I am a huge huge huge fan of Metafilter. You do not even know how much I read every day. Answer: I subscribe to AskMetafilter and Metafilter. I am addicted. I essentially traded my Facebook addiction for a Metafilter addiction.
The thing about Metafilter is it charges $5 to post anything on Metafilter. I never really got why - I mean, I know that would keep away the trolls. Then I figured out why: it keeps people away who ask questions that are posted on Yahoo Answers. Beware, it's where intelligence goes to die, you will be stupider having clicked on these links:
Did my water just break?
What kind of dinosaur did Jesus ride?
What's this candy inside my thermometer?
Why does scanning a mirror not turn my monitor into a mirror?
This man does not understand pregnancy. Not at all.
Am I going to HELLLLLLL? NO!!!
The answers are PRICELESS. I mean, really. Hot damn. You cannot ask for more concentrated snark in one place. So, enjoy losing brain cells, and excuse me while I go find some of this special "thermometer candy." That stuff sounds tasty...
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
I Know A Lot of Guys Named George
Once, possibly this past weekend, my friend George, Eric, and I decided to take a quick road trip to Wisconsin. George needed to head up there and pick up a part for a water heater, and it was actually cheaper to just drive there and pick it up versus having it shipped. Apparently, it's a very old water heater.
Eric and I are always up for a road trip. What can I say, we're road trip people. Give us a six pack of root beer and a bag of beef jerky, and we are down for going anywhere.
So, we all pile into George's car, and off we go. Thing with George's family is they are the do-it-yourself kind of family. I mean, my family is too, don't get me wrong. But his really is.
George, disliking the color of his car (purple-ish) decided to paint it black. So, he went to the hardware store, and picked up the cheapest paint he could find. He got some brushes, and proceeds to paint his car.
Because of the paint he used, it bubbled. So, he had a black, bubbly car.
He's driving, Eric is in the passanger seat, and I am in the backseat. I am purposely sitting in the backseat because the second George goes faster than 55 mph, I start to tell him to slow down. I am one of those annoying people - those backseat driver people. Eric's threshold is 70 mph. So, as long as he goes slower than 70, we're all good. [The posted speed limit was 65, for the record.]
We pass through a town, and promptly get pulled over. Apparently, the town's posted speed limit was 45. We were doing 67. So, we pull over.
The cop walks up to our window, asks for the usual documents, looks into the car, and walks back to the patrol car. He comes back, issues a warning. Why does he issue us a warning? Because he is cracking up as he comes back to the car.
"Son" he says, "You car has the texture of my shotgun! What the hell did you paint this with?" George explains the process of cheaply painting a car, and the cop is dying with laughter, and so am I.
The moral of this story? If you plan on speeding, remember to let George paint your car, as his horrible paint job will get you out of a ticket.
Eric and I are always up for a road trip. What can I say, we're road trip people. Give us a six pack of root beer and a bag of beef jerky, and we are down for going anywhere.
So, we all pile into George's car, and off we go. Thing with George's family is they are the do-it-yourself kind of family. I mean, my family is too, don't get me wrong. But his really is.
George, disliking the color of his car (purple-ish) decided to paint it black. So, he went to the hardware store, and picked up the cheapest paint he could find. He got some brushes, and proceeds to paint his car.
Because of the paint he used, it bubbled. So, he had a black, bubbly car.
He's driving, Eric is in the passanger seat, and I am in the backseat. I am purposely sitting in the backseat because the second George goes faster than 55 mph, I start to tell him to slow down. I am one of those annoying people - those backseat driver people. Eric's threshold is 70 mph. So, as long as he goes slower than 70, we're all good. [The posted speed limit was 65, for the record.]
We pass through a town, and promptly get pulled over. Apparently, the town's posted speed limit was 45. We were doing 67. So, we pull over.
The cop walks up to our window, asks for the usual documents, looks into the car, and walks back to the patrol car. He comes back, issues a warning. Why does he issue us a warning? Because he is cracking up as he comes back to the car.
"Son" he says, "You car has the texture of my shotgun! What the hell did you paint this with?" George explains the process of cheaply painting a car, and the cop is dying with laughter, and so am I.
The moral of this story? If you plan on speeding, remember to let George paint your car, as his horrible paint job will get you out of a ticket.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Alienating My Audience One List at a Time
I woke up laughing from a dream, and it occurred to me - I have not updated my blog yet! Woopsie! So much for that "my blog updates every night at midnight" line I like to say...
On the plus side, it gave me something to write about:
Words/Phrases/Things that SOUND sexual in nature, but really aren't:
Gutterballs
Skeletal Remains (in fairness, one of my friends DOES use this phrase in a sexual nature: he uses it to describe women who are like a size 2, obsessed with going to the gym, have to curves to speak of, and are single.)
King Henry the Eighth
Zamboni Driving
Biscuit in the basket (a hockey term. What? I watch hockey.)
Ante Off (and I also watch poker)
Polishing the Silver
Artificial Turf
Ok folks! Have a great Thursday! I know I will!
On the plus side, it gave me something to write about:
Words/Phrases/Things that SOUND sexual in nature, but really aren't:
Gutterballs
Skeletal Remains (in fairness, one of my friends DOES use this phrase in a sexual nature: he uses it to describe women who are like a size 2, obsessed with going to the gym, have to curves to speak of, and are single.)
King Henry the Eighth
Zamboni Driving
Biscuit in the basket (a hockey term. What? I watch hockey.)
Ante Off (and I also watch poker)
Polishing the Silver
Artificial Turf
Ok folks! Have a great Thursday! I know I will!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I Have Been Up to Other Things
Oh what a whirl wind week I have had! First and foremost - if you have an extra dollar to spare - consider donating to my friend's March for Babies account:
You can click here to donate.
It's for a good cause, and quite frankly, if I raise one dollar for them I will consider my job well done.
In other news - my addiction to Facebook is OFF THE CHARTS FOLKS. No one allow me to take another survey. You all do not need to know what color best describes me.
In other other news - I started...THERAPY! Yay! I am one of the crazy masses! The therapist is really cool, and says that I do not need drugs. Which, you know, is pretty awesome, since I think we can all agree I suck at taking pills. Oh, did you not know that? Yeah, I suck at taking pills. I outright refuse to do it. It's like an internal war with myself every time my back hurts.
The people I have told about me being in therapy have been really receptive. I was afraid I was going to get one of those looks from people, but everyone was really fine about it. I mean, with losing my job, losing my friend, almost totaling my car, and other stuff I tend not to write about on here for fear of becoming the "Lady Bringdown" of the blogging world, I think we can all agree I might have needed therapy before now.
My friend George had the best reaction though - he sat back, looked like he was thinking for a second, and said "I think therapy would be awesome. I would like to talk about myself to someone for one straight hour a week."
Which, I have to admit, was the greatest description of therapy I have ever heard.
You can click here to donate.
It's for a good cause, and quite frankly, if I raise one dollar for them I will consider my job well done.
In other news - my addiction to Facebook is OFF THE CHARTS FOLKS. No one allow me to take another survey. You all do not need to know what color best describes me.
In other other news - I started...THERAPY! Yay! I am one of the crazy masses! The therapist is really cool, and says that I do not need drugs. Which, you know, is pretty awesome, since I think we can all agree I suck at taking pills. Oh, did you not know that? Yeah, I suck at taking pills. I outright refuse to do it. It's like an internal war with myself every time my back hurts.
The people I have told about me being in therapy have been really receptive. I was afraid I was going to get one of those looks from people, but everyone was really fine about it. I mean, with losing my job, losing my friend, almost totaling my car, and other stuff I tend not to write about on here for fear of becoming the "Lady Bringdown" of the blogging world, I think we can all agree I might have needed therapy before now.
My friend George had the best reaction though - he sat back, looked like he was thinking for a second, and said "I think therapy would be awesome. I would like to talk about myself to someone for one straight hour a week."
Which, I have to admit, was the greatest description of therapy I have ever heard.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Secrets to Success
*ring ring*
Me: Ahoy-hoy?
Matt: I did what you said, and it worked.
Me: Awesome!
Matt: I made, like, six grand in twenty minutes!
Me: AWESOME SAUCE SIR!
Matt: You should make a video. Like those guys on TV. "Buy my system, I can guarantee you six grand in twenty minutes!"
Me: Yeah, it will cost something like 15 dollars. It will be just cheap enough that people will think to themselves "WHY NOT" and buy it.
Matt: Absolutely!
Me: Then they would get my "proven system" and I would just be me in an empty room, sitting on a chair.
Matt: Then a waiter would come in and ask for your order, and you would ask for a single plum floating in perfume in a man's hat.
Me: Totally! Then I would walk up to the camera and wisper "The secret of success is..."
Matt: Savings and wise investments?
Me: NO! Then I scream at the camera "Not buying shit you don't need off the TV!"
Matt: This needs to happen. Like, yesterday.
OH SNAP WORLD, it's already been made!
Me: Ahoy-hoy?
Matt: I did what you said, and it worked.
Me: Awesome!
Matt: I made, like, six grand in twenty minutes!
Me: AWESOME SAUCE SIR!
Matt: You should make a video. Like those guys on TV. "Buy my system, I can guarantee you six grand in twenty minutes!"
Me: Yeah, it will cost something like 15 dollars. It will be just cheap enough that people will think to themselves "WHY NOT" and buy it.
Matt: Absolutely!
Me: Then they would get my "proven system" and I would just be me in an empty room, sitting on a chair.
Matt: Then a waiter would come in and ask for your order, and you would ask for a single plum floating in perfume in a man's hat.
Me: Totally! Then I would walk up to the camera and wisper "The secret of success is..."
Matt: Savings and wise investments?
Me: NO! Then I scream at the camera "Not buying shit you don't need off the TV!"
Matt: This needs to happen. Like, yesterday.
OH SNAP WORLD, it's already been made!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Smashing Walnuts on a Saturday Night
I recently borrowed from the Library a Bible - it's the Message (for those of you wondering, it's the Bible in plain English, with slang and everything) and the book is HEAVY.
So, I went out with some friends on Saturday night, and after many "diet" margaritas, we all decided to have a snack. Because half the people I know are on Atkins (I know, it's like 2002 NEVER ENDED.) we decided to eat some mixed nuts my friend picked up. She mistakenly thought they were already cracked, but they were not. They were the in-shell kind.
While I am in the bathroom, I keep hearing loud slamming noises. I come out to see one of my friends using a book to smash nuts. My friend exclaims that the book she is using is the best nut smashing book she has ever seen.
"What book are you using?" I ask
"Some book called 'The Message'" She says
"Dude, you are smashing nuts with my Bible. Not cool." I reply.
She stops, thinks about it for a second, and replies "Well, I went through 12 years of Catholic school where nuns busted my nuts every day, I guess turnabout is fair play."
Indeed, my friend, indeed.
So, I went out with some friends on Saturday night, and after many "diet" margaritas, we all decided to have a snack. Because half the people I know are on Atkins (I know, it's like 2002 NEVER ENDED.) we decided to eat some mixed nuts my friend picked up. She mistakenly thought they were already cracked, but they were not. They were the in-shell kind.
While I am in the bathroom, I keep hearing loud slamming noises. I come out to see one of my friends using a book to smash nuts. My friend exclaims that the book she is using is the best nut smashing book she has ever seen.
"What book are you using?" I ask
"Some book called 'The Message'" She says
"Dude, you are smashing nuts with my Bible. Not cool." I reply.
She stops, thinks about it for a second, and replies "Well, I went through 12 years of Catholic school where nuns busted my nuts every day, I guess turnabout is fair play."
Indeed, my friend, indeed.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
If You're Gonna Hurl, Hurl Into This
Once, I was driving home my cousin after Christmas with the extended family. For those of you not aware, Christmas With The Extended Family really means Heavy Binge Drinking.
So, after a night of heavy binge drinking, all in the name of family and Jesus, we all decide to leave.
My cousin sits in the backseat, and away we go. Halfway through the trip, he puts one of his presents on his lap. He looks down at this shirt box, carefully takes off the top, and proceeds to vomit into it. And no, he did not remove the gift first, which made me laugh my ass off.
We stop at his house, and he gets out of the car, and throws up in the street. He then totters into his house and proceeds to sleep it off.
I look in the backseat, and I do not see any vomit. But the whole car smells of vomit. So, in the middle of December in Chicago, we roll down the windows on the car and proceed to air it out. And get hypothermia.
Fast forward to the summer. Friends and I decide to all get together and go to the movies. So we all pile into the car, and the car STILL smells of vomit, no matter what I do. I am psychotic about people wearing seatbelts, so everyone puts one on. Then I hear a shrill scream from the backseat. Apparently, my cousin had thrown up on the seatbelt, and when he got out of the car, the seatbelt retracted back into the seat. The vomit dried on it.
We had never thought to look there. But needless to say we scrubbed that seatbelt until it was almost threadbare.
So, the moral of this story is this: when "drinking for Jesus" and someone throws up in your backseat, make sure to pull out the seatbelt and make sure it's spotless. And then make a mental note to never give your cousin a ride anywhere ever again.
So, after a night of heavy binge drinking, all in the name of family and Jesus, we all decide to leave.
My cousin sits in the backseat, and away we go. Halfway through the trip, he puts one of his presents on his lap. He looks down at this shirt box, carefully takes off the top, and proceeds to vomit into it. And no, he did not remove the gift first, which made me laugh my ass off.
We stop at his house, and he gets out of the car, and throws up in the street. He then totters into his house and proceeds to sleep it off.
I look in the backseat, and I do not see any vomit. But the whole car smells of vomit. So, in the middle of December in Chicago, we roll down the windows on the car and proceed to air it out. And get hypothermia.
Fast forward to the summer. Friends and I decide to all get together and go to the movies. So we all pile into the car, and the car STILL smells of vomit, no matter what I do. I am psychotic about people wearing seatbelts, so everyone puts one on. Then I hear a shrill scream from the backseat. Apparently, my cousin had thrown up on the seatbelt, and when he got out of the car, the seatbelt retracted back into the seat. The vomit dried on it.
We had never thought to look there. But needless to say we scrubbed that seatbelt until it was almost threadbare.
So, the moral of this story is this: when "drinking for Jesus" and someone throws up in your backseat, make sure to pull out the seatbelt and make sure it's spotless. And then make a mental note to never give your cousin a ride anywhere ever again.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Why I Should Not Babysit Your Children Part 2,056
(Warning: This post has swearing in it. I also mention race. I know. In 2009!)
So, I like to eat southern food and BBQ. And that translates in Chicago to mean I frequent a lot of African American food establishments. It's not like I am going out of my way to be cool and going to eat where black people eat - trust me I AM NOT COOL - more like in Chicago the term Southern Food pretty much means Black Food or Soul Food. I am usually the only white person in line. And that doesn't bother me, it's just an observation.
I bring one of my friends to my favorite BBQ place - Wallace's Catfish Corner. She brings her daughter with, as this is in the middle of the day. She's a stay-at-home-mom, and I am an unemployed girl who has a hankerin' for some BBQ.
We stand in line, and my friend's four year old daughter puts her little hands on her hips. She is starting to get impatient. Finally, she sighs loudly and proclaims for all fourteen people in line in front of us "FUCK, there are certainly a lot of CRACKERS in this place!"
All the people in line in front of us turn around and laugh their asses off at us. WE are the only white people in line. My friend turns to me and says, "Yeah, so I hope you know I am never letting you babysit my kid again. Oh, and by the way, when you have kids, I am going to buy them the loudest most obnoxious toys I can find. You fucking asshole."
I laughed the whole way home. I will totally admit to using the term "fuck" around her kid (accidentally) but I cannot recall a single time I have ever used the term "cracker." Either way, I was so proud of the kid that if I were still working, I would have already dropped off a Pow-Pow-Power Wheels for her.
So, I like to eat southern food and BBQ. And that translates in Chicago to mean I frequent a lot of African American food establishments. It's not like I am going out of my way to be cool and going to eat where black people eat - trust me I AM NOT COOL - more like in Chicago the term Southern Food pretty much means Black Food or Soul Food. I am usually the only white person in line. And that doesn't bother me, it's just an observation.
I bring one of my friends to my favorite BBQ place - Wallace's Catfish Corner. She brings her daughter with, as this is in the middle of the day. She's a stay-at-home-mom, and I am an unemployed girl who has a hankerin' for some BBQ.
We stand in line, and my friend's four year old daughter puts her little hands on her hips. She is starting to get impatient. Finally, she sighs loudly and proclaims for all fourteen people in line in front of us "FUCK, there are certainly a lot of CRACKERS in this place!"
All the people in line in front of us turn around and laugh their asses off at us. WE are the only white people in line. My friend turns to me and says, "Yeah, so I hope you know I am never letting you babysit my kid again. Oh, and by the way, when you have kids, I am going to buy them the loudest most obnoxious toys I can find. You fucking asshole."
I laughed the whole way home. I will totally admit to using the term "fuck" around her kid (accidentally) but I cannot recall a single time I have ever used the term "cracker." Either way, I was so proud of the kid that if I were still working, I would have already dropped off a Pow-Pow-Power Wheels for her.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Pineapple Torture
I recently spent the night at one of my friend's houses. My friend is also recently unemployed, and has discovered the joys of cleaning everything until her fingers bleed. So when she said "spent the night, you know everything is covered in a thin sheen of bleach" I thought to myself WHY NOT? SHE'S AS PSYCHOTIC AS I AM! WE COULD GET DRUNK AND TALK ABOUT ALL THE VARIOUS THINGS WE HAVE CLEANED. I would go first, and tell her how I took all the pipes off the undersides of the sinks and washed all the gunk out of them in the bathtub. And then we would laugh and discuss how psychotic we were and how we used to be normal when we were working.
Instead, we watched a movie and drank. A couple of beers in her and a couple of cheerleader beers in me later - we both passed out. At some point in time, I started sleepwalking. Except sleepwalking isn't really what she would call it. She would call it "Sleep Waterboarding."
See, apparently when the DVD player kicked off after being idle for so long, the news came on. And it was about torture. Specifically, waterboarding. The thing about this sleep disorder is usually if there is a TV on, whatever I am hearing while I sleep is the direction my dreams take.
She wakes up to the water in the kitchen going on for thirty seconds, it getting shut off, and me saying "mmmmmmmmmmmTALK!"
My friend gets up to investigate, and finds me doing the following: I am waterboarding a pineapple. She wakes me up, and we have the following conversation:
Friend: I am sorry...what are you doing?
Me: Uh, oh sorry, I must have been sleepwalking.
Friend: ...are you waterboarding my pineapple?
Me: [sheepishly] Yes. Yes I am.
Friend: .....WHY?
Me: He wouldn't talk. See, I was having a dream that I had to find out where they hid The Bomb and the guy wasn't talking, so I took off his head and decided to try torture.
Friend: Ah. Decapitation FIRST, then torture, I see.
Me: Apparently it was during the Cold War too, since, you know, I was looking for The Bomb.
Friend: I thought you were a Methodist? Aren't they against torture?
Me: Yeah. And really, I never thought I would have the constitution to torture someone.
Friend: On the plus side, after the tomatoes witnessed what you did, I doubt you will have any trouble getting answers out of them. Oh, and please do not mock-execute my dog, I swear he knows nothing.
Me: [Putting down the pineapple] I think I need to call my Pastor...
So yes, I will not be spending the night at anyone's house in the near future, thin sheen of bleach or not.
Instead, we watched a movie and drank. A couple of beers in her and a couple of cheerleader beers in me later - we both passed out. At some point in time, I started sleepwalking. Except sleepwalking isn't really what she would call it. She would call it "Sleep Waterboarding."
See, apparently when the DVD player kicked off after being idle for so long, the news came on. And it was about torture. Specifically, waterboarding. The thing about this sleep disorder is usually if there is a TV on, whatever I am hearing while I sleep is the direction my dreams take.
She wakes up to the water in the kitchen going on for thirty seconds, it getting shut off, and me saying "mmmmmmmmmmmTALK!"
My friend gets up to investigate, and finds me doing the following: I am waterboarding a pineapple. She wakes me up, and we have the following conversation:
Friend: I am sorry...what are you doing?
Me: Uh, oh sorry, I must have been sleepwalking.
Friend: ...are you waterboarding my pineapple?
Me: [sheepishly] Yes. Yes I am.
Friend: .....WHY?
Me: He wouldn't talk. See, I was having a dream that I had to find out where they hid The Bomb and the guy wasn't talking, so I took off his head and decided to try torture.
Friend: Ah. Decapitation FIRST, then torture, I see.
Me: Apparently it was during the Cold War too, since, you know, I was looking for The Bomb.
Friend: I thought you were a Methodist? Aren't they against torture?
Me: Yeah. And really, I never thought I would have the constitution to torture someone.
Friend: On the plus side, after the tomatoes witnessed what you did, I doubt you will have any trouble getting answers out of them. Oh, and please do not mock-execute my dog, I swear he knows nothing.
Me: [Putting down the pineapple] I think I need to call my Pastor...
So yes, I will not be spending the night at anyone's house in the near future, thin sheen of bleach or not.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Julie Makes Fun of Print Ads
For a while now, I've found the pro-high fructose corn syrup ads endearing. A nosy mother at a kid's birthday gets her comeuppance from another mother posing the question, "Well just how much do you allow them to eat, bitch?" Okay, that's not really how the dialogue goes, but I like that the message behind all these ads is one of personal accountability.
First Mom: "My Jimmy is fat from high fructose corn syrup!"
Second Mom: "Yeah! I wonder where he gets all that food filled with chemicals? We should hire a goddamn detective."
Beautiful. Rarely in advertising history have I seen something so honest. "It's fine in moderation" like chemotherapy!
Stop feeding your kids gushers for lunch and maybe they won't be so porktastic. I love it!
It didn't even bother me that these ads were paid for by "corn refiners" not the "corn producers" who's kids would love to be able to get fat like the rest of us if their parent's farm wasn't failing.
Then I began seeing print ads in one of my favorite monthlies, Everyday Food:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Thirds_Revised.pdf
Another hilarious one! A little angry on the surface, but still great nonetheless. The next one worried me a little:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Dry%20Cleaner.pdf
Okay Corn Refiners Association, I work with my hands. My friends work with their hands. Just because whoever thought of this ad campaign spends all day sitting on their ass working on "synergy", "concepts" and "buyability" doesn't mean those of us who work in the concrete realm are stupid. I may wait on you in a restaurant, arrange your flowers, bag your groceries or "press your shirts", but that doesn't mean I can't spot a fatty eating a Twinkie. It just so happens Twinkies are FILLED with your product, right?
The next ad made my blood boil, convincing me that high fructose corn syrup is the devil:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Hairdresser.pdf
"Silly bitch! You can't trust a woman, especially a poor one! Go use your health care and talk to your doctor for $75/10 fucking minutes and find out what you should feed your kids, because you didn't know before."
Do not even get me started on the fact that a man is getting his shirts cleaned, but a woman is getting her hair done.Or the subtle fact that men are worried about getting fat, but woman need to, say it with me now: help. the. children.
I could take the condescension because I think we all really need to look at our eating habits and make a change. But do you know why we use high fructose corn syrup? Because it come cheap. Do you know who buys cheap food loaded with it? Poor mothers. This is just another excuse to feel better about ourselves at the expense of everyone else.
First Mom: "My Jimmy is fat from high fructose corn syrup!"
Second Mom: "Yeah! I wonder where he gets all that food filled with chemicals? We should hire a goddamn detective."
Beautiful. Rarely in advertising history have I seen something so honest. "It's fine in moderation" like chemotherapy!
Stop feeding your kids gushers for lunch and maybe they won't be so porktastic. I love it!
It didn't even bother me that these ads were paid for by "corn refiners" not the "corn producers" who's kids would love to be able to get fat like the rest of us if their parent's farm wasn't failing.
Then I began seeing print ads in one of my favorite monthlies, Everyday Food:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Thirds_Revised.pdf
Another hilarious one! A little angry on the surface, but still great nonetheless. The next one worried me a little:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Dry%20Cleaner.pdf
Okay Corn Refiners Association, I work with my hands. My friends work with their hands. Just because whoever thought of this ad campaign spends all day sitting on their ass working on "synergy", "concepts" and "buyability" doesn't mean those of us who work in the concrete realm are stupid. I may wait on you in a restaurant, arrange your flowers, bag your groceries or "press your shirts", but that doesn't mean I can't spot a fatty eating a Twinkie. It just so happens Twinkies are FILLED with your product, right?
The next ad made my blood boil, convincing me that high fructose corn syrup is the devil:
http://www.sweetsurprise.com/sites/default/files/Hairdresser.pdf
"Silly bitch! You can't trust a woman, especially a poor one! Go use your health care and talk to your doctor for $75/10 fucking minutes and find out what you should feed your kids, because you didn't know before."
Do not even get me started on the fact that a man is getting his shirts cleaned, but a woman is getting her hair done.Or the subtle fact that men are worried about getting fat, but woman need to, say it with me now: help. the. children.
I could take the condescension because I think we all really need to look at our eating habits and make a change. But do you know why we use high fructose corn syrup? Because it come cheap. Do you know who buys cheap food loaded with it? Poor mothers. This is just another excuse to feel better about ourselves at the expense of everyone else.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Why I Hate WebMD
I hate using WebMD. Usually when something is wrong, I just start adding symptoms to google and hit "search" and see what it turns up. The reason I hate WebMD is because it keeps telling me I have cancer. And, more specifically, BRAIN CANCER.
Me: I have stomach pains.
WebMD: Congratulations! You have brain cancer!
_______________________________________
Me: I have loose stools (side note - never thought I would write that for the whole world to see)
WebMD: Congratulations! You have brain cancer!
_______________________________________
Me: I have a headache
WebMD: Congratulations! You have a brain tumor! It's probably cancerous.
_______________________________________
So, on Friday, when I got a double nose bleed, I googled "nose bleed" and of course absent-mindedly clicked on the WebMD link. And guess what it said?
No! Not that! What a filthy potty mouth you have!
It told me I needed a cold compress. I was kind of surprised. I mean, I always thought a nose bleed was one of the signs of a brain tumor. Who knew?
You know what I do like? Samosas and roller skating. I thought I would add something I did like because this is such a downer of a post, you know? You can't mention brain cancer that many times and make it a upbeat post, though I did give it a try. Though I would not enjoy samosas and roller skating at the same time, unless you actually have some semblance of coordination, unlike me. Though that may be a side of effect of something...let me check WebMD...
Me: I have stomach pains.
WebMD: Congratulations! You have brain cancer!
_______________________________________
Me: I have loose stools (side note - never thought I would write that for the whole world to see)
WebMD: Congratulations! You have brain cancer!
_______________________________________
Me: I have a headache
WebMD: Congratulations! You have a brain tumor! It's probably cancerous.
_______________________________________
So, on Friday, when I got a double nose bleed, I googled "nose bleed" and of course absent-mindedly clicked on the WebMD link. And guess what it said?
No! Not that! What a filthy potty mouth you have!
It told me I needed a cold compress. I was kind of surprised. I mean, I always thought a nose bleed was one of the signs of a brain tumor. Who knew?
You know what I do like? Samosas and roller skating. I thought I would add something I did like because this is such a downer of a post, you know? You can't mention brain cancer that many times and make it a upbeat post, though I did give it a try. Though I would not enjoy samosas and roller skating at the same time, unless you actually have some semblance of coordination, unlike me. Though that may be a side of effect of something...let me check WebMD...
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Warning: Swearing Next 3 Miles
(I am stressed out right now, so this may not be that funny. Sorry.)
Yesterday, Eric and I were on our way to Medieval Times - Dinner and Tournament to meet up with some friends. One of our friends was kind enough to gift us with tickets to it, and I have never been there, so I was a bit excited. We started out on our journey in the middle of rush hour. We left a little bit early to accommodate all the traffic we would run into. What we were not expecting, however, is what we actually would run into.
A SUV's Car Door.
No, we didn't hit anyone. It was just lying in the middle of the highway, like, hey there, I dropped off of someone's car, I'll just sit here and wait until they get back to reclaim me. There were cars on either side of us, and we had no choice but to hit it.
Immediately we knew there was something wrong with our car. So, we pull over. I kept repeating to myself "It's just a flat tire, it's just a flat tire, it's just a flat tire." Because tires are relatively cheap, and I'm a girl who apparently likes to live in a fantasy world.
But no. Instead, I get out of the car to inspect it, and there's no blown tires. Instead, I notice that there is no longer an oil pan under the car, and we are leaking oil rapidly.
"SHUT THE %$#@%$ CAR OFF ERIC! NOW! WE'RE LEAKING OIL! NOWWWWWW!" Is pretty much what I screamed at him. Only, you know, with a little more words in there that start with the letters M & F.
For those of you who do not know - if you even start gushing oil out of your car - TURN IT OFF IMMEDIATELY. If you learn nothing else but this little fact from this blog, I will die a happy woman. Cars cannot run without oil. Not for 5 seconds. The engine will seize (read: fuse together into one giant chunk of useless expensive paperweight.) and your car will be considered totaled. And you will be considered SCREWED.
Also, ladies, knee down and take a look under your car, and while you're at it, open the hood and look at the engine block. Try to remember what everything looks like when it's working. Seriously, it's worth the five minutes, so later, when something does happen, you don't have to sound like an idiot saying to the mechanic "Was that dangly thing always there?" You don't need to know the name of the dangly thing, you just need to know what it looked like before you hit a Mercedes Benz's Driver's Side door.
Yeah, it was from a Mercedes. The door we hit was probably worth more than OUR CAR.
We get back into the car, call Triple A (best gift I have ever bought myself!), call the insurance company, and call my friend Leah so she can google mechanics.
We end up taking it to the dealership (I am wincing too at how much THAT is going to cost) and got a ride home with the tow truck driver.
Now, here is what I have learned from this experience:
When something like this happens, my reaction is usually
If there was nothing I can do about it, and what is done is done
Then I cannot be upset about it
Therefore I must move onto working how to fix what I cannot control by working on what I can control.
Notice the complete lack of emotion in my decision making process. I am the ONLY person I know who thinks and acts this way. We got into an accident - there was no way of avoiding it - I will work on fixing the car and getting a rental car.
Eric's process is more like Ed Norton in Fight Club - "I should have done better, now I am going to spend the next three days beating myself up about this." The man would physically punch himself if I were not around, I swear. And really, this boils down to being my problem. And no, I am not being a total girl by saying "he's upset, I must have done something wrong!" it's more along the lines of "I cannot understand why he is upset, therefore, I will dismiss his feelings about it." By having this reaction, I tend to make him more upset.
He's still really angry about it. Not the me part, the accident part. And I probably should be too. But I am not.
What I AM upset about, however, is the Enterprise Rent-a-Car people. They were about to close, and we were still stuck on the side of the highway. So I call them up to try and see if they will rent us a car, and run my credit card over the phone.
Them: "Enterprise, how can I help you?"
Me: "I need a car, like now, can I order one over the phone?"
Them: "Ma'am, we close in 10 minutes. You can rent one tomorrow."
Me: "I need one tonight. Can I give you my credit card info over the phone and rent one right now?"
Them: "Uh, no. You can come in tomorrow though."
Me: "No, I can't. I need one tonight. My fiance needs to get to work at 6 a.m. tomorrow."
Them: "We open at 7:30."
Me: "Do you not understand math or something?"
*click*
So I guess what I am saying is I am now an Avis Girl. And a special thanks to Enterprise, for, you know, going that extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction.
Oh, and a really special thanks to the world, for you know, the hospital bills, the car bills, my lack of job, no job prospects, a shitty mortgage, Eric's job that is getting more and more stressful, Sheryl dying, and all around taking the time to shit on us all at once. Really, that was steller.
Yesterday, Eric and I were on our way to Medieval Times - Dinner and Tournament to meet up with some friends. One of our friends was kind enough to gift us with tickets to it, and I have never been there, so I was a bit excited. We started out on our journey in the middle of rush hour. We left a little bit early to accommodate all the traffic we would run into. What we were not expecting, however, is what we actually would run into.
A SUV's Car Door.
No, we didn't hit anyone. It was just lying in the middle of the highway, like, hey there, I dropped off of someone's car, I'll just sit here and wait until they get back to reclaim me. There were cars on either side of us, and we had no choice but to hit it.
Immediately we knew there was something wrong with our car. So, we pull over. I kept repeating to myself "It's just a flat tire, it's just a flat tire, it's just a flat tire." Because tires are relatively cheap, and I'm a girl who apparently likes to live in a fantasy world.
But no. Instead, I get out of the car to inspect it, and there's no blown tires. Instead, I notice that there is no longer an oil pan under the car, and we are leaking oil rapidly.
"SHUT THE %$#@%$ CAR OFF ERIC! NOW! WE'RE LEAKING OIL! NOWWWWWW!" Is pretty much what I screamed at him. Only, you know, with a little more words in there that start with the letters M & F.
For those of you who do not know - if you even start gushing oil out of your car - TURN IT OFF IMMEDIATELY. If you learn nothing else but this little fact from this blog, I will die a happy woman. Cars cannot run without oil. Not for 5 seconds. The engine will seize (read: fuse together into one giant chunk of useless expensive paperweight.) and your car will be considered totaled. And you will be considered SCREWED.
Also, ladies, knee down and take a look under your car, and while you're at it, open the hood and look at the engine block. Try to remember what everything looks like when it's working. Seriously, it's worth the five minutes, so later, when something does happen, you don't have to sound like an idiot saying to the mechanic "Was that dangly thing always there?" You don't need to know the name of the dangly thing, you just need to know what it looked like before you hit a Mercedes Benz's Driver's Side door.
Yeah, it was from a Mercedes. The door we hit was probably worth more than OUR CAR.
We get back into the car, call Triple A (best gift I have ever bought myself!), call the insurance company, and call my friend Leah so she can google mechanics.
We end up taking it to the dealership (I am wincing too at how much THAT is going to cost) and got a ride home with the tow truck driver.
Now, here is what I have learned from this experience:
When something like this happens, my reaction is usually
If there was nothing I can do about it, and what is done is done
Then I cannot be upset about it
Therefore I must move onto working how to fix what I cannot control by working on what I can control.
Notice the complete lack of emotion in my decision making process. I am the ONLY person I know who thinks and acts this way. We got into an accident - there was no way of avoiding it - I will work on fixing the car and getting a rental car.
Eric's process is more like Ed Norton in Fight Club - "I should have done better, now I am going to spend the next three days beating myself up about this." The man would physically punch himself if I were not around, I swear. And really, this boils down to being my problem. And no, I am not being a total girl by saying "he's upset, I must have done something wrong!" it's more along the lines of "I cannot understand why he is upset, therefore, I will dismiss his feelings about it." By having this reaction, I tend to make him more upset.
He's still really angry about it. Not the me part, the accident part. And I probably should be too. But I am not.
What I AM upset about, however, is the Enterprise Rent-a-Car people. They were about to close, and we were still stuck on the side of the highway. So I call them up to try and see if they will rent us a car, and run my credit card over the phone.
Them: "Enterprise, how can I help you?"
Me: "I need a car, like now, can I order one over the phone?"
Them: "Ma'am, we close in 10 minutes. You can rent one tomorrow."
Me: "I need one tonight. Can I give you my credit card info over the phone and rent one right now?"
Them: "Uh, no. You can come in tomorrow though."
Me: "No, I can't. I need one tonight. My fiance needs to get to work at 6 a.m. tomorrow."
Them: "We open at 7:30."
Me: "Do you not understand math or something?"
*click*
So I guess what I am saying is I am now an Avis Girl. And a special thanks to Enterprise, for, you know, going that extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction.
Oh, and a really special thanks to the world, for you know, the hospital bills, the car bills, my lack of job, no job prospects, a shitty mortgage, Eric's job that is getting more and more stressful, Sheryl dying, and all around taking the time to shit on us all at once. Really, that was steller.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ok, here's some things I have been thinking about for the last couple of days and have been wanting to comment on (still sick, but the way...so this may be all over the place.)
1. Family Guy vs. the Parents Television Council. (Yes, I did just link to Perez Hilton, and yes, I am quite ashamed of myself.) Ok, this is just BS. The PTC is trying to get it's members to write in to the FCC complaining about the show. Here's my beef - if you didn't see the show and have the opportunity to get offended you should not write in. I get it - we're in America - everyone has a right to complain about whatever they want whenever they want as long as it isn't along the lines of "there's a serious lack of FIRE in this THEATER!"
But seriously - it's Family Guy, were you expecting to NOT be offended? That is their bread and butter. And it's no secret that I think the FCC is a big bunch of hooey to begin with.
2. Octomom. Ok, there's a big big big difference between criticizing a human being and a faceless organization. That being said, I am not going to criticize this woman. Instead, I will just tell you what I would have done in her situation if I found myself in her situation:
- I would never be in her situation. I can't even fathom what she was thinking.
- I get that she had fertilized embryos and she didn't want them to go to waste. I would have instead (get your hate-email fingers ready) have donated them to stem-cell research. Read up on it. And I know this offends those of you who are anti-choice. And that's fine, see #1 on this list! But seriously, never in my right mind would I ever risk having that many fertilized eggs implanted in me.
-For the record, I have no problem with in-vitro or anything else that people do to get pregnant. What you want to do with your money is your thing. I cannot even imagine what it must be like to want a baby and not be able to have one. But I do not think Octomom should be the spokeswoman for fertility treatments, as that does a HUGE disservice to everyone who has ever undergone the treatment or is considering it.
Those three things being said, here's what I do not have a problem with:
-The State's Money: I, unlike a lot of people who have discussed this, do not see a problem with her living off of the state. WHY, you scream at your computer screen? Well, because if she needs the help then she should get it. Imagine there's a lever that you could pull that would cut off all welfare funding, would you be able to pull the lever? I know I wouldn't be able to. I get that she spent the state's money on plastic surgery to look like Angelina Jolie (ewwwwwww...did you see Wanted? She was naked in that movie and it just KILLED her attraction for me. Sorry, Angelina) and she should be made to pay back that money if that is indeed what she did with it.
"She's Shilling herself and her children for money!" Yeah, she I got nothing on this one. I uhhhh kind of run a blog ...so yeah. And heck, if you can make money doing it, then do it. So far, no one is getting hurt. And there is a difference between offended and hurt, for the record.
"She's doing a disservice to her children by having so many children." Ok, it's no secret that I grew up Catholic. This means that I grew up around a whole lot of large Catholic families. My mother is one of seven. Eric's mother? One of eleven. I went to school with people who had fifteen siblings. None of them ever felt like they weren't loved as much as their siblings. Sure, there were times they felt they didn't get as much attention or weren't treated fairly. But - being from a family of three children - I can say the same thing.
"She isn't married, and the father isn't in the picture." Again, I have no problem with this. See, the thing is, with all the wedding planning going on, Eric and I kind of agreed on something - if this weren't important to our families, we wouldn't be doing it. We would do some hippy "commitment ceremony" or something. But his mother has this saying "make me a mother-in-law before you make me a grandmother." Hence, a wedding.
Yes, it's true that if you have the father of your children in the picture in order to keep them off drugs or out of jail or whathaveyou. But I have quite suddenly become a believer in unconventional families. A lot (over 75%) of my female friends have children and are not married. And I never really saw a problem with it. What actually made me a believer in unconventional families is Logan. I don't know anyone in our group of friends who doesn't kind of view him as our groups' mascot. He's everybody's little buddy, and we would all welcome him into our homes.
Is that normal? FUCK NO. Not by nuclear family standards. Is the kid going to grow up to be a smack addict? Probably not.
So, in conclusion on this whole Octomom debacle - I think we should just leave her alone. Because, in all this hoopla, everyone seems to have an opinion about what is best for her children, but what would be best for her children is to have a normal childhood, even if it isn't a nuclear normal childhood.
3) Megan McCain vs. Ann Coulter. MEGAN HONEY WAY TO PICK ONE HELLUVA FIGHT! And I, for one, back you 100%. The woman is VILE. The Republican party needs to get its head out of its ass and stop backing Ann. And Rush. These knee-jerk right wing assholes will be the downfall of the party in the next election if they're not curbed now. And congrats to Megan, for being the first of your party to point it out. Megan, it sucks now, what with all the backlash, and I know it's lonely out there in first place. And I know you're getting criticized for voting for Kerry, but look at the last four years under Bush, Kerry may not have been much better, but at least you aren't a drone voting for who your dad tells you to. You're intelligent and well-spoken, and I look forward to reading more from you. You represent the American people far better than Ann does - you vote based off of what you think is right - not spewing dis-information on the American public. And good for you.
Ok, that's it for now. I look forward to getting four emails filled with hate-words and accusations of calling me "liberal filth." Jokes on you, assholes, I am going to have a t-shirt printed with the words "Liberal Filth" on it and wear it as a badge of honor.
Plus I know I can always discount your opinion before I even open the email because you're sending it from an AOL email address, and really, who still uses AOL? Just pay the extra $5 a month and get DSL.
1. Family Guy vs. the Parents Television Council. (Yes, I did just link to Perez Hilton, and yes, I am quite ashamed of myself.) Ok, this is just BS. The PTC is trying to get it's members to write in to the FCC complaining about the show. Here's my beef - if you didn't see the show and have the opportunity to get offended you should not write in. I get it - we're in America - everyone has a right to complain about whatever they want whenever they want as long as it isn't along the lines of "there's a serious lack of FIRE in this THEATER!"
But seriously - it's Family Guy, were you expecting to NOT be offended? That is their bread and butter. And it's no secret that I think the FCC is a big bunch of hooey to begin with.
2. Octomom. Ok, there's a big big big difference between criticizing a human being and a faceless organization. That being said, I am not going to criticize this woman. Instead, I will just tell you what I would have done in her situation if I found myself in her situation:
- I would never be in her situation. I can't even fathom what she was thinking.
- I get that she had fertilized embryos and she didn't want them to go to waste. I would have instead (get your hate-email fingers ready) have donated them to stem-cell research. Read up on it. And I know this offends those of you who are anti-choice. And that's fine, see #1 on this list! But seriously, never in my right mind would I ever risk having that many fertilized eggs implanted in me.
-For the record, I have no problem with in-vitro or anything else that people do to get pregnant. What you want to do with your money is your thing. I cannot even imagine what it must be like to want a baby and not be able to have one. But I do not think Octomom should be the spokeswoman for fertility treatments, as that does a HUGE disservice to everyone who has ever undergone the treatment or is considering it.
Those three things being said, here's what I do not have a problem with:
-The State's Money: I, unlike a lot of people who have discussed this, do not see a problem with her living off of the state. WHY, you scream at your computer screen? Well, because if she needs the help then she should get it. Imagine there's a lever that you could pull that would cut off all welfare funding, would you be able to pull the lever? I know I wouldn't be able to. I get that she spent the state's money on plastic surgery to look like Angelina Jolie (ewwwwwww...did you see Wanted? She was naked in that movie and it just KILLED her attraction for me. Sorry, Angelina) and she should be made to pay back that money if that is indeed what she did with it.
"She's Shilling herself and her children for money!" Yeah, she I got nothing on this one. I uhhhh kind of run a blog ...so yeah. And heck, if you can make money doing it, then do it. So far, no one is getting hurt. And there is a difference between offended and hurt, for the record.
"She's doing a disservice to her children by having so many children." Ok, it's no secret that I grew up Catholic. This means that I grew up around a whole lot of large Catholic families. My mother is one of seven. Eric's mother? One of eleven. I went to school with people who had fifteen siblings. None of them ever felt like they weren't loved as much as their siblings. Sure, there were times they felt they didn't get as much attention or weren't treated fairly. But - being from a family of three children - I can say the same thing.
"She isn't married, and the father isn't in the picture." Again, I have no problem with this. See, the thing is, with all the wedding planning going on, Eric and I kind of agreed on something - if this weren't important to our families, we wouldn't be doing it. We would do some hippy "commitment ceremony" or something. But his mother has this saying "make me a mother-in-law before you make me a grandmother." Hence, a wedding.
Yes, it's true that if you have the father of your children in the picture in order to keep them off drugs or out of jail or whathaveyou. But I have quite suddenly become a believer in unconventional families. A lot (over 75%) of my female friends have children and are not married. And I never really saw a problem with it. What actually made me a believer in unconventional families is Logan. I don't know anyone in our group of friends who doesn't kind of view him as our groups' mascot. He's everybody's little buddy, and we would all welcome him into our homes.
Is that normal? FUCK NO. Not by nuclear family standards. Is the kid going to grow up to be a smack addict? Probably not.
So, in conclusion on this whole Octomom debacle - I think we should just leave her alone. Because, in all this hoopla, everyone seems to have an opinion about what is best for her children, but what would be best for her children is to have a normal childhood, even if it isn't a nuclear normal childhood.
3) Megan McCain vs. Ann Coulter. MEGAN HONEY WAY TO PICK ONE HELLUVA FIGHT! And I, for one, back you 100%. The woman is VILE. The Republican party needs to get its head out of its ass and stop backing Ann. And Rush. These knee-jerk right wing assholes will be the downfall of the party in the next election if they're not curbed now. And congrats to Megan, for being the first of your party to point it out. Megan, it sucks now, what with all the backlash, and I know it's lonely out there in first place. And I know you're getting criticized for voting for Kerry, but look at the last four years under Bush, Kerry may not have been much better, but at least you aren't a drone voting for who your dad tells you to. You're intelligent and well-spoken, and I look forward to reading more from you. You represent the American people far better than Ann does - you vote based off of what you think is right - not spewing dis-information on the American public. And good for you.
Ok, that's it for now. I look forward to getting four emails filled with hate-words and accusations of calling me "liberal filth." Jokes on you, assholes, I am going to have a t-shirt printed with the words "Liberal Filth" on it and wear it as a badge of honor.
Plus I know I can always discount your opinion before I even open the email because you're sending it from an AOL email address, and really, who still uses AOL? Just pay the extra $5 a month and get DSL.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Watch Me Sell Out!
So, in my fever-addled brain - I got an idea. A really GOOD idea.
I am going to take out an advertisement in the Chicago Red Eye with my resume and a link to a new website (obbbbbviously not this one...) where I post pictures of myself next to my accomplishments in the business world. As well as my resume.
The Red Eye is a commuter paper (i.e. it's free and EVERYWHERE!) and I do not know anyone who doesn't read it.
So, I contacted Jenny McCabe at the Red Eye advertising office, and she was nice enough to (quite quickly, might I add) email me back a quote for how much my quarter page ad would cost.
(We're about to find out if Jenny McCabe has Google Alerts activated or not...)
$400.00 AMERICAN. ($400 is for a quarter page ad on a Tuesday. It's $800 Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.)
She gave me a discount, which is pretty darn awesome. But still - I do not have $400.
What I DO have is great experience, a knack for web design (uh duh), and a great sense for marketing. And an undying thirst for A JOB.
So here's what I am asking for:
Do you have $20 you could donate to me trying to advertise to get a new job? If so - please send me an email at superenna@gmail.com and I will send you my paypal account information, and you can transfer me some money.
I can make up $200 pretty easily. I just need the other $200.
Here's what YOU will get for your sponsorship- a special thanks from me, for starters, for helping me find a job. And a link to your blog or favorite charitable organization or really, whatever you want. As long as it isn't hardcore porn or something.
Think about this - my ad will be seen by 400,000 people. Which means if you donate - so will YOUR BLOG LINK. $20 = 400,000 views. Do the math people.
(And, for the record, I feel like a complete asshole turning to the internet to ask for money. Feel free to point this out to me. But trust me, I already feel like an asshole.)
The gist is - I need a job. I have exhausted all avenues already. Companies I talk to are complaining that when they put up an ad, they get completely overrun with resumes that are not qualified. The rest of us who only apply for the job they are qualified for just get mixed in with the rest.
I WANT TO WORK. Ever since I saw Cinderella Man, I have the idea in my head that I need to pay back all the unemployment I have taken so far. Now, that's a lofty goal for a young unemployed lady like myself. But what I can promise is by the end of 2009, I will pay back anyone who sent me money to help me advertise for a job. Seriously. If you want interest, let me know.
Ok, that's it for today folks. Sorry about the GIMMIE MONEY post, but I am getting desperate.
UPDATE Uh nevermind...I already have someone willing to donate all the money. So I guess look for my resume in the RedEye soon!
I am going to take out an advertisement in the Chicago Red Eye with my resume and a link to a new website (obbbbbviously not this one...) where I post pictures of myself next to my accomplishments in the business world. As well as my resume.
The Red Eye is a commuter paper (i.e. it's free and EVERYWHERE!) and I do not know anyone who doesn't read it.
So, I contacted Jenny McCabe at the Red Eye advertising office, and she was nice enough to (quite quickly, might I add) email me back a quote for how much my quarter page ad would cost.
(We're about to find out if Jenny McCabe has Google Alerts activated or not...)
$400.00 AMERICAN. ($400 is for a quarter page ad on a Tuesday. It's $800 Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.)
She gave me a discount, which is pretty darn awesome. But still - I do not have $400.
What I DO have is great experience, a knack for web design (uh duh), and a great sense for marketing. And an undying thirst for A JOB.
So here's what I am asking for:
Do you have $20 you could donate to me trying to advertise to get a new job? If so - please send me an email at superenna@gmail.com and I will send you my paypal account information, and you can transfer me some money.
I can make up $200 pretty easily. I just need the other $200.
Here's what YOU will get for your sponsorship- a special thanks from me, for starters, for helping me find a job. And a link to your blog or favorite charitable organization or really, whatever you want. As long as it isn't hardcore porn or something.
Think about this - my ad will be seen by 400,000 people. Which means if you donate - so will YOUR BLOG LINK. $20 = 400,000 views. Do the math people.
(And, for the record, I feel like a complete asshole turning to the internet to ask for money. Feel free to point this out to me. But trust me, I already feel like an asshole.)
The gist is - I need a job. I have exhausted all avenues already. Companies I talk to are complaining that when they put up an ad, they get completely overrun with resumes that are not qualified. The rest of us who only apply for the job they are qualified for just get mixed in with the rest.
I WANT TO WORK. Ever since I saw Cinderella Man, I have the idea in my head that I need to pay back all the unemployment I have taken so far. Now, that's a lofty goal for a young unemployed lady like myself. But what I can promise is by the end of 2009, I will pay back anyone who sent me money to help me advertise for a job. Seriously. If you want interest, let me know.
Ok, that's it for today folks. Sorry about the GIMMIE MONEY post, but I am getting desperate.
UPDATE Uh nevermind...I already have someone willing to donate all the money. So I guess look for my resume in the RedEye soon!
Monday, March 9, 2009
Status Update
So this post might be all over the place because I am pretty tired. I took Eric to the hospital on Sunday, and he got released on Monday morning. I am not going to go into why I took him, mostly because it is no ones business but his own - but worry not my peeps, it turned out to be nothing too serious.
I have gotten a request to write about the Octomom (hi Thomas!) and let me tell you why I am not blogging about that right now: I am in no way sympathetic to children and mothers today. See, I have a big bad cold because someone let their kid run around the hospital waiting room sneezing and coughing without covering their mouths (mouth? What tense am I even writing in here?) And I was busy trying to cover Eric's face while he was stretched out waiting to get called so he didn't get even sicker. So today, I wake up all groggy and half awake from sleeping in a chair with my face an sinuses all clogged and thinking to myself fuck that little kid! That kid is the best birth control I have ever seen! That will last me a decade - fuck you little Birth Control Benjamin!
So, yeah, if I wrote about the Octomom it would just be a diatribe about how someone needs to put her ass in some stirrups and shove them back in, and no one wants to read that shit, plus it would garner me some angry replies. Not today sir, not today.
In other news, here's a review of sorts - Good Samaritan hospital in Downers Grove is the greatest hospital I have ever been to. I wish I had the foresight to write down the nurse's name, because she was witty and sarcastic and all around awesome. Plus she gave us a kiddie room - there were fish on our walls! FISH! And a flat screen TV that when I turned it on it pointed directly at the chapel in the hospital. But they had CABLE!
Seriously though, the channel that only showed the chapel gave me a whole bunch of ideas that I can only say came directly from the devil. Or sleep deprivation. Watch the police blotter in the next couple of weeks because seriously some of these ideas need to be acted upon.
But the nurse was fricken awesome. And so was the doctor. The doctor was straight out of the 1950s - he was this soft spoken white haired gentleman who has an excellent bedside manner. He was straight out of a Norman Rockwell! If he had busted out with a British accent I would not have been surprised in the slightest - that is how nice and polite he was.
Everyone also stressed to us something we had not thought about - and perhaps you haven't either - we need a primary care physician. See, we HAD one - Dr. Thomas Joseph in Evergreen Park, IL. When we both lived on the south side - this is where we went for EVERYTHING. The guy is amazing. He speaks like 14 languages, does the whole Doctors Without Borders thing (or something similar) and charges everything as a checkup. See, I didn't have insurance with my last job for like 3 years. I wasn't a temp or anything, the company just didn't have health insurance. I used to get sick and go there and tell him I had no insurance. I could have had a railroad spike through my head and I could walk in and tell him to fix me but I didn't have insurance and he would be like *pop* "you're all fixed, that will be $50." Ironically, when I got insurance, the co-pay WAS $50. Thanks insurance...I think?
So yeah, we need a primary care physician in the western burbs, because it was even in caps on Eric's bracelet "NO PRIMARY CARE PHYS." It should have just said "FAILURES AS ADULTS" or "THANK GOD THEY DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN." The awesome-nameless nurse also told us some important information for when we do have children: a fever is not cause to go to the ER, a three day fever is not cause to go to the ER, seizures because of a fever ARE cause to go to the ER. The first two? YOU GO TO YOUR PRIMARY CARE PHYSICIAN FOR THOSE. We were both like "ooooooooooh" in unison.
So I guess the conclusion is my head is all over the place here and we need a doctor. Oh, and I still need a job and some insurance so I can, you know, go to a normal doctor. Oh and Birth Control Benjamin needs a slap in the mouth, Sean Connery style. Oh and finally Good Samaritan Hospital needs to beef up security around their chapel because it's only a matter of time before I make a contraption that snaps the Bible shut and a recording goes off in a demonic voice that says "JESUS SAYS TO LEASH YOUR CHILD! HE'S A BRAT!"
So...yeah.
I have gotten a request to write about the Octomom (hi Thomas!) and let me tell you why I am not blogging about that right now: I am in no way sympathetic to children and mothers today. See, I have a big bad cold because someone let their kid run around the hospital waiting room sneezing and coughing without covering their mouths (mouth? What tense am I even writing in here?) And I was busy trying to cover Eric's face while he was stretched out waiting to get called so he didn't get even sicker. So today, I wake up all groggy and half awake from sleeping in a chair with my face an sinuses all clogged and thinking to myself fuck that little kid! That kid is the best birth control I have ever seen! That will last me a decade - fuck you little Birth Control Benjamin!
So, yeah, if I wrote about the Octomom it would just be a diatribe about how someone needs to put her ass in some stirrups and shove them back in, and no one wants to read that shit, plus it would garner me some angry replies. Not today sir, not today.
In other news, here's a review of sorts - Good Samaritan hospital in Downers Grove is the greatest hospital I have ever been to. I wish I had the foresight to write down the nurse's name, because she was witty and sarcastic and all around awesome. Plus she gave us a kiddie room - there were fish on our walls! FISH! And a flat screen TV that when I turned it on it pointed directly at the chapel in the hospital. But they had CABLE!
Seriously though, the channel that only showed the chapel gave me a whole bunch of ideas that I can only say came directly from the devil. Or sleep deprivation. Watch the police blotter in the next couple of weeks because seriously some of these ideas need to be acted upon.
But the nurse was fricken awesome. And so was the doctor. The doctor was straight out of the 1950s - he was this soft spoken white haired gentleman who has an excellent bedside manner. He was straight out of a Norman Rockwell! If he had busted out with a British accent I would not have been surprised in the slightest - that is how nice and polite he was.
Everyone also stressed to us something we had not thought about - and perhaps you haven't either - we need a primary care physician. See, we HAD one - Dr. Thomas Joseph in Evergreen Park, IL. When we both lived on the south side - this is where we went for EVERYTHING. The guy is amazing. He speaks like 14 languages, does the whole Doctors Without Borders thing (or something similar) and charges everything as a checkup. See, I didn't have insurance with my last job for like 3 years. I wasn't a temp or anything, the company just didn't have health insurance. I used to get sick and go there and tell him I had no insurance. I could have had a railroad spike through my head and I could walk in and tell him to fix me but I didn't have insurance and he would be like *pop* "you're all fixed, that will be $50." Ironically, when I got insurance, the co-pay WAS $50. Thanks insurance...I think?
So yeah, we need a primary care physician in the western burbs, because it was even in caps on Eric's bracelet "NO PRIMARY CARE PHYS." It should have just said "FAILURES AS ADULTS" or "THANK GOD THEY DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN." The awesome-nameless nurse also told us some important information for when we do have children: a fever is not cause to go to the ER, a three day fever is not cause to go to the ER, seizures because of a fever ARE cause to go to the ER. The first two? YOU GO TO YOUR PRIMARY CARE PHYSICIAN FOR THOSE. We were both like "ooooooooooh" in unison.
So I guess the conclusion is my head is all over the place here and we need a doctor. Oh, and I still need a job and some insurance so I can, you know, go to a normal doctor. Oh and Birth Control Benjamin needs a slap in the mouth, Sean Connery style. Oh and finally Good Samaritan Hospital needs to beef up security around their chapel because it's only a matter of time before I make a contraption that snaps the Bible shut and a recording goes off in a demonic voice that says "JESUS SAYS TO LEASH YOUR CHILD! HE'S A BRAT!"
So...yeah.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
How to Get Rid of a Non-Existant Car
As you well know, I have owed a plethora of shitty cars in my day. One of which, apparently, was not a car.
See, we bought this car off of my cousin, transferred the title to my name, and the car only lasted about 2 months. It broke down, and I had it towed back to my parents house and into their garage. After my brother looked at it, he just shook his head. Even if he COULD get the car to run again, the frame was entirely made up of rust, and therefore it was unsafe to drive.
So, I waited for the title to come in the mail so I could just junk it, or donate it, and get the tax write off. A couple months go by, and no title. Nothing. So I head on down to the local currency exchange and pay the money to get a new title, stating that the old one was "lost."
So we wait a little more time, and without fail, the title doesn't come. In the meantime, my father wanted his garage back, so we were forced to move the car. So, we, in the middle of the night (less traffic if something went wrong) we move it to my friend George's Mother's driveway. I leave all the doors unlocked, and the keys in the ignition. At this point, I am just hoping someone just STEALS THE DANG THING.
I head to the local DMV, and pay again to try to get a copy of the title. Once again, months go by, and nothing. Finally I got to the State of Illinois building, armed with every piece of identifying information a person can HAVE about the car and myself, and try to get a copy of the title.
"See what your problem is" says the lady at the state office, "is it's not a car. That VIN doesn't exist."
"WHAT?!" I say? "Check again, I bought it off my cousin, and she is the squeakiest cleanest person I know!" She checks three more times. My car does not exist.
(Nevermind I paid TWICE for a replacement title, and no one took the time to tell me that there IS NO TITLE.)
While all of this is happening, my friend's mother is growing concerned. Someone stole the keys out of the car, and left all the doors and windows wide open. Someone else stole the battery out of the car (a smart move, considering that was probably the most expensive piece of the car.)
I was at a loss as of what to do. No one recognized the car as a car. I couldn't junk it without the title, nor could I sell it, or donate it.
And that was when I realized something: If I took the plates off of it, and canceled the insurance, there was no way of tracking it back to me.
With the help of my brother, I decided to get rid of the car the only way I knew how: through the city of Chicago's towing system.
We pushed the car out into the street, and then I got into the car, put it into neutral, and he slowly pushed the car from behind with his car. We pushed it to the local public school down the block, and parked it across three handicapped spaces in the teacher's parking lot. See, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone, but I wanted to absolutely make sure that it was towed.
I opened all the doors and windows and trunk on it, and that is when I noticed the family of possums living in the backseat. And all the spiders in the car. Which made me do the heebie jeebie bee gees dance in the parking lot.
I ended up screaming at the car after it was all said and done, which made my sister and brother laugh until they almost peed themselves.I was mostly angry I exposed myself to black widows and rabies for something that doesn't exist according to the government.
The next morning, the car was towed by the City of Chicago. I never so much as got a ticket or phone call. Something tells me they had the hard time finding the title for the thing...
See, we bought this car off of my cousin, transferred the title to my name, and the car only lasted about 2 months. It broke down, and I had it towed back to my parents house and into their garage. After my brother looked at it, he just shook his head. Even if he COULD get the car to run again, the frame was entirely made up of rust, and therefore it was unsafe to drive.
So, I waited for the title to come in the mail so I could just junk it, or donate it, and get the tax write off. A couple months go by, and no title. Nothing. So I head on down to the local currency exchange and pay the money to get a new title, stating that the old one was "lost."
So we wait a little more time, and without fail, the title doesn't come. In the meantime, my father wanted his garage back, so we were forced to move the car. So, we, in the middle of the night (less traffic if something went wrong) we move it to my friend George's Mother's driveway. I leave all the doors unlocked, and the keys in the ignition. At this point, I am just hoping someone just STEALS THE DANG THING.
I head to the local DMV, and pay again to try to get a copy of the title. Once again, months go by, and nothing. Finally I got to the State of Illinois building, armed with every piece of identifying information a person can HAVE about the car and myself, and try to get a copy of the title.
"See what your problem is" says the lady at the state office, "is it's not a car. That VIN doesn't exist."
"WHAT?!" I say? "Check again, I bought it off my cousin, and she is the squeakiest cleanest person I know!" She checks three more times. My car does not exist.
(Nevermind I paid TWICE for a replacement title, and no one took the time to tell me that there IS NO TITLE.)
While all of this is happening, my friend's mother is growing concerned. Someone stole the keys out of the car, and left all the doors and windows wide open. Someone else stole the battery out of the car (a smart move, considering that was probably the most expensive piece of the car.)
I was at a loss as of what to do. No one recognized the car as a car. I couldn't junk it without the title, nor could I sell it, or donate it.
And that was when I realized something: If I took the plates off of it, and canceled the insurance, there was no way of tracking it back to me.
With the help of my brother, I decided to get rid of the car the only way I knew how: through the city of Chicago's towing system.
We pushed the car out into the street, and then I got into the car, put it into neutral, and he slowly pushed the car from behind with his car. We pushed it to the local public school down the block, and parked it across three handicapped spaces in the teacher's parking lot. See, I didn't want to inconvenience anyone, but I wanted to absolutely make sure that it was towed.
I opened all the doors and windows and trunk on it, and that is when I noticed the family of possums living in the backseat. And all the spiders in the car. Which made me do the heebie jeebie bee gees dance in the parking lot.
I ended up screaming at the car after it was all said and done, which made my sister and brother laugh until they almost peed themselves.I was mostly angry I exposed myself to black widows and rabies for something that doesn't exist according to the government.
The next morning, the car was towed by the City of Chicago. I never so much as got a ticket or phone call. Something tells me they had the hard time finding the title for the thing...
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
It Was THAT Kind of Party
One of my friends has a grandmother who works in AIDS Hospice Care. This delightful little grandmother gets condoms in bulk that she is required to hand out to her patients. Here's the thing - they're HOSPICE patients. Hospice is a nicer way of saying being sent home to await death. Otherwise known as Florida.
Anyway, these patients have very little use for condoms. I mean, come on, they have ADVANCED AIDS, I am sure sex is the last thing on their minds. But the US Government says otherwise.
So, grandma has a surplus of condoms. Grandma, being a cool grandma, ships the extra condoms home to her grandchildren. When I say extra, I mean easily 4 boxes of like 10,000 condoms.
One night, one of my friends who is in the Air Force, whom we will nickname Aislynn due to the military being REALLY BIG on not having their soldiers names and locations online, and we had a party for her.
At some point in the night, I got pretty drunk on champagne. And, also at some point during the night, a box of condoms got broken into.
And at some point during the night, I figured out a few truths about myself and condoms:
1. If you put a condom over a beer, shake it up, and then open it, it fills up something fierce, and is quite humorous.
2. I can fit a condom up my arms so far that it goes past my elbows.
3. I can cover my whole foot and ankle with condoms.
4. I can make impromptu water wings with condoms.
5. Condoms hold a very large amount of drinking induced vomit.
6. I can make giant flowers out of condoms.
7. All these condom tricks are far more humorous with a stomach full of champagne.
8. Somewhere, on a military base, there is an entire roll of film with me doing party tricks with condoms, in a bikini no less. I am a constant source of pride for my mother, I swear.
9. Condoms are bar-none the greatest party conversation piece I have ever seen.
The point of this entry is not to, you know, bar myself from a future job, but mostly to tell you that if you happen to have a friend who is going overseas, and you happen to have a bunch of champagne lying around, invite me over, because apparently, that is all it takes for me to have a rocking good time.
Speaking of a rocking good time...
My friend's band (the Flips) is playing here: http://www.maxumbarandgrill.com/map.htm
On March 6th, 2009, from 9 to 11 p.m.
If you print this out: http://www.q101.com/Other/PDF/oldStyleNewBeersBash/oldStyleNBE_invite_01.pdf you get free cover!
And we might as well get this plug-train chugging along...
Are you looking for something to wear this Friday to the Flips Show?
Then you should check out Clad Scantily. They make custom T-Shirts. Their custom T-Shirts are awesome, and they are the unofficially sponsor of the South Side Irish Parade.
Anyway, these patients have very little use for condoms. I mean, come on, they have ADVANCED AIDS, I am sure sex is the last thing on their minds. But the US Government says otherwise.
So, grandma has a surplus of condoms. Grandma, being a cool grandma, ships the extra condoms home to her grandchildren. When I say extra, I mean easily 4 boxes of like 10,000 condoms.
One night, one of my friends who is in the Air Force, whom we will nickname Aislynn due to the military being REALLY BIG on not having their soldiers names and locations online, and we had a party for her.
At some point in the night, I got pretty drunk on champagne. And, also at some point during the night, a box of condoms got broken into.
And at some point during the night, I figured out a few truths about myself and condoms:
1. If you put a condom over a beer, shake it up, and then open it, it fills up something fierce, and is quite humorous.
2. I can fit a condom up my arms so far that it goes past my elbows.
3. I can cover my whole foot and ankle with condoms.
4. I can make impromptu water wings with condoms.
5. Condoms hold a very large amount of drinking induced vomit.
6. I can make giant flowers out of condoms.
7. All these condom tricks are far more humorous with a stomach full of champagne.
8. Somewhere, on a military base, there is an entire roll of film with me doing party tricks with condoms, in a bikini no less. I am a constant source of pride for my mother, I swear.
9. Condoms are bar-none the greatest party conversation piece I have ever seen.
The point of this entry is not to, you know, bar myself from a future job, but mostly to tell you that if you happen to have a friend who is going overseas, and you happen to have a bunch of champagne lying around, invite me over, because apparently, that is all it takes for me to have a rocking good time.
Speaking of a rocking good time...
My friend's band (the Flips) is playing here: http://www.maxumbarandgrill.com/map.htm
On March 6th, 2009, from 9 to 11 p.m.
If you print this out: http://www.q101.com/Other/PDF/oldStyleNewBeersBash/oldStyleNBE_invite_01.pdf you get free cover!
And we might as well get this plug-train chugging along...
Are you looking for something to wear this Friday to the Flips Show?
Then you should check out Clad Scantily. They make custom T-Shirts. Their custom T-Shirts are awesome, and they are the unofficially sponsor of the South Side Irish Parade.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Wedding Post
My favorite crafty blogger Not Martha is getting married. She has set up a wedding planning website, which I think is AWESOME because she has a similar style as mine. Simple, yet elegant, and not princess-y at all.
Oh wait, have I not shown you my wedding dress? MY WEDDING DRESS - LET ME SHOW YOU IT:
(Only, you know, with a dark blue ribbon)
In other news - I did not get the job. And yes, it sucks sucks sucks. Especially since I REALLY LIKE WORKING.
The nice thing about being unemployed is that you have no money. How is that a GOOD thing, you ask?
www.superpoop.com
Because you don't lose assloads of money in the stock market, THAT'S WHY!
Sorry for the light post, I am working on a business plan pretty much every free second of my day now.
Happy Wednesday folks! And happy bday to Archimedes!
Oh wait, have I not shown you my wedding dress? MY WEDDING DRESS - LET ME SHOW YOU IT:
(Only, you know, with a dark blue ribbon)
In other news - I did not get the job. And yes, it sucks sucks sucks. Especially since I REALLY LIKE WORKING.
The nice thing about being unemployed is that you have no money. How is that a GOOD thing, you ask?
www.superpoop.com
Because you don't lose assloads of money in the stock market, THAT'S WHY!
Sorry for the light post, I am working on a business plan pretty much every free second of my day now.
Happy Wednesday folks! And happy bday to Archimedes!
Monday, March 2, 2009
Things I Learned From Logan
I got permission to post pictures of my friend's kid (Let's just call my friend Archimedes, thanks Random Name Generator!)
And this is Logan:
Do you like his mustache? I have a thing for ole timey mustaches, in case you have not noticed.
ANYWAY, here's some things I have learned from Logan:
1. Babies are awesome! They're not the pooping piles of a wasted life I always thought they were.
2. Babies nails grow really, really fast, and are quite sharp. When they disapprove of you, they cut you. Babies are really like mini-pimps in this way "Get me my bottle bitch!" *Slice*
3. Babies do not like socks. Or, at least Logan doesn't. Perhaps it has something to do with the weaponry of nails he is also growing on his feet? I like to think he thinks the following, "Oh, that lady that always says she could just eat me up is coming over to pick me up again. Better take off the ole socks and give her a slice or two with my toe weapons."
4. Babies have a self-destruct button I am deathly afraid of pushing accidentally, aka their soft spot.
5. This one is more about cats than anything else - cats LOVE babies, but strangely, do not like me shooting them with a Nerf gun to get them to get away from the baby. How odd.
6. Baby poop is not endearing. Not in the slightest. And it smells of the Great Potato Famine. I know what you're thinking, how do you know what the Great Potato Famine smells like? I don't. I am only guessing.
7. Logan's very small hats make me laugh uncontrollably. That Pooh hat up there? I nearly wet myself. I have no idea why I have that kind of reaction.
8. Babies - pretty darn cute with handlebar mustaches.
9. Baby Belly Buttons? PRETTY DARN AWESOME.
10. Pacifiers - God's greatest invention. My mother didn't use any with us. This may mean that my mother was deaf in the 80s. I am not sure how she did without them.
11. This one is more about Logan's mother - Life shouldn't be so secret. See Logan up there? That's my friend's who just recently died kid (as well as Archimedes's). It kind of occurred to me that if I dropped dead right where I stand (somewhere in the world my mother is making the sign of the cross and doesn't know why...) my parents would have NO recent pictures of me to put up on those memory boards at the wake. For like the last 8 years. Granted, I am friends with my father on Facebook and on Flickr, and all my photos are up there, but seriously. It kind of made me realize that life is sacred, and even though I run a blog, I really only show like 5% of my life to everyone, and that includes my family.
And that's a little weird.
I have always been secretive. It's just in my nature. The truth is I can't go public with my real name on this blog because I am afraid of people finding me. So, I started a fake blog under my REAL name, just to track the google hits and the location of those hits. Once I was satisfied that no one dangerous was searching for me (unlike this blog, which gets a STAGGERING amount of hits from correctional institutions...as well as the House of Representatives) I decided that perhaps I should go public...
But then I remembered Dooce, and her immortal words of "Be Ye Not Stupid" and decided to take this thing in baby steps. (Baby steps! Get it! It's a blog post about a baby!)
So, without futher ado, here's my first baby step:
Not only do I have a thing for mustaches, I also have a thing for Merry Go Rounds outside of supermarkets in South Carolina.
(This post started out all funny and then ended up all serious. Sorry about that...)
And this is Logan:
Do you like his mustache? I have a thing for ole timey mustaches, in case you have not noticed.
ANYWAY, here's some things I have learned from Logan:
1. Babies are awesome! They're not the pooping piles of a wasted life I always thought they were.
2. Babies nails grow really, really fast, and are quite sharp. When they disapprove of you, they cut you. Babies are really like mini-pimps in this way "Get me my bottle bitch!" *Slice*
3. Babies do not like socks. Or, at least Logan doesn't. Perhaps it has something to do with the weaponry of nails he is also growing on his feet? I like to think he thinks the following, "Oh, that lady that always says she could just eat me up is coming over to pick me up again. Better take off the ole socks and give her a slice or two with my toe weapons."
4. Babies have a self-destruct button I am deathly afraid of pushing accidentally, aka their soft spot.
5. This one is more about cats than anything else - cats LOVE babies, but strangely, do not like me shooting them with a Nerf gun to get them to get away from the baby. How odd.
6. Baby poop is not endearing. Not in the slightest. And it smells of the Great Potato Famine. I know what you're thinking, how do you know what the Great Potato Famine smells like? I don't. I am only guessing.
7. Logan's very small hats make me laugh uncontrollably. That Pooh hat up there? I nearly wet myself. I have no idea why I have that kind of reaction.
8. Babies - pretty darn cute with handlebar mustaches.
9. Baby Belly Buttons? PRETTY DARN AWESOME.
10. Pacifiers - God's greatest invention. My mother didn't use any with us. This may mean that my mother was deaf in the 80s. I am not sure how she did without them.
11. This one is more about Logan's mother - Life shouldn't be so secret. See Logan up there? That's my friend's who just recently died kid (as well as Archimedes's). It kind of occurred to me that if I dropped dead right where I stand (somewhere in the world my mother is making the sign of the cross and doesn't know why...) my parents would have NO recent pictures of me to put up on those memory boards at the wake. For like the last 8 years. Granted, I am friends with my father on Facebook and on Flickr, and all my photos are up there, but seriously. It kind of made me realize that life is sacred, and even though I run a blog, I really only show like 5% of my life to everyone, and that includes my family.
And that's a little weird.
I have always been secretive. It's just in my nature. The truth is I can't go public with my real name on this blog because I am afraid of people finding me. So, I started a fake blog under my REAL name, just to track the google hits and the location of those hits. Once I was satisfied that no one dangerous was searching for me (unlike this blog, which gets a STAGGERING amount of hits from correctional institutions...as well as the House of Representatives) I decided that perhaps I should go public...
But then I remembered Dooce, and her immortal words of "Be Ye Not Stupid" and decided to take this thing in baby steps. (Baby steps! Get it! It's a blog post about a baby!)
So, without futher ado, here's my first baby step:
Not only do I have a thing for mustaches, I also have a thing for Merry Go Rounds outside of supermarkets in South Carolina.
(This post started out all funny and then ended up all serious. Sorry about that...)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
More Information Than I Needed to Know
All dominatrices are pretty ugly chicks.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself "What a blanket statement" or possibly "how on earth do you know that?" or even "no I'm not."
Let me tell you how I came upon this conclusion (this extremely accurate conclusion, by the way.)
Eric and I go to a convention every year called Anime Central, or Acen, for short. Now, you know I am kind of obsessed with my privacy, what with the quasi-fake name I use on here and me not posting my picture and all. I am telling you that we go to this every year because, in short, there is NO WAY you will find us in a crowd of 500,000+ people dressed up in costumes. Except I wear the same costume every single year, and that costume is "freaked out American girl who looks out of place." You can usually find me hanging out with the moms who are as equally freaked out that this is what their children are into. Only for me, this is what all my friends are into.
Acen is one crazy party, let me tell you. And we usually go because all our friends are going, as well as the fact that Eric and I own a staggering amount of Anime. We are Anime dorks. There, I said it.
Anyway, one year, we go. On the way there, I start to feel a little sick. By the time we get there, I am full blown sick. So, we check into our hotel (it's connected to the convention center) and I proceed to try to sleep off the stomach flu.
Now, I know what you are thinking: "Why not just go home?" And "you never just stay home when you are sick, do you?"
To answer the first question - because we paid a lot of money to get into this place and we had already paid for the hotel room, and as for the second, Mom, from now I am going to stay home when I am sick, as well as go to the doctor every time. That little lesson is just one of the lessons I learned from attending my friend Sheryl's wake.
ANYWAY. We check in, I pass out, Eric goes to the adjacent hotel room to find our friends, hang out, and figure out who our roommate will be for the night (the hotel is so packed every year that our friends usually just pack as many friends into as many hotel rooms as possible. Like we're 15 or something.) Eric explains to the friends that I am sick, and asleep, so if he could pay a little extra to not have, say 30 people sleeping in the room with me, he would appreciate it.
One of our friends say "no problem, you guys can have Crazy Dave, since [various names redacted] don't seem to like him, that would work out perfectly."
Now, let me lay some truth on you: People do not get the name "Crazy Dave" by one instance on one night where they did something crazy. No, you have to be pretty consistently crazy to earn that nickname.
I am feeling better halfway through the first day of the convention, mostly from Eric bringing me overpriced hotel ginger ale and a grilled cheese sandwich. So, I get up and wonder around the convention. I meet up with Eric, and he buys me ice cream. Me, Eric, and Sheryl all sit around in the back of the convention and eat ice cream and laugh at half dressed people with various spikes in their hair.
Night falls, and I decide to go back to bed. So, I head off to my hotel room and go to bed. Eric comes in later and passes out as well.
Then, in the middle of the night, Crazy Dave comes in. Crazy Dave is not alone - he has a dominatrix with him. Now, she could have been a normal girl whose costume was that of a dominatrix from some Anime, but I didn't get to ask questions.
The next part of this story is directly from Eric, because I slept through most of it.
So Crazy Dave and Dominatrix girl are fooling around. This does not wake up Eric. He is aware (kind of) that someone is moving around in the room, but he ignores it.
What does wake him up is the sound of someone clearing their throat and spitting. For TWO HOURS. This noise kind of wakes me up as well, but I am unsure if I am still dreaming (seeing as I did not recognize my surroundings, and therefore assumed it was a dream.)
The next thing I am aware of happening is Eric forcibly removing me from the bed, and literally pushing me out into the hall of the hotel, and yelling at me to go next door and wait for him.
Apparently something was said that made him DEEPLY uncomfortable, and he pushed me out into the hall to apparently get me out of danger.
This next part? This is alleged. I am going to go ahead and say it's a full blown LIE, because, quite frankly, the statute of limitations has not expired yet.
Apparently, it disturbed him so much, there was some ass kicking involved.
Dominatrix girl runs out of the room, and I get a good look at her. Hence, I came up with my thesis I stated up there at the beginning of this post. And yes, I do feel bad about judging her by her appearance, after all, she is just a normal girl under all that spit and latex and chain-mail.
But then again, I've never run out of a hotel room at 3 a.m. dressed like that, and neither have any of my friends.
I thought maybe we were a little harsh about what happened, perhaps we are just uptight? Maybe we're just way too normal? That was until we told some friends about what happened, and they all damn near peed themselves laughing, or were very deeply concerned. Either way, the rest of the convention we had a different roommate.
So, the moral of the story is this: do not room with someone with the moniker "Crazy" before their name, and keep an Eric around for ass-kicking and ginger ale as needed. And PS Acen is soooo much fun. And yes, we are going again this year.
Now, you're probably thinking to yourself "What a blanket statement" or possibly "how on earth do you know that?" or even "no I'm not."
Let me tell you how I came upon this conclusion (this extremely accurate conclusion, by the way.)
Eric and I go to a convention every year called Anime Central, or Acen, for short. Now, you know I am kind of obsessed with my privacy, what with the quasi-fake name I use on here and me not posting my picture and all. I am telling you that we go to this every year because, in short, there is NO WAY you will find us in a crowd of 500,000+ people dressed up in costumes. Except I wear the same costume every single year, and that costume is "freaked out American girl who looks out of place." You can usually find me hanging out with the moms who are as equally freaked out that this is what their children are into. Only for me, this is what all my friends are into.
Acen is one crazy party, let me tell you. And we usually go because all our friends are going, as well as the fact that Eric and I own a staggering amount of Anime. We are Anime dorks. There, I said it.
Anyway, one year, we go. On the way there, I start to feel a little sick. By the time we get there, I am full blown sick. So, we check into our hotel (it's connected to the convention center) and I proceed to try to sleep off the stomach flu.
Now, I know what you are thinking: "Why not just go home?" And "you never just stay home when you are sick, do you?"
To answer the first question - because we paid a lot of money to get into this place and we had already paid for the hotel room, and as for the second, Mom, from now I am going to stay home when I am sick, as well as go to the doctor every time. That little lesson is just one of the lessons I learned from attending my friend Sheryl's wake.
ANYWAY. We check in, I pass out, Eric goes to the adjacent hotel room to find our friends, hang out, and figure out who our roommate will be for the night (the hotel is so packed every year that our friends usually just pack as many friends into as many hotel rooms as possible. Like we're 15 or something.) Eric explains to the friends that I am sick, and asleep, so if he could pay a little extra to not have, say 30 people sleeping in the room with me, he would appreciate it.
One of our friends say "no problem, you guys can have Crazy Dave, since [various names redacted] don't seem to like him, that would work out perfectly."
Now, let me lay some truth on you: People do not get the name "Crazy Dave" by one instance on one night where they did something crazy. No, you have to be pretty consistently crazy to earn that nickname.
I am feeling better halfway through the first day of the convention, mostly from Eric bringing me overpriced hotel ginger ale and a grilled cheese sandwich. So, I get up and wonder around the convention. I meet up with Eric, and he buys me ice cream. Me, Eric, and Sheryl all sit around in the back of the convention and eat ice cream and laugh at half dressed people with various spikes in their hair.
Night falls, and I decide to go back to bed. So, I head off to my hotel room and go to bed. Eric comes in later and passes out as well.
Then, in the middle of the night, Crazy Dave comes in. Crazy Dave is not alone - he has a dominatrix with him. Now, she could have been a normal girl whose costume was that of a dominatrix from some Anime, but I didn't get to ask questions.
The next part of this story is directly from Eric, because I slept through most of it.
So Crazy Dave and Dominatrix girl are fooling around. This does not wake up Eric. He is aware (kind of) that someone is moving around in the room, but he ignores it.
What does wake him up is the sound of someone clearing their throat and spitting. For TWO HOURS. This noise kind of wakes me up as well, but I am unsure if I am still dreaming (seeing as I did not recognize my surroundings, and therefore assumed it was a dream.)
The next thing I am aware of happening is Eric forcibly removing me from the bed, and literally pushing me out into the hall of the hotel, and yelling at me to go next door and wait for him.
Apparently something was said that made him DEEPLY uncomfortable, and he pushed me out into the hall to apparently get me out of danger.
This next part? This is alleged. I am going to go ahead and say it's a full blown LIE, because, quite frankly, the statute of limitations has not expired yet.
Apparently, it disturbed him so much, there was some ass kicking involved.
Dominatrix girl runs out of the room, and I get a good look at her. Hence, I came up with my thesis I stated up there at the beginning of this post. And yes, I do feel bad about judging her by her appearance, after all, she is just a normal girl under all that spit and latex and chain-mail.
But then again, I've never run out of a hotel room at 3 a.m. dressed like that, and neither have any of my friends.
I thought maybe we were a little harsh about what happened, perhaps we are just uptight? Maybe we're just way too normal? That was until we told some friends about what happened, and they all damn near peed themselves laughing, or were very deeply concerned. Either way, the rest of the convention we had a different roommate.
So, the moral of the story is this: do not room with someone with the moniker "Crazy" before their name, and keep an Eric around for ass-kicking and ginger ale as needed. And PS Acen is soooo much fun. And yes, we are going again this year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)