room, much as an air freshener spreads the scent of flowers or vanilla. You're not gonna find out from me, because I'm not opening 'em.

Meetings themselves are available in several flavors as well. I am forced to participate in the 'weekly meeting.' During the weekly meeting, there is much Discussion. Items to be Discussed usually include ideas, papers and many other nouns. The use of multi-consonant acronyms to describe these nouns is greatly desirable. Vowels may be added only to form cutesy words out of the acronyms. These cutesy words cannot legally have anything to do with the words they are formed from, as that would facilitate 'understanding.' Notes should be taken, and a general idea of the status of something should be ascertained.

Another type of meeting I have been a part of is the Quarterly Meeting. (Insert thunder here to indicate importance of the Quarterly Meeting). As a temporary employee with a job length expectancy of 2-3 months, it was quite obviously important that I should attend this meeting, whose main topic was the five-year plan of the company. Presentations were given, speeches were made, soda and coffee were drunk by jerk co-workers who didn't tell me where the Quarterly Meetings was, so I got there too late to get a soda. Overall, though, the Quarterly Meeting was a success in my mind, and the reasons for this are fourfold. Firstly, I didn't have to pay attention. I'm sure employees should have some sort of concern about the state of their workplace; however I am both temporary and completely lacking any sort of work ethic. Secondly, they showed video of stuff exploding. You have to screw up the rest of a meeting pretty badly to give me a negative memory of a meeting where stuff was blown up, if you know what I'm sayin'. Thirdly, there was food afterwards. Also, the meeting was held during work hours. In an analogy to school, which is all I have known up until recently, any field trip is better than class. And I got paid to be at this thing. Thus, Quarterly Meetings are a-okay in my book.

Another important aspect of business is presentations. I have seen a few in my short time here, and I feel comfortable making broad, sweeping generalizations about all presentations based on that extremely limited exposure to them in a business setting. A running theme of successful presentations that I've seen was something of a surprise to me. Clip art. The transfer of knowledge is secondary to the propagation of as much clip art as is humanly possible. Exceptional use of extremely rare and unusual clip arts have led to promotions, knighthoods and quite possibly immortality, judging by the import placed upon these tiny, poorly rendered pictures. And it's not enough to merely have the clip art in your presentation: each clip art must be explained as thoroughly as possible. The explanations can state an obvious relationship between two nouns (i.e. "I put the clip art of the severed hand in my presentation about worker's comp- isn't it cute?") or a more abstracted metaphor (The wizard looking through the telescope represents our customers, searching for a good product. Our customers generally aren’t wizards- at least, not that I know of. And also, they probably don’t use telescopes unless it’s on a recreational basis…). The use of clip art is a highly respected art form and can make or break your business venture.

Finally, in order to have a successful business, you will need secretaries. There are many large misconceptions about secretaries. For one thing, secretaries are now called 'executive assistants.' Also, they do much more than answer phones and make coffee. Today, executive assistants talk about whatever reality TV show was on the night before and discuss private matters way too loudly as well as answer phones and make coffee. Your executive assistant, depending on the make and model, may create presentations (clip art included, don't worry!) and order food for Meetings (see previous section regarding Meetings). Executive assistants can also type at the speed of light, dial with deadly accuracy and organize reasonably well. I guess you don't really need executive assistants. But it's a useful position if, say, your kid sister needs a job real bad.

Now that you have the knowledge to take over the world of business, all you need is a power suit and a briefcase and you’ll be all set. And also, let me know if these tips work. I’m sure not going to use them- the business world starts too early. It’s really a shame… this beautiful collection of clip art is going to go to waste.

You Say Potato- And Nevermind What I Say. Savvy?

2004-02-21T00:07:00.000-05:00

Recently I went to Best Buy, or as I like to call it, "I Want Everything In This Store.” I had to buy a network adapter for my computer. As much as I pretend to know about computers, I didn't want to have to return to the store to return an adapter that was meant for an Australian koala-factory computer system, or something of that nature.

The computer section was abuzz with activity, occupying all of the usually rabid salespeople. With no one latching onto my throat until I agreed to a 54-inch and monitor and rust deflecting underbody coating for my CPU, I was left staring dumbly at a vast wall containing perhaps a billion boxes, give or take twenty. After about thirty seconds, I began to perform the dance of the passive-aggressive confused consumer, to the tune of 'I Don't Know What To Buy, Help Me.' It's catchy and has a good beat. Feel free to improvise; the basic movements are pretty standard. They include, but are not limited to thoughtful and/or confused stares, shuffling your feet, picking up a box, putting down a box. Lather, rinse and repeat until you have been helped.

After a few steps a friendly, computer knowledgeable sales guy approached me. "Can I help you?" he asked, ever so helpfully. I assured him that he could, and explained my quandary in the hopes that he would present me with simplified options- like talking to a toddler. "Milk or Kool-Aid?" translated into computer peripherals. He grabbed two boxes and held them out. "Well," he said, "this one is very simple to install, you just plug it in and you're ready to go. This other one, however, has to be installed inside the computer. It's probably for the more computer sway-vee." He continued speaking, but I stopped listening. He didn't really just say 'sway-vee,' did he? Surely I had misheard him. I turned my ears back on. "...So if you're not as computer sway-vee..." SWAY-VEE! He continued in earnest as I struggled to keep a straight face.

He meant savvy, I think. But somehow, he had gotten it mixed up with 'suave' (which really had no relevance to our conversation) and a healthy dose of training in hypothetical English pronunciation. It was as if he had been diligently studying a word-of-the-day calendar purchased from the misprinted 'as is' bin of a Merriam-Webster outlet mall. He must have said it about five more times, and I think more of myself as a person because I managed not to laugh. I purchased my non-computer sway-vee adapter and left in a state of mild disbelief.

Now, I don't mean to mock this kid. Okay, maybe I do. But when I sat down and thought about it, I realized that I pronounce things incorrectly all the time. So as a sort of penance for this online exposure of his ineptitudes, I offer up to the gods of grammar a few of my own faux pases. Faux pasii. Screw-ups.

In my experience, I've found it's best if you can keep these mutated pronunciations in your own head. For instance, one night while I was reading, I had a minor mental lapse. I came across a word spelled h-a-v-e, which I pronounced hay-ve. Shut up, it was late. In my mind, it rhymed with pave and save and I had never come across it before. "Hmm," my sleep deprived brain thought. "I don't know what that means." So I did what any rational person would do- I looked it up. Did I mention it was late? "H.... HA.... HAV... here we go, h-a-v-e. It means 'to be in possession of.' Oh, kind of like have-" I think it was at that point I decided that it was time for bed.

I've also butchered 'Des Moines.' Yes, I know you don't pronounce the s's. Now. Just kidding, I’ve known that for quite some time now. But when you're driving on unfamiliar highways and your trusty navigator can only stutter "uh, uh" when you ask what road you should be on and the exit is coming up and it's now OR NEVER... well, I think mispronouncing the name of a city is excusable. I got us there, didn't I? Besides, if you're en route to Iowa, you better start dumbing it down as soon as possible. Seriously. I think you know what I mean, Iowa.

Let's see... and these mistakes aren't limited to when I'm tired or rushed. Not by any means. After going to a movie, I read the word 'steak' to rhyme with 'peak.' That would have been fine- had I just shut up about it. "Hey," I asked, brazenly flaunting my stupidity. "Look at that- the password to the website is 'steek.' What the heck does that mean?" Sigh. The mockery ensued. And henceforth, Steak'n'Shake restaurants were known as Steek'n'Shake. Thanks, pals. That's what friends are for.

Okay, one more. Ever seen peacocks fly? Yeah. I hadn't either. So when I saw one fly off a roof at a zoo, I thought my family should share in this spectacle of nature. I ran over to them, shouting to alert them to the flight. "He's flewing! He's flewing!" I shouted. “He’s what-ing?” my family shouted in reply, completely ignoring the bird. And they still haven’t forgotten it. Yes, English is my first language.

So when I make fun of the Best Buy guy, it’s as a kindred spirit. We can’t all be pronunciation sway-vee.

Don’t Judge a Book by Her 3-Layer Thermal Underwear Cover

2004-02-12T12:30:00.000-05:00

Everyone knows it’s important to look professional when you’re a member of the working world. After all, you only get one chance to make a first impression. Furthermore, the clothes make the man. Or woman. Okay, I’m finished hurling clichés at you. I’m talkin’ about dress codes, man.

The summer after my sophomore year I worked at a Hallmark store. ‘Twas the summer of the paper cuts, as I lovingly remember it, and it’s really quite amazing that I didn’t end up with some sort of lethal greeting-induced blood infection. One time I cut myself on a ‘get well’ card… I almost choked on the irony of that. And I’m almost positive that approximately half of the smell receptors in my nose have been permanently disabled thanks to the candle room, a.k.a. Nasal Assault and Battery. What’s that you say? Nine hundred candles, each with scents strong enough to fill a warehouse, gathered together in a room with no ventilation? I like the way you think- make it so. [Insert evil laugh here].

The dress code at Hallmark was fairly straightforward: no flip-flops and no jeans. Since we were on our feet all day, either catering to or avoiding customers, depending on your individual sales technique, sneakers were the obvious choice for footwear. Slap on some khakis and a tee shirt to prepare for the inevitable air-conditioner breakdown and I was ready to go. We were also required to wear aprons. No, I don’t know why. Apparently a nametag with a brightly colored bow on it was not enough to indicate that I was, in fact, an employee.

On one hand, the aprons did have rather large pockets, which were useful for carrying small items that you needed or wanted to keep with you, i.e. stray greeting cards, jelly beans, hamsters. On the other hand, they were aprons. I was doing nothing related to getting dirty or baking. Although it would have been nice to have a wooden rolling pin to perform some durability testing on the countless ceramic figurines we sold. What? No, I didn’t leave Hallmark with any neuroses. Certainly not any involving collectable figurines [nervous tic] or the cretins who collect them.

My next place of regular employment was Kohl’s. This stint pretty much solidified my long-held conviction that I am not meant to work in retail. However, when you’re stuck in a small town for the summer, you gotta go where the cash is. And also where your roommate can give you a glowing recommendation. Kohl’s showed a whole training video about dress code, but when you deduct the bad writing and cheesy actors, it basically boiled down to no sneakers, no jeans and no sleeveless shirts. I worked at POS, which does not stand for what you think it does, although it should. POS stands for point of sale, and that means I was a cash register monkey for those of the non-retail persuasion.

Working at Kohl’s hot and boring, complete with angry customers, standing for eight hour stretches and minimal bathroom breaks: a lot like I imagine hell to be like. I got paid to be there, but that’s really the only difference that springs to mind. I understand the whole professional image thing, really I do. But when my job description is to stand behind a counter to be berated by customers who don’t want to pay twenty two dollars for a pair of cute baby overalls, what does it matter what I have on my feet? At least there were no aprons. And our nametags were upgradeable: you could earn different colors and stars based on positive customer comment cards. Yes, it was a psychological ploy straight out of kindergarten, but I fell for it. Sadly, I left Kohl’s with the same nametag with the same number of stars I started with: bronze plastic and zero. Yeah, I don’t know why either. Huh. I also left with my very own Kohl’s charge card and probably about half the money that I earned… these two facts may or may not be related. I left because as it turns out, “working at Kohl’s” and “taking organic chemistry” are mutually exclusive states of being. Thus ended my retail experience. I hope. I really, really hope.

Now that I’ve graduated from college and entered the real working world (at least on a temporary contract basis), I can report that dress codes thrive here as well. However, there is some leeway. For my interview, I played the young urban professional role. Apparently I didn’t screw anything up too badly, because here I am, employed. I wasn’t entirely sure of what to wear once I started working, so I played it safe with my good ol’ khakis and a sweater. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing either jeans or prom attire, so I went for the middle of the road and hoped I wouldn’t be flattened by the fashion police.

As it turns out, there’s sort of a caste system clothing spectrum here. At the ‘my boss’ level , people wear business casual. Traveling down to the other end of the scale, we come to the ‘lab rat’ category, which is where I fit in. If I had to categorize the attire that I see people in the lab wearing, the descriptive title would be ‘this is what I woke up in and/or found at my feet this morning.’ Pretty casual. For example, the guy who trained me generally wears basketball shorts and a tee shirt, as well as some lab shirt that is supposed to discourage static electricity but doesn’t.

I decided to ask him what the dress code was during one of our many periods of down time. He looked at me, slightly accusatorily, and then down at his outfit. “Why?” he asked. “Are you trying to tell me something?” I assured him that his dye-stained cotton shorts looked fine, and that I was just curious. And also that I figured I’d like his answer better than my Docker-clad boss’s. I did. His speech could be summed up in four words: wear pants and shoes. Beyond that, it apparently didn’t matter.

I had been wearing sweaters with two to three shirts underneath them. To say the lab is cold would have been an understatement back when they kept the doors to the outside closed. Now, though, the lab is under construction and doors are opened for half of the day. They must be building the new section out of ice blocks, because I can’t think of any other reason for it to be so cold. Let’s put it this way… if they made clothing that you could plug in, I would buy it and wear it, fire hazards and burn risks be damned. My new favorite accessory is my headphone ear muffs, which help to block out the frostbite and the noise – the construction workers have evidently signed a contract requiring them to work at a noise level of 140 decibels or higher.

Mostly I just follow my co-worker’s leads. The day I saw a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt was a very happy day- and possibly the beginning of the end. I’m just waiting for the green light to bring in a 100-foot extension cord and a space heater to wear around my neck. I don’t dress to impress. I dress to survive.

Mornings: My Arch Nemesis

2004-02-05T21:51:00.000-05:00

It’s official. After a seven-month hiatus, I have been unceremoniously dumped into the working world. I started working in January when my recruiter (or ‘The Vindicator of the Unemployed,’ as he is known by people, like myself, who enjoy assigning unnecessary yet impressive titles) gave me a call. “Jobs!” he cried enthusiastically, if only for the purpose of this narrative. So I set up an interview at an automated laboratory equipment company, and began shuffling my morals, ethics and core beliefs in preparation for my first real-world interview.

I shouldn’t have worried. Topics discussed during the interview included dogs, Cambridge, and my ability and/or willingness to perform repetitive tasks. I should have been suspicious about that last one, though, because it was touched on several times. Repetitively, one might say. However, the scent of a possible paycheck had numbed my mind. A few days later, supposedly after some other candidates had been interviewed, I got a call. The job was mine if I wanted it.

I actually had to choose between three jobs: validating automated laboratory equipment, sorting corn, and testing wastewater. Just like being a kid in a candy store... only instead of candy, the store is full of glass shards and red-hot barbed wire: take your pick! It was about this time that I began to seriously question my decision to be a biology major. Ha, ha. Just kidding. I’ve been questioning that decision for months now. Anyway, I made my decision based on a few factors. For one, the hours - "sorting corn at 6 a.m." is a little lower on my list of Stuff I Want To Do than “melon-balling my left eye out.” Thus, the corn would go unsorted. By me, at least. Another factor was the money – it’s a material world, baby, and I am a material girl. Also, I don't even want to contemplate what 'wastewater' encompasses for more than one millisecond, let alone test it for eight hours a day. Add all these factors up and you get me, going for the highly repetitive, highly paid temporary job.

My mom said they were probably lying about having other people to interview. Initially, I preferred to think that I won out against numerous highly qualified foes with my sparkling personality and impressive resume. But when I think about it now, I wonder if 'won' is really the most appropriate word to use- considering what I do day in and day out. Let me fill you in on what my biology degree entitles me to do, before the suspense overtakes the both of us.

I work in the glitzy and glamorous field of automated laboratory equipment. Try to contain your envy. To put it in layman's terms - the machine I work with is like one of those claw machines in grocery stores. You spend $10.00 to grasp at and ultimately fail to pick up a 2 oz. stuffed animal that has approximately the same value as a postage stamp. Fortunately for the suckers who fork over $45,000 for one of these marvels of modern technology, these are a little bit more accurate. And in addition to a claw, it has pipettes - basically a set of highly accurate basters for turkey fetuses. Or gerbil-sized squirt guns. Whichever makes me seem like less of a loser. These - say it with me now - pipettes move liquids into assays. An assay is like a tiny ice cube tray that could make 96 itty-bitty ice cubes.

These machines are, in my mind at least, used at some point during processes such as cloning dinosaurs, or any number of projects thought up by the licensed mad scientists in the country. This way, I can tell myself that I am in a small way a part of the scientific field I like to call "Friggin' Cool Science," instead of my quite obvious association with what we know as "Lame-Ass Science." Let's put it this way- Michael Crichton's never gonna write a book based on me or anything I do at work. Not by a long shot.

The first day of work, it was like having a new robot toy. Ten minutes later, the novelty had worn off and I was over it. There's really only so much fun you can have moving water around. The discovery and implementation of some food coloring managed to capture my interest for another five minutes. I definitely feel that the true potential of these machines is being overlooked: breakfast making machines.

Clearly, the need exists. Hollywood has proven it. I can think of numerous- well, several- okay, at least a few movies that feature these devices, and this only confirms for me that this is a very human aspiration, transcending time, language and religion. The first breakfast machine is featured in a film called "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" and has been invented by a brilliant but misunderstood scientist. Primarily featuring a flying, sentient automobile, a small cameo is made by an albeit slightly antiquated breakfast making machine. If memory serves me correctly, it made toast and eggs and then sent the meals to the family on rolling plates. Even in 1968, the dream was alive.

Then, again in 1985, we see yet another mad scientist character, Dr. Emmet Brown, who is desperately striving to meet the world's demand for automatically prepared breakfast foodstuffs. The movie features, as a side project, a car that can travel through time. Obviously, a case can be made for some sort of relationship between cars with heightened functionalities, MAD SCIENTISTS, and breakfast making machines. The aforementioned machine reflects apparent advances in technology by adding a dog-feeding feature, demonstrating state-of-the-art technology. The breakfast automation knowledge base was advancing by leaps and bounds.

Other movies to feature breakfast making machines include Casper, Flubber, Honey I Shrunk the Kids, and Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. I feel this technology is ready for the inevitable step from the big screen to a kitchen near you and me. And I feel obligated- no, that's not strong enough- I feel bored enough to explore the feasibility and potential for this technology.

The machines I work with now will need some obvious adjustments if they are to be competitive in the cutthroat world of today's automated breakfast machine market. For example, the scale is much too small. A 'pancake' function would ideally create a plate full of pancakes 5 to 6 inches in diameter. Current settings, however, would only allow for the creation of 96 dime sized pancakes. Which, now that I think about it, has its own friggin' awesome potential right there. Baby pancakes eaten with a spoon! Pancake shaped cereal! Miniscule pancakes so numerous in number could surely solve at least half of the world's major problems.

Today's laser, computer and egg technology could create new, higher standards for perfect toast, un-runny eggs (or runny, if you like 'em that way. I'll make a setting for that) and tiny pancakes. But it doesn't have to stop there. French toast, fresh squeezed orange juice, bacon and sausage, even more tiny pancakes: all this could be waiting for you when you wake up, while your breakfast making machine flashes a good morning message to you on its high-definition touch-sensitive monitor. It's time for humankind to wake up to the dawning of breakfast automation technology.

So, in summation, my job sucks and I still have to make my own breakfast. For now.

Walkin' on Sunshine

2001-03-08T23:34:00.000-05:00

I think it’s a pretty cruel, yet subtle, torture that this university employs, putting windows in classrooms. If, by chance, your mind wanders away from the professor’s riveting lecture or conversation and you glance out the window. Blue skies, sunshine, and no St. Thomas Aquinas await you there. Unfortunately, you’re already in class.

“Come,” the sunshine seems to call to me in class. “Come outside. I have Vitamin D for you. Come play outside, or at least don’t be in class!” “Okay!” I answer, and then realize that the class is laughing and the professor is glaring. Only one logical way to keep this (hypothetical) situation from happening: don’t go to class the next time.

I’m gonna have a really hard time going to class towards the end of this semester, assuming of course that the weather ever gets and stays nice. Which is a pretty big assumption here. Today, winter coats seem like a joke, but two days ago it was snowing so badly it looked like a Head & Shoulders commercial. Of course, then I didn’t want to walk through the snow to get to class, either. I just can’t win.

Today it took everything I had to go to class, and it wasn’t even that nice outside. As soon as it’s good enough weather I’ll be able to rationalize ‘studying’ at the dunes. Yeah, studying equals, uh, sitting on sand and walking in water. Maybe as a Theo field trip: attempting to walk on water?

There are always a million things that are better to do than to go to class, and one of the great things about college is that it gives you the freedom to choose. Honestly, when you look back on your years in college, are you going to say, “Hmm. I wish I’d spent more time in class. I just can’t get enough riveting conversation about calculus.” Or “Hmm. I wish I’d avoided having no friends and that pesky Vitamin D deficiency by skipping class and going somewhere sunny with my friends.” You make the call.

Maybe spending spring break somewhere warm will get this desire out of my system. Surely after a week in the warm Florida sun I will have had enough and be quite sick of it. I will come back to school ready to buckle down and do some hardcore homework and studying. Riiight. Or, it’ll make me wonder why I chose to go to school in Hail-pour-rain-snow Indiana.

So the next time that the sunshine is calling your name, answer it. Go out and enjoy it while it’s there. Outside is always a good time. And if you take that ‘answer it’ part literally, and hold conversations with the sunshine during class, perhaps you’ll get to spend some time in a nice institution with some other people who talk to the voices in the sunshine. Either way, you get out of class.

On the Road Again...

2001-03-02T23:27:00.000-05:00

I’ll admit it. I get bored on campus. And when boredom strikes, you can either get creative to have fun or, well, leave. And what better way to leave campus than via road trip? Off-campus is off-campus no matter how you slice it, and if you get to road trip to get there, then it’s just that much better.

I went home with one of my friends this weekend. Her classes were cancelled for Friday so she was leaving Thursday, and I was invited to come along. Consequently, all my Friday classes were, for all intents and purposes, cancelled as well. I do have a class Thursday night, so we decided to leave after that. Why? Driving five hours after a 6:15 class is better than getting up early to drive. I told my dad that logic and he didn’t grasp it. He’s not a college student and therefore doesn’t appreciate the fact that sleep is merely an option as much as I do.

I had burned a CD full of driving songs to listen to on our journey to off-campusness. I had everything from ‘Life is a Highway’ by Tom Cochrane to the ‘Da Da Da’ VW commercial song. And all of them had some vague reference to driving, no matter how distant. ‘End of the Road’ may have been a stretch, but it’s harder to fill up two whole CD’s than you might think. We borrowed a CD adapter, which was for some reason incompatible with the tape player. It kept flipping sides. Over and over again. Click. Click. Click. After some feeble attempts to remedy the situation, we resorted to the infallible fix-it: crank the volume so you can’t hear the problem.

An upside of this solution was that it forced us to sing louder to the music. No problems there. Volume is equivalent to talent as far as I am concerned, and if that is the case we are flying headfirst towards a Grammy. Celine Dion has nothing on us. Also, the louder music effectively drowned out the more-than-a-little discomforting growling noise that the engine was emitting. If you can’t hear it, it’s not there. Really.

When the clicking had finally worked us into synchronized facial tics, we went to the radio. My personal philosophy is that there’s ALWAYS something better on the radio, so I am a big fan of the scan button. A while of this told us that we were getting close to her house, mainly since we were getting three NPR stations, some country stations, and the most boy bands I’ve ever heard on a single station in my life. We sang along anyway. Practice makes perfect. Not to imply that we need it.

We got in at around 1:30 in the morning- the start of normal dorm nightlife. Nice. I swear, if this whole ‘higher education’ thing doesn’t work out for me, I’m going to trucker school. Life would be one giant road trip. And I can’t imagine a more- hey- do you hear that clicking?

3.2.2001

Time to Wake Up

2001-02-23T23:26:00.000-05:00

I’m not really a morning person. ‘Not really’ in the sense that I despise them and tend to avoid them whenever possible through sleep. Sleep can make you oblivious to a lot of things. And that’s why I’ve decided that I like it.

Normally I hit the snooze alarm at least four times. I initially set my alarm to compensate for this and everything usually works out. Note that I said, ‘usually’. The other morning was one of those outside-of-normal-circumstances mornings: the revolt of my alarm clock. It went off at the usual time and I hit the usual snooze alarm. Repeat ten minutes later. Snooze number three, however, went terribly wrong.

I wasn’t awake enough to remember hitting the button the first time to stop the CD, but I do remember being confused as to why the music wasn’t stopping, so I know I must have at least slapped in its general direction. Yet the music continued and Mr. Tommy Roe began to sing. (Sweet Pea is a good song, but I’m not so sure of its catchiness when it won’t stop playing when I want to sleep. Most mornings I don’t hear anything beyond the CD whirring and the initial drum solo.) As I woke up more and more I pressed all the buttons I could find, but to no effect. My only goal at this point is to stop the music.

The buttons are not working. I quasi-rationalize that if the cover is open, the CD will not play and therefore the music will stop. With the press of a previously untried button, the lid slowly raised. The music stops… but the beeping begins. High pitched, shrill incessant beeping that was a hundred times worse than the crooning of some teen idol of yore. At least I could turn the music volume down on the music- there is no relief from this new torture. The beeping bores into my head and begins to quicken. When will this foolish nightmare end??

My only way to kill this obnoxious monster is to remove its power source… it must be unplugged. I jump (read: fall) out of the top bunk grumbling unprintable and unintelligible phrases at the clock, Tommy Roe, and the world in general. Reaching behind my roommate’s bed I unplug the clock- and then there’s silence. I plug it back in, hoping that it has reset itself or something and has forgotten its mission to wake me up. But when I plug it back in, the noise continues. ‘Fine,’ I think angrily, tossing the cord at the wall. ‘Stay unplugged.’ Gosh, if only I could wake up this way EVERY day!

I managed to schedule most of my classes at reasonable times. All except one. At the risk of once again bringing fire upon myself from the science department, I don’t wake up until about two hours into my chem lab. Sleep can make a lot of things go away, but not eight a.m. chem lab.

Feb 23, 2001

Math Sucks

2001-02-16T23:20:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder about those upper level classes that I will never take. For instance, math. One semester of calc one was more than enough to make up my mind never to take math again. I just don’t understand what possesses people to take calc one million or DiffEq (or even what it means). Personally, I would rather melon-ball my left eye out than do one more derivative. I didn’t need the class, and I pretty much dreaded every day.

One time, I was walking there and hoping against hope that Gellerson had burned down or been hit by a meteorite or my class had been canceled in some other way, shape or form. As I passed Kretzmann, I heard a loud beeping noise. My heart leapt. Maybe class is canceled! I thought in my calc-hatred induced mindset. That sounds like a fire alarm! My pace quickened. I didn’t mind going to calc if I would be able to turn around and go straight back home. As it turns out, the sound of a bus backing out the VUCA parking lot makes that same noise. I ended up having to go to calc anyway. Probably only to fail a quiz.

Maybe that’s the purpose of calc one: to weed out the ones who aren’t ‘math department’ material. (Me, for one.) After you get past that milestone, you’re home free. I bet calc is pretty much one big party. For all I know, anyway. Calc two: you throw confetti every time you open that math book. You party so hard, integrations by trigonometric substitution make sense. There’s music, dancing, laughing, and 3-D graphic plots of hyperbolic sine function. Or something. Calc three? Yikes. Non-stop action. Sometimes you wake up the day after class with a notebook full of equations, neat boxes around each answer, calculator calluses on your fingertips and no idea how any of it got there. DiffEq- I can’t even fathom the crazy fun that goes on in there. I hear there used to be a calc four, but no one had the stamina for a semester long party of that caliber.

As far off as my guesses might be, I’d rather be dead wrong than find out the truth. At least in the case of upper level math, ignorance is bliss. I don’t claim to have knowledge about any of those math terms beyond the names. I had one semester of calc, and I can guarantee I’ll never make a withdrawal from those short-term memory banks again. That account is closed, and I have a nice ‘S’ on my report card for my trouble. Yahoo for pass/fail courses.

Spread the... Word

2001-02-09T23:16:00.000-05:00

I think the idea came to us the night of February 13th, 2000. It was another one of those all too familiar ‘let’s stay up far too late for our collective good and pretend to do homework but all we really do is talk in the lounge’ evening/ mornings. A flower sale had been organized through the Union or something – my memories are hazed by lack of sleep – and someone was delivering flowers to the girls on our floor.

She had come to solicit our help, and some of us, most likely those with less of a responsibility towards our homework and probably less of bitterness towards Valentine’s Day in general, offered to help. Anyway, my then future-roommate and I had decided not to have boyfriends. You know, to better concentrate on our grades. The others stayed in the lounge uh, doing homework, and eventually a campaign was born.

We noticed that the initials for Valentine’s Day were, by some crazy happenstance, also commonly recognized as the initials for something else. That’s right, VD also stands for venereal disease. Can you believe it? We couldn’t.

Also, by what can only be classified as more luck, the school we happen to go to began with a ‘V’. In the interest of alliteration (quasi-bonus of having a writing minor: the ability to throw around literary terms) the slogan was coined. VD @ VU. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep but I, at least, thought it was pretty catchy. Still do, for that matter. We wrote it on the lounge window in dry-erase marker, proclaiming our clever genius for all to see. I don’t remember much after that. Maybe I slept. More likely than not, I didn’t.

On the 14th, went about our days clad entirely in black to symblify our general disapproval of the holiday and what it stands for. Unfortunately, our VD @ VU campaign was rather short lived, for several possible reasons. First of all, perhaps not all of the campus is as familiar with the initials of STD’s (sexually transmitted diseases, in case you are a member of the aforementioned group) as we had thought.

Second, there is a slight possibility that everyone on the entire campus does not feel the same way about Valentine’s Day. Maybe this day is more than just empty symbolism to them, and they were maybe offended by our implication that Valentine’s Day is equivalent to venereal disease. This is no excuse.

Thirdly, the possibility remains that our message never made it off of the starting block. Dry-erase marker is a lot harder to read on windows than on the actual boards, and one brush (purposeful or not, we are looking into this matter) of a sleeve could have negated its existence. In any case, this year we are not taking any chances. By broadcasting our message through the popular medium of the campus paper, we ensure that the message will reach far and wide, from Urschel to the frats. VD @ VU: Spread the love.

Slip 'N Slide

2001-01-26T22:37:00.000-05:00

Ah, the end of winter. The birds sing, the snow melts, that water refreezes during a cold snap, and more snow falls on the new ice, creating a slippery death trap the likes of which no one has ever seen. Snow is excellent camouflage.

Once, last year, I slipped right before crossing the road. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I have the feeling that the paint on the roads gets incredibly slippery when it’s wet or cold or snow-covered. I usually avoid it, so I don’t have any data on its actual slipperiness. Anyway, this time I didn’t and one leg went out behind me and I fell onto one knee. Some people from my floor came over and asked me if I was all right, and I covered as gracefully as I could. “Yeah, I’m fine… I just… thought I’d pray for a safe crosswalk experience. I try to avoid hit and runs whenever I can… Amen.” Hey, you never know. This is a Christian campus.

Problems arise when no one is nearby, and I can’t be sure if anyone saw me or not. Last year (yeah, yeah- it was a bad year for walking in snow) I was crossing that field behind the VUCA on one of the student-made skating-rinks…er, sidewalks of packed snow. No one had decided to venture across with me, and about halfway through I slipped and fell right to the ground.

I stood up as quickly as possible and looked around accusatorily. No audible laughter, but everyone was quite a distance away. What could I do? Yell, “Uh, it’s slippery here. That’s, uh, why I fell, you know- not because I’m a klutz. So, be warned.”? If they hadn’t seen that would only make matters worse. Bow, taking credit for my marvelous wipe out? The sudden shift in my center of gravity might only cause me to slip to the ground again. I settled for lowering my head and slowly scuttling the rest of the way across the field. And never taking that ‘sidewalk’ again.

Mainly by walking like an arthritic penguin whenever the terrain is questionable (and even when it’s not… it’s a pretty fun way to walk) I have managed not to fall down yet this winter. A few slips are expected in the middle of the winter, even by those who are used to wading through snow to get places. I’ve personally witnessed more than a few people taken out by ice patches randomly scattered through campus. And after stifling my initial laughter I walk on, once again reminded of my traction-dependent vertical status.

Let’s face it, people falling down are funny. Have you ever seen the kid wipe out on his bike in the movie “While You Were Sleeping”? If not, the cost of renting it is completely worth that one scene. Heck, come over to my room and I’ll watch it with you for free, probably more than once. As long as I don’t have to go outside and brave the campus-wide ice slick. I have my pride.

Finding the Perfect Gift

2000-12-15T22:59:00.000-05:00

They say that it’s better to give than to receive. I’m not sure who the ‘they’ is that started spreading this heartfelt sentiment around but I’d be willing to bet that it was a collective corporate decision made by a secret society of the owners of all of the malls across the country. Or at least not a college student who doesn’t particularly enjoy shopping even when she has the money to spend, which isn’t very often. I agree that it’s a great feeling when a person opens the perfectly hand-selected gift you’ve just given them. However, getting that perfect gift to give them presents the problem for me.

Thinking up ideas of what to get people isn’t a really big issue. The problem is- the mall. I have a feeling that my personal hell is, in fact, a mall, either the day after Thanksgiving or the day before Christmas. I’ll be forced to shop forever while techno funk music with 3 word lyrics blasts from the speakers. But let’s focus on the mall portion of that nightmare. I know people who could live in the mall, whereas I am fed up within five minutes of setting foot in the main drag, let alone any of the stores themselves.

My mission while in the mall is simple: to get in and out as quickly as possible. I know what I want to buy. I would like to buy it, and then get out. No amount of friendliness from a commissioned salesperson is going to change my mind about that. There is a running (non-mall sponsored) challenge at my mall at home involving the Buckle and some way-too eager salespeople. The challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to walk at a normal speed (i.e. no dead sprints) to the back of the store, touch the wall, and walk back out of the store without being asked if you wanted some help. No one, to my knowledge, has done it yet. Or maybe someone has, and the employees had him or her ‘taken care of’ before they could tell anyone. I’m not saying they did, but I’m not saying they didn’t, either. I’m just saying that they really like selling pants in that store.

So that’s my take on shopping and why it’s my least favorite part of Christmas. Hey- sudden thought on avoiding the whole shopping scene: homemade gifts. My mom used to love the presents I made for her out of Popsicle sticks and construction paper in grade school. It’s the thought that counts. And besides, I’ll brave the freezer section of the grocery store over the evil that that is the mall and its long lines any day. At least the grocery store has an express lane.

Working Under Pressure

2000-12-08T22:13:00.000-05:00

Here I am in my floor’s lounge at 2 am trying to think of a topic to write about in my column which, incidentally, was due at noon yesterday. I must have been extremely busy with important academic whatnot, you say, to have been forced to do my column so late. Uh, no. Not really. As a matter of fact, I’ve already written two cards to friends, watched a movie, done laundry, and reorganized my MP3 file list. None of which were the least bit homework related. Simply more proof that today’s greatest labor saving device is tomorrow.

I am what you might call a ‘last-minute’ type of person. I fail to understand why teachers assign many-paged papers weeks in advance. I don’t use the time. My best work (I keep telling myself) is accomplished within a few hours of any deadline. Maybe I would do my work a lot better if I did it earlier. Then again, maybe not. This is an unexplored realm for me, as I have no recollections of doing assignments early. I’m working with the facts I have. I don’t have the willpower to do the assignment in advance, so the threat of a deadline is the only thing that motivates me.

My concept of time must be a little shaky, too. I always think that I have more time than I actually do. That, or I have an alternate theory that I worked up one day when I had a paper due. I feel that time, as it inches closer to a deadline of some sort, is actually compressed by the pressure placed upon me. Therefore an hour before a deadline is not truly an hour. The compression is proportional to the amount of stress I am under. I also am trying to work in something about negative time. I haven’t gotten all of the kinks out, but I’m working on it.

Procrastination has many levels. This column is one of the lower ones. I’d rather watch a movie than write this column, but I’d rather write this column than take a calc test. Of course, I’d prefer to have a limb amputated than take a calc test, but that’s more of an issue of my mad math love than one of procrastination. The tiers of the procrastination triangle are possibly infinite. And if not, I’m more than happy to be the one to explore them and find out. Procrastination rules the nation!!

Making a Clean Sweep

2000-12-01T22:26:00.000-05:00

I remember when cleaning my room used to be a horrible chore only forced upon me when I was being punished or when relatives were coming to visit. As closely related as those two seemed sometimes, either way I was made to go to my room and pseudo-clean. (i.e.-throw everything in an organized heap in my closet and/or under my bed, depending on the extent of my slobbery). Now, although cleaning is not one of my favorite things to do, it is an attractive alternative to homework. My desire to clean is directly proportional to the amount of homework I should be doing when the urge to clean strikes. It’s amazing what I’ll do when I have a calc assignment due the next day.

I have no concept of ‘keeping a room clean’. My system allows the room to descend to maximum mess and then cleaning it all up. With the zero maintenance I perform, the room will soon reach a new low. A few weeks ago, my room hit this stage. I’m a pretty tolerant person, but the level my room sank to was unbearable even to me. The hair on our floor could have been made into a toupee that would have been the envy of the entire Hair Club for men. Dust piled in plush layers under the beds. Dirty dishes piled like abstract art filled our sink. Random possessions were scattered everywhere. And my roommate and I had homework looming in our assignment notebooks. It was time to clean.

We started on the dishes first, not realizing that there is such a thing as ‘too much dish soap’. It was like that episode of every sitcom where someone puts too much soap in the washing machine. Or maybe that was just The Brady Bunch. Our sink isn’t very big and apparently bubbles are repelled by the drain. Our dishes ended up very clean, and one of the shower stalls ended up full of soapsuds we had transported there in a pitcher.

Next we needed to shave our carpet, but we settled for one of those dustbuster on a stick things that we borrowed from our neighbors. It did pick up the hair and even gave us some more airborne dirt when we tried to empty it, thanks to the spring-loaded bag. We found enough dust to make a sweater out of, if you’re into weird stuff like that. We aren’t. It went in the trash.

We moved furniture. We organized. We even cleaned that gross place under the sink that most people try to hide with a garbage can. Three hours later, our room was clean. We admired our handiwork, then went into another quad to hang out so as not to disturb our newly created utopia of cleanliness.

Sadly, this was three weeks ago. Eventually we had to come back from the other quad and actually live in our room. The room is once again returning to the depths of messiness. I’m not worried. Finals week is coming up, and I feel the urge to clean coming over me just thinking about it.

Accenting your Speech

2000-11-17T22:22:00.000-05:00

College is supposed to be a time of new experiences. A time to be exposed to the different and the foreign to what we are accustomed to. My friends here at school come from all across the country and supposedly, they all speak English. Sometimes, however, the different speech patterns and accents we bring with us make it barely recognizable as such.
In fact, I once tried to convince some kid from Tennessee he had a funny Southern accent for about two hours, including numerous examples and a demonstration of his accent.

Fortunately for you, I have few if any oddities about my speech, and the ones that I do have are perfectly acceptable and barely noticable. Just to get that straight.

My roommate, for example, is from Minnesota. I figured I’d start with the least noticable and work my way up. (If you disagree, just remember that my accent or lack thereof is considered absolute zero in terms of normalcy. And I used to live in Wisconsin.) So anyway I guess my roommate considers me normal because one night we stayed up until 3:00 AM with me teaching her to say ‘bag’ instead of ‘bay-g’. It was quite intensive therapy, and apparently though she still regresses, we muddied her accent enough so that her sister made fun of her this summer. Yup, I like to make a difference in people’s lives.

The weirdness doesn’t end there. I know a certain person (not mentioning names but you know who you are, buddy) from a certain East coast state (which may or may not be New Jersey). I don’t know if it’s just a New Jersey thing, but remember the Micro-Machines man from those old commercials who would talk so fast he was barely comprehensible? Right. This New Jersey resident talks so fast she makes him sound like Ben Stine. And in addition to trying to make my brain function fast enough to understand her, she also throws in her own creative pronunciations of words like ‘arnge’ and ‘wudder’. I’m writing them phonetically so you can learn them too. An interactive column all because Hooked on Phonics worked for me.

Living in such close proximity to everyone, I’ve noticed that accents are contagious. Like one of the fun viruses that are floating around campus, I’ve been picking up little bits and pieces of other people’s accents. I don’t know if blended inheritance applies to the way we talk, but by the end of my four years here it’s more than likely that all of my friends and I will talk exactly the same.

Keeping in Touch

2000-11-10T08:22:00.000-05:00

How many of you have an Instant Messager screen name? No, don’t raise your hand. You’re reading a newspaper and I can’t see you. I’m willing to bet most of the campus would recognize that familiar little ‘ding’ that means someone wants to distract you from whatever you happen to be doing online. It’s free, and the best way I’ve found to keep in touch with my family and friends away from school. And besides, it’s free.

Supposedly there’s a new version out that lets you actually talk through your computers. I haven’t tried it yet because I can just imagine how disastrous it would be on my academic career. I know I’ve been on IM too long, though, when I hear that ‘ding’ in random places, like the Union, or in class. That’s when I know I’ve got to find an alternate way to talk to them for a while.

There’s always the old stand-by of mail, and we all know how I enjoy the U.S. Postal Service and their bags of postmarked joy. And if you get creative though, you can even spice up mail. Once I sent a friend of mine a letter in an airline vomit bag (unused, of course. What were you thinking?) I can only imagine the looks on the faces of the people who delivered it.

Then, of course, there’s the phone. Expensive, yes, unless you have relatives who express their love for you on the holidays in the form of phone cards. I don’t think I’ve had a phone bill yet this year thanks to them. Only problem is that annoying recorded voice warning you that you’re about to be cut off. “You have one minute remaining. Please say good-bye now, and then speak in short, 3-word sentences in hopes that you will not be [click].”

E-mail is great, as long as it isn’t in the form of a lame chain letter. Nothing says “I randomly clicked your name in my address book so you could get this piece of impersonal garbage” like a chain letter. I mean, what.

It’s not hard to keep in touch with your family and friends while at school. It’s simply a matter of – wait… I think I just heard and IM ding… somewhere… I’ll finish that thought next week. The phantom IM-er is back and wants to talk to me!

Time After Time

2000-11-03T08:32:00.000-05:00

Fall back, spring forward. I mean, what? Personally I think daylight savings time is a pretty pointless ritual, relevant only to those who enjoy mind games and living in near perpetual darkness. I remember learning the gist of it in seventh grade social studies class but the reason has since been forgotten. Something about farmers, I think. Because that makes sense. Corn really cares what time of the day it gets picked.

Early evening classes with daylight savings time are the worst. I go into a lecture when it’s still daylight out. After the lecture, which most times already seems like it went on for a month and a half anyway, I leave the building and step into complete darkness. There went the rest of my day. Only thing to do now is homework… okay, so maybe not. But class is not exactly my ideal way to finish out the day. I mean, I could be watching the daylight savings sunset- or, a movie. Whatever.

My mom did call me though, to remind me to set my clock back. About 3 days later. As if I wouldn’t have realized it by then. I’m used to being late for stuff, but I think I’d sense a pattern if I was repeatedly exactly one hour late for everything. I’m bright like that.

My mom told me I should have ‘saved the hour’ until the next morning. So I could wake up and then be relieved because I didn’t really have to get up… “Aw man, I have to get up and shower… no, wait! I can sleep for another hour! Oh, thank you daylight savings time!” Please. I’m never that coherent on any morning. Most mornings the numbers on my digital clock confuse me.

I don’t even know why my mom remembered that most of the world has daylight savings time. You see, she’s in central Indiana, which, I learned, seceded from the whole daylight savings time club. How is that allowed? Do they allow half memberships? I enjoy the whole ‘gaining an hour’ thing, but I’m not so keen on losing it again in the spring. Can we just do that first part? Every year we’ll fall farther and farther behind the rest of society. About a quarter of a century and they’ll lap us. But that’s okay. Daylight savings time is not a race. I don’t think. I don’t know, I just know it has something to do with farmers. Maybe it’s like a tractor pull. I don’t really understand the point of those, either.

You've Got Mail!

2000-10-27T08:29:00.000-05:00

I hold my breath as I peer into the darkened cubicle, hopeing against hope to catch a glimpse of something other than empty space. Do my eyes decieve me? Is there something in there? I pull out my keys and in one daily-practiced move, the tiny mailbox door is open to reveal… stop. Look at yourself. You’re on the edge of your seat, living vicariously through another person’s ficticious account of possibly getting mail. If so, you are officially mail deprived. And I don’t think there’s a 12 step program for that.

Last year, when I was a freshman, the mail situation was improved. First of all, it was the first year away from home, so my mom was bound to miss me and send me something. Me being the oldest child, it was a novelty to send stuff to someone at college, although it wore off quickly. Plus, last year my roommate and I shared a mailbox, effectively doubling the chances of the box having mail in it. Even if it wasn’t for me, it was still pretty exciting to see that freshly delivered envelope waiting to spread its sealed joy to whoever’s name adorned the address label. Regardless of who the letter was for, if I made it to the mailbox first, I was the one who got to triumphantly carry it up the stairs: postmarked proof that the outside world knew we existed.

This year, though, I’m on my own. If there’s nothing for me, there’s nothing at all. And campus mail the fliers that everyone gets don’t really count as true mail. No stamps on those – they’re quasi-mail. Bills only count for slightly more. Sure, someone cares that you’re alive, but only because they want your money. Letters are always exciting, especially when they contain cash- er, news about your loved ones. But the ultimate holy grail of the United States Postal Service on college campuses across the country are – you guessed it – care packages.

Campus mail envelopes are sub-atomic particles of affection when compared to the amount of love-in-a-box a care package contains. The contents of the box barely matter. I know people who would be content with a package containing five bucks, some packaging peanuts, and an blank Zip disk. Then there’s the people whose mothers send them homemade salsa or chocolate chip cookies. Fortnuately, my roommate has one of those salsa mothers, and my mom’s one of the cookie types. So even if the daily mailbox ego maker or breaker ends in tragedy, I can drown my sorrows in the spoils of care packages past. Care packages… the gift that keeps on giving.

**This article may be sent home, hopefully inspiring a reply. Remember -pity mail is better than no mail.**