No, you don't.

I get paid for this.

2012-02-09T16:21:00.000-05:00

I just got an email.

"This situation has a unique scent. Let's ensure we scout out the proper probing maneuvers before we dive into the deep end. Throw out a few lines and really maintain a laser focus on the responses."

I'm not even paraphrasing. Like, this is my job. My job is to garner every ounce of willpower and refrain from responding to every email I get with "ROFL WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEAN YOU CRAZY PERSON?"

This email ALMOST wins Corporatese Bullshit Email Of Forever, but it remains second to this one I got a couple of years ago: "We just picked up this account and request that you quote us on the below items. I will touch base with [dude] about getting set up. This is a huge opportunity and they are floating us a trial balloon to see if we can deliver the bacon."

That last one spawned an all day inter-office thread featuring a ridiculous number of giant pig balloons.

On what the ever loving fuck, indeed.

2012-02-08T11:48:00.003-05:00

This made me laugh-cry-twitch.

Comment FTW: "Oh, that picture of Santorum. So smarmy. Smarming all over us smarmily as if he were Mr. Smarm."

Related, on GMA* this morning: "After Florida, [Romney] thought he had gotten engaged and a wedding date was set and the voters gave him his ring back and said 'We're going to flirt with this guy from Pittsburgh for a while." And just the concept of America - as - coquettish - heart breaker made me laugh loud enough to wake up the cat.

So l'm totally aware that there is less than a 0.000036% chance I will ever get the opportunity to say "President Santorum" and have it be true and not the most disgusting Halloween costume in the world, but just the idea that even 2% of a state as large as Minnesooooota (you have to say it like that) would go, "Ummmm yeah, I think I'd like THIS FUCKING GUY to run the free world" is extremely alarming. I mean? Guys? Come on, now. At least just tell me it was a joke. Because sometimes I worry about you. And this joke, she is not funny.

*Yes, I usually watch the first 15 minutes of GMA if I'm still home. I have a kind of sick love for Stephanopoulos. And at the veeeeeeery beginning, it's still kind of staight forward news and not Robert Pattinson's execution of his favorite 15 minute casserole.

On setting this song on fire.

2012-02-02T09:33:00.002-05:00

I like this song. I seriously do. It's poppy, ballad-y, and sounds like it was recorded by Don McLean's jaded teenage son.

But I swear to god, if it doesn't remove itself from my fucking brain, I will make something pay.

fun. - We Are Young

On not for all the bud in Portland.

2011-12-08T14:00:00.001-05:00

Igrabbed someone else’s sandwich at the deli counter at Wawa by mistake. This issurely not the first time I’ve done, and it probably won’t be the last, but it isBY FAR the worst swap I’ve ever made.

Iordered a meatball hoagie – straightforward! Meatballs. Marinara. Cheese. Salt.Pepper.

Doyou know I got? I got a meatball hoagie. With marinara. And spicy mustard. Andprovolone. And oil. And vinegar. And cucumbers. And jalapenos. And roastedpeppers.

HOWFUCKING HIGH DO YOU HAVE TO BE FOR THAT TO SOUND GOOD? JESUS CHRIST. WHAT THEFUCK.

On DIAF Fridays.

2011-12-02T13:55:00.001-05:00

There is a special place in hell for people who say "we" when they mean "I." You are not fucking legion, asshole. You are not speaking for anyone but your own douchebag self. And on top of that, if you sounded any more condescending, you'd need to start addressing the person you're talking to as Widdle Wubkins and rub their belly every time they had some overwhelming flash of brilliance and did something radical like showing a glimmer of understanding or speaking a complete sentence.

God, I fucking hate you.

'Breaking Dawn': The Dress, The Vampire, the Fetus and the Headboard | The Awl

2011-11-21T16:36:00.000-05:00

'Breaking Dawn': The Dress, The Vampire, the Fetus and the Headboard | The Awl

UNDEAD FUNNEL CAKE.

Thank you, Jae. This was life changing.

On missing it

2011-11-21T13:55:00.001-05:00

I sent this to my cube neighbor (there was context, I swear, but it's a 'had to be there' moment and pretty irrelevant besides), and he shouts over the wall ...

"Wait, what does 'strewn' mean?"

So 'metaphysics' is cool ... but 'strewn' is fucking cerebral.

On the decline

2011-11-15T13:16:00.001-05:00

Thisis a Lean Cuisine “lobster cheese ravioli”* lunch entrée. I’m not proud that I’meating this, but like, let’s not talk about it.

Iseriously just had a minor panic attack because I couldn’t remember whether thetray was that shape before I put it in the microwave, or this item was so defectivethat it warped and if I ate it I would immediately get 100 tumors, actually Iprobably have started growing them just by looking at it and oh my god I don’twant to die because of a fucking Lean Cuisine. This panic was not helped by thefact that the goddamn thing screeched the whole time it was in the microwave;screeched like something that was being burned alive, and I know it’s juststeam escaping but christ can’t we do something about that?

Ichecked the box in the trash for evidence of “stupid shape” or “radiationpoisoning” and decided I’m probably fine. The box looked pretty stupid too.

I’mjust saying. It doesn’t take much to start the spiral of paralyzing anxiety.

*Quotations because, let’s just agree that any Lean Cuisine meal with a redsauce tastes & looks exactly the same**, no matter what you call it. Itwill always be watered down, it will always have some kind of squash in it, andit will always need a metric fuckton of salt while maintaining a mind-blowing 4,000mg of sodium. I don’t know how it’s possible.

**And that taste is ‘desperation’

On post title this

2011-11-14T14:17:00.001-05:00

Top5 reasons I know God exists and s/he’s a total prick:

1. Schadenfreude is a thing.*

2. I’vehad Foreigner’s “I Wanna Know What Love Is” stuck in my head all morning.**

3. The platypus.

4. Adult acne.

5. Andy Dick.

*This may reflect more on Germans than God.

**The fact that this is even a possibility (be it through the human brainsinsistence on chronic echolalia OR the simple existence of Foreigner) is moreproof than anyone would ever need.

On the bounce

2011-11-11T16:35:00.001-05:00

To lighten things up, my cube neighbor just sent me a picture of a dude making out with a giant fish. So. There's that.

On trying not to bawl at my desk (and failing)

2011-11-11T13:48:00.001-05:00

I can't even. Just read it. I will even paste the whole damn thing.

This is as close to explaining what it feels like to not have a mom that anyone could get. It is a constant, heartbreaking, fucking soul-shattering reality to exist in, and no matter how much time goes by or how great your life is, you will be blind-sided at seemingly random intervals with grief that is absolutely overwhelming.

---------------------

http://therumpus.net/2011/03/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-67-the-black-arc-of-it/

Dear Sugar,

I’m a 38 year-old guy and engaged to be married this summer. My fiancé is 35. I don’t need romantic advice. I’m writing to you about my fiancé’s mother, who passed away from cancer several years before I met her, when my fiancé was 23.

She and her mother were very close. Her death was an awful blow to my fiancé at the time and it still hurts her deeply. It’s not like she can’t get out of bed or is struggling with depression. She has a great life. One of her friends calls her “joy on wheels” and that’s accurate, but I know it isn’t the whole story. Her mom’s death is always lurking. It comes up on a regular basis. When she cries or talks about how much she misses her mom, I’m supportive, but I usually feel insufficient. I don’t know what to say beyond lame things like, “I’m sorry” and “I can imagine how you’d feel” (though I can’t because my mom is still alive). She never had much of a relationship with her dad, who left the picture a long time ago, and her sister and her aren’t very close, so I can’t rely on someone in her family to be there for her. Sometimes I try to cheer her up or try to get her to forget about “the heavy stuff,” but that usually backfires and only makes her feel worse.

I don’t know how to handle this, Sugar. I feel lame in the face of her grief. I know you lost your mother too. What can you tell me? I want to be a better partner when it comes to handling grief.

Signed,
Bewildered

--------------

Dear Bewildered,

Several months after my mother died I found a glass jar of stones tucked in the far reaches of her bedroom closet. I was moving her things out of the house I’d thought of as home, clearing way for the woman with whom my stepfather had suddenly fallen in love. It was a devastating process—more brutal in its ruthless clarity than anything I’ve ever experienced or hope to again—but when I had that jar of rocks in my hands I felt a kind of elation I cannot describe in any other way except to say that in the cold clunk of its weight I felt ever so fleetingly as if I were holding my mother.

That jar of stones wasn’t just any jar of stones. They were rocks my brother and sister and I had given to our mom. Stones we’d found as kids on beaches and trails and the grassy patches on the edges of parking lots and pressed into her hands, our mother’s palms the receptacle for every last thing we thought worth saving.

I sat down on the bedroom floor and dumped them out, running my fingers over them as if they were the most sacred things on the earth. Most were smooth and black and smaller than a potato chip. Worry stones my mother had called them, the sort so pleasing against the palm she claimed they had the power to soothe the mind if you rubbed them right.
What do you do with the rocks you once gave to your dead mother? Where is their rightful place? To whom do they belong? To what are you obligated? Memory? Practicality? Reason? Faith? Do you put them back in the jar and take them with you across the wild and unkempt sorrow of your twenties or do you simply carry them outside and dump them in the yard?

I couldn’t know. Knowing was so far away. I could only touch the rocks, hoping to find my mother in them.

Not long before my mother died, I met a woman who’d been attacked by a man as she walked home from a party. By the time I met her she lived in a group home for those with brain injuries. Her own injury was the result of the attack, her head having hit the sidewalk so hard in the course of it that she’d never be the same again. She was incapable of living alone, incapable of so very much, and yet she remembered just enough of her former life as a painter and teacher that she was miserable in the group home and she desperately longed to return to her own house. She refused to accept the explanations given to her as to why she couldn’t. She had come to fervently believe that in order to be released she had only to recite the correct combination of numbers to her captors, her caretakers.

93480219072, she’d say as they fed her and bathed her and helped her get ready for bed.6552091783. 4106847508. 05298562347. And on and on in a merciless spiral. But no matter what she said, she would never crack the code. There was no code. There was only the new fact of her life, changed irrevocably.

In the months after my mother died, I thought of this woman an inordinate amount and not only because I was distressed by her suffering. I thought of her because I understood her monumental desire and her groundless faith: I believed that I could crack a code too. That my own irrevocably changed life could be redeemed if only I could find the right combination of things. That in those objects my mother would be given back to me in some indefinable and figurative way that would make it okay for me to live the rest of my life without her.

And so I searched.

I didn’t find it in the half empty container of peppermint Tic Tacs that had been in the glove compartment of my mother’s car on the day she died or in the fringed moccasins that still stunk precisely of my mother’s size six feet a whole year later. I didn’t find it in her unfashionably large reading glasses or the gray porcelain horse that had sat on the shelf near her bed. I didn’t find it in her pen from the bank with the real hundred-dollar bill shredded up inside or in the butter dish with the white marble ball in its top or in any one of the shirts she’d sewn for herself or for me.

And I didn’t find it in those stones either, in spite of my hopes on that sad day. It wasn’t anywhere, in anything and it never would be.

“It will never be okay,” a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple years ago. “It will never be okay that our mothers are dead.”

At the time she said this to me she wasn’t yet really my friend. We’d chatted passingly at parties, but this was the first time we were alone together. She was fiftysomething and I was forty. Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she’d said—it will never be okay—entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as “joy on wheels,” though there isn’t one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven’t experienced through the lens of our grief. I’m not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we both did that). I’m talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body’s core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

The same is true for your fiancé, Bewildered. She is your joy on wheels whose every experience is informed and altered by the fact that she lost the most essential, elemental, primal and central person in her life too soon. I know this without knowing her. It will never be okay that she lost her mother. And the kindest most loving thing you can do for her is to bear witness to that, to muster the strength and courage and humility it takes to accept the enormous reality of its not okayness and be okay with it the same way she has to be. Get comfortable being the man who says oh honey, I’m so sorry for your loss over and over again.

That’s what the people who’ve consoled me the most deeply in my sorrow have done. They’ve spoken those words or something like them every time I needed to hear it; they’ve plainly acknowledged what is invisible to them, but so very real to me. I know saying those cliché and ordinary things makes you feel squirmy and lame. I feel that way too when I say such things to others who have lost someone they loved. We all do. It feels lame because we like to think we can solve things. It feels insufficient because there is nothing we can actually do to change what’s horribly true.

But compassion isn’t about solutions. It’s about giving all the love that you’ve got.
So give it, sweet pea. It’s clear that you’ve done it already. Your kind letter is proof. But I encourage you to stop being bewildered. Have the guts to feel lame. Say that you’re sorry for your lover’s loss about three thousand times over the coming years. Ask about her mother sometimes without her prompting. Console her before she asks to be consoled. Honor her mother on your wedding day and in other ways as occasions arise. Your mother-in-law is dead, but she lives like a shadow mother in the woman you love. Make a place for her in your life too.

That’s what Mr. Sugar has done for me. That’s what some of my friends and even acquaintances have done. It doesn’t make it okay, but it makes it better.

Next week it will be twenty years since my mother died. So long I squint every time the thought comes to me. So long that I’ve finally convinced myself there isn’t a code to crack. The search is over. The stones I once gave my mother have scattered, replaced by the stones my children give to me.

I keep the best ones in my pockets. Sometimes there is one so perfect I carry it around for weeks, my hand finding it and finding it, soothing itself along the black arc of it.

Yours,
Sugar

On channeling Dwight Schrute

2011-11-10T09:22:00.002-05:00

So, the IT monkeys at my job just decided to add Tumblr to the block list. Tumblr, it was lovely getting to know you. You will be missed.

I tried to log on to document this fantastic phone conversation I just had, to demonstrate how very much my life is often right out of The Office.

Vendor: I need the serial number. You see, it's an old valve. Discontinued in that version.
Me: Right. I'll see what I can do.
Vendor: Once ... you know, I have that number. Well. The manufacturer will update it. And it will be pretty amazing. The new version of the valve. Right off the line.
Me: That's pretty exciting.
Vendor: Yes ... yes. It's quite a valve.

This entire conversation [including the beginning, to which the gentleman responded "I honestly have no idea" to my standard "how are you?"] was entirely in monotone. Entirely. There was no inflection from anyone involved at any time.

On crickets.

2011-10-26T08:12:00.001-04:00

My Tumblr is way more active. It seems like so much less of a commitment.

You should go read that.

Or don't. Or whatever. Just do whatever. I don't know what you want from me.

On understanding that you are not a unique little snowflake.

2011-08-23T12:15:00.001-04:00

I spend a lot of time in my head, like, whining about the injustice of being blessed/cursed with the ability to truly recognize every possible angle and outcome to any decision. Seriously. I am so self-involved that what the whole world considers “basic cause/effect analysis” is to me like this epic gift and/or side effect of my own staggering intelligence. I am fucking awful.

But even knowing this – knowing this – I still blame this, whatever, extraordinary brain function on what essentially boils down to a crazy, crazy number of misgivings about making decisions. So the cycle goes like this:

IDEA! Or minor realization that I actually have an opinion about something and that opinion, by its own existence, is dictating that I am going to have to actually do something (to what end the negative, I don’t know – hurting the opinion’s feelings? Like if I manage to not be true to this opinion, something will grow out of the earth and eat my legs)

II.

Consider what I would need to do, theoretically, to make this idea happen or validate this opinion.

III.

Realize that every option is HARD. Really HARD. WAH.

IV.

Try to convince myself that original idea or opinion was misguided, wrong, or stupid. Because that is easier.

Believe that for a while.

VI.

Understand that I am lying to myself and I really need to stop slacking and actually deal with this fucking problem! Grrr! Rage! Self-loathing! Hatred of ALL THE THINGS.

VII.

Depression, resignation, whining at life and how daunting it is to even exist, and now I don’t even know if I want pizza for lunch, because I do, but oh my god the calories, and what is that shiny thing over there, and holy god I hate my life.

VIII.

Fuck this! I HAVE DECIDED.

IX.

That was a terrible decision. I’d better rethink this.

Repeat steps eight & nine for like 6 months.

XI.

Get so fed up with this one fucking thought that I will either A) denounce it’s very existence and anything even casually related to it and threaten to burn with acid anyone who dares utter its name, OR B) take the most extreme end of whatever this thoughts spectrum is and roll around naked and laughing in its bloody viscera and then throw myself off a fucking cliff.

So all that to say that I have three things I have been wrestling with for-fucking-ever, like these three are the Trifecta The Defines My Life and I had a thought (god, no, please no more thoughts) this morning that the reason I refuse to decide what to eat for dinner is because I feel entitled to, like, a break. From making decisions! Because I can’t even make these three! How fucked up is that? How STUPID is my brain? So now I have to deal with this theory that my inability to make decisions is having a dire effect on my ability to make decisions. And if that sentence doesn’t make you want to kill yourself, then you are suicide-proof & clear-headed and have a beautiful life ahead of you.

On being an adult, and it sucking.

2011-07-11T10:36:00.001-04:00

It's high summer in glorious suburban Philadelphia; roughly this translates to "it's hot as fucking hell." It's also Monday, which is a pairing that pretty much makes me want to be anywhere else on the planet but work, and yet? And yet. Here I be.

To combat the stultifying ennui that is threatening to overwhelm my fragile sensibilities, I thought I would try and plan a weekend beach trip. The beach!, thinks I. That shit always makes me happy. So I'm scanning my social calendar and trying to come up with a) who to badger, and b) what sparkling shore line destination to choose from in the great bevy of eastern seaboard destinations and then .... oh, and then.

THEN I had the crushing realization that my internship starts this Saturday; my summer classes, in fact, start today. I am basically fucked, schedule wise, until the week of September 19. I will be spending the next 11 Saturdays in a fucking kitchen, where it will likely be 125 degrees on a good day, and the rest of the week juggling that absurd fucking "sleep? fuck sleep" 18+ hour day schedule and MAN I CAN'T WAIT AND GOD MY LIFE IS AWESOME.

It is times like these that I genuinely question where my head was at when I decided that going back to school was a good fucking idea.

FML.

----------------

Addendum: the restaurant? I'm interning at? On Saturdays? Just called me and decided it would be better to split my hours between Tuesday nights and Saturdays.

So now I'm working 7:30 to 4:30, Monday through Friday.

I'm going to class 5:30 to 11pm on Mondays, Wednesday, and Thursdays. On these days, I'm waking up at 5:30 in the morning and coming home at midnight. Just so we're clear.

I'm interning at a restaurant from 5 to 9 on Tuesdays, and god knows what hours on Saturdays, because apparently no one in the restaurant industry gives any thought to planning ahead.

So I have off Sundays. And I'm theoretically free on Friday nights, but let's not even pretend I'm going to be doing anything other than sleeping, crying, or drinking alone. And my husband? Is off Tuesdays and Wednesdays. And works til 1 in the morning otherwise. So we will see each other absolutely never. And that fucking blows.

This only amounts to so much whining, but it is taking a Herculean effort to not just say 'fuck this' and move on with my life. Like, what is the purpose of this slow fucking suicide? I'm nearing 30. I no longer have the wiggle room to go "yeah, I want to make $7 an hour cooking, because I fucking love cooking" - it's not like I'm going to take this $40,000 degree, once acquired, and actually do anything with it. I can't afford to make $7 an hour. Shit, I can't afford to make $20 an hour, let's be honest here.

I don't know. I'm venting, I guess. I'm clearly not going to drop out of school, or I would have done it already. But I think about it. Frequently. And lustily.

On ... yeah, this is totally necessary.

2011-07-07T17:00:00.001-04:00

So I jumped on this Tumblr thing like 4 years later, and it's kind of cool, and I'm all widget obsessed, so course I got one for it (see sidebar!) but UMMM ... it's totally not updating and I can't figure out why.

badtouchbadtouch.tumblr.com

If you feel like dealing with it, in the interim. I guess.

Addendum: apparently it refreshes like once a day. Which is the dumbest fucking thing ever. Like, what year is it, Tumblr? Seriously?

This happens. All the time.

2011-07-06T16:27:00.000-04:00

"How many 's's are there in 'assassinate'?"
"Is this, like, a general knowledge question or are you asking me how to spell 'assassinate'?
"How to spell it."
"(beginning to spell it out) - Wait. Hang on. 1) You're sitting in front of a computer, like, with the internet. Why am I doing this? And 2) why the hell do you need to know how to spell 'assassinate'?? Context, please?"
"Hmmmmm. No."

-------------------------------------

"What the fuck? This fails. Everybody is Batman."

--------------------------------------

"Sir, you are the best thing since sliced bread."
"That's true. I'm very comparable to sliced bread."

---------------------------------------

"Paradigm? Seriously? Did he really just try and use 'paradigm' in a sentence?"
"You know if he were to say it out loud it would be 'para-dig-um'"
"Paradigm this."
"You totally just tweeted that."
"Shamelessly."

------------------------------------------

"You should get a fade."
"A fade?"
"Yeaaaah, like with unicorns."

-------------------------------------------

This was all today.

On the trappings of stunted silence

2011-07-02T01:52:00.000-04:00

Man, if you knew.

I've been existing in a kind of incredulous rage for the better part of an hour, and I feel like the only way to assuage this obnoxious feeling is to down copious amounts of cheap cherry wine (by a twist of fate, I find myself in possession of not one but two bottles of said poison, from two separate snotty wineries approximately 800 miles apart from each other, and both procured personally from their respective points of origin, and when the fuck does THAT happen ever)

So, that's what I'm going to do, friends. I have no grand designs that this will be anything like Being an Experiment Upon Strictly Scientific Lines, primarily because I have zero plans to talk about elephant spunk. I mean, the night can turn, but at the moment, I'm thinking that's not going to happen.

Drink poured ... and away we go.

I have The Twilight Zone on as background. After a recent extended stint in my car that absolutely required music at ear shattering levels to prevent me from dying in a horrible crash, I'm pretty much over music. I'm sure it's temporary. I'm sure as I put more and more of this wine away, I will be absolutely convinced that I have to hear Rolling In The Deep like holy fuck right now because that shit speaks to me, man, etc. For now, though, I'm relying on Rod Serling to fill the generally creepy silence that exists in the suburbs and that I can't ever condition myself to get used to. I have a deep, deep love of The Twilight Zone. It reminds me of hanging out with my mom on New Years Day, with one or both of us nursing terrible hangovers and wishing someone would go out and get us Chinese food (no better cure for a hangover, that) and no one ever doing it because my dad and my brother were assholes.

But nostalgia is neither here nor there. You know, Mom's been dead for six years and I live in Pennsylvania and my brother's still an asshole but I see him every 18 months if I'm lucky and I can get my own goddamned Chinese food, so what-the-fuck-ever.

Gleeful rage, then. Pleasantly furious, even, as Ani said once. I actually wrote a rather lengthy and detailed account of this impossible anger, but, you know. I'm done spewing that shit in a public space. I can ever just say what I feel. I always need to dress it up, and in the dressing, I end up with about four inches of untrue & unnecessary gravitas. In my, whatever, futile attempt to make meager words mean something, I almost always make them mean too much. Which ... of course ... is only apparent in hindsight. Long after the damage is done. Long after the option to take it back has flown high-fuck out the virtual window.

I have said a number of things I wish I hadn't. This is one of those universal truths that is never going to go away or change. I will continue to say shit I shouldn't for the rest of my life. Conversely, I will also keep my mouth shut more frequently than you'd fucking think possible. Chasing this balance is My Great Trial. Revelation! Right. This is not a course they offer at community college. I mean, I've been consistently missing the mark for 25 years, so apparently you don't even get better with practice. Or I don't, anyway.

Fuck. I just choked on cherry wine. It hurt. Like, a lot.

----------------------------------------------------------------

But oh, when the light fades, and the hour is none.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I can never quite decide anything. Not really. I am in a state of perpetual temporariness. My leanings are temporary. I commit to nothing in my head, because commitment takes a fair amount of bravery, and I am not brave. I would rather waffle and see how things pan out, so when they invariably fucking implode, I can breathe easy and bank on the fact that I always kept my cards close to my chest, and pretend to be blase', and whisper to myself, you know, I had a feeling that shit would unfold exactly like it did. Because I never accept any conclusion as inevitable, I am always in a position to be right. Brutal. And true.

Everything and nothing, right?

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I pine for the day I can use an entire stick of butter in a batch of mashed potatoes and not feel terrible about it. The guilt never quite stops me from using that stick of butter, but I think the enjoyment of that calorie-laden deliciousness would be greatly improved if I could convince myself that it's okay to not feel like shit afterwards.

On further analysis, that last sentiment can apply to a great number of situations in my life.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I should go to bed. I have a big day of drinking and doing things I'll woefully regret tomorrow. And the more I stare at this screen, the more I'm aware of this pair of itching, throbbing mosquito bites on the back of my knee. Mosquitoes love the fuck out of me. Perhaps they're attracted to all that butter.

On not watching TV before bed

2011-06-03T08:47:00.000-04:00

I dreamt that James Oseland lived with a French bulldog in the penthouse suite of my apartment building. I was far more entertained by the idea of my apartment building having a penthouse suite than who occupied it, despite the bizarre outfits said occupant inflicted upon his aforementioned French bulldog (tutus! tiny sombreros! simulatenously!)

And I remember checking out the Persian-harem décor and complimenting James Oseland on his impeccable taste. Like, while trying not to laugh. James Oseland kept telling me it was a gift. I had no idea if he meant the apartment itself, its furnishing, or his impeccable taste.

But then I had to return to my mission of returning the 3 cats that showed up at my door to their proper owners. Dream logic insisted the owners lived in my building. Dream logic did not find it necessary to explain to me what kind of space/time had to be bent to allow me to believe that my crappy building was now this sprawling, brilliantly groomed complex (it sort of looked like the mansion from Flowers In The Attic, and don’t even try to tell me you weren’t as obsessed with the movie as I was in the late 80’s). And every door I knocked on (there were seriously hundreds) opened up to some other absurd kind of tardis situation. No. It was like tardis meets Underland meets what happens to Sonny Bono’s apartment in Troll. I don’t know what the fuck was going on.

I will now collect my dork points for referencing Top Chef, Flowers In The Attic, Doctor Who, Mercy Thompson, and Troll all in one fucking three paragraph blog post.

On corrections

2011-06-02T09:46:00.000-04:00

My husband pointed out that I spelled Willem Dafoe's name wrong pretty much throughout the entirety of the last update.

...

Like, THAT was the sum of his thoughts on the subject. And he only mentioned it to me, you know, in person, because apparently I had anonymous comments turned off.

THANKS, HONEY. You'll be glad to know I have re-enabled AC, so feel free to make any number of dick comments.

<333333

On hyperbole, and godpleasedon'ttouchme

2011-05-26T13:28:00.000-04:00

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm pretty into hyperbole (and clearly, sarcasm). It's funny & bombast, and also ridiculous, which are all fucking great adjectives. I think I want to physically embody the idea of hyperbole. Like, that's my life goal. Lofty, ain't it.

Moving on.

So I was watching Auto Focus last night, because that's what Joe decided he wanted to watch while he was being responsible/productive and doing laundry and I was lying on the couch reading precious YA fiction on my Kindle (in defense of my laziness, I totally went to work yesterday and he did not). This movie is, whatever, fine, I guess, if you're OK with watching Greg Kinnear having lots of sex and destroying lots of lives. The glaring and abhorrent downside, I was realizing as I watched it, was that Willem Defoe is in it and he fucking terrifies me. So much so that the simple act of going to IMDB to grab that link has left me with a slight tremor. I had to look at a picture! IT WAS AWFUL.

This is where the hyperbole bit up there ties in. It is not uncommon for me to refer to things as fucking terrifying, despite the fact that they are probably only a bit eeky or mildly alarming at their absolute worst. Like, I'm pretty sure I said the existence of Two And A Half Men was fucking terrifying, but really ... not so much. It was not the same level of fear I felt when, say, I was up in the woods north of Ronovo, PA with no cell phone service, in the dark, drunk, standing watch outside of an outhouse with no door, tasked to fucking scare off bears. REAL BEARS, OK. The kind with teeth! And claws! And my weapon was a flashlight I bought at motherfucking FIVE BELOW. I think that is a fair assessment of what actually qualifies as fucking terrifying.

AND YET. There's this Willem Defoe thing, right? I was trying to think of one movie I've seen him in that did not make me want to crawl inside my own vagina and die. I could not think of one, except like maybe Spider Man? But I was sufficiently distracted by the presence of Vern Schillinger, and was puzzled why he wasn't leading an Aryan revolution. So anyway, let's break it down. There was Auto Focus, as mentioned. He plays a pervy freakshow murderer. He was in Antichrist. He plays a WTF-WHO-KNOWS-BUT-OMG-THERE-ARE-SO-MANY-JUNK-SHOTS-AND-MANY-OF-THEM-ARE-BLEEDING kind of ... dude. His character doesn't even have a name. It's "He." No really. Antichrist is the worst movie ever made. It has absolutely usurped Lunacy for the title. He was in Shadow Of The Vampire. And American Psycho. And Wild At Heart (!!!!!!). And The Last Temptation Of Christ! AS JESUS. There are probably more but I can't bring myself to look at his IMDB page again.

The man is -- honestly, inexplicably --terrifying to me. Horrifying. Revolting. He makes me feel physically ill and thusly doubt my own sanity. My palms are sweating right now just thinking about him. And this is probably a fine example of wolf-cryer-y, but I'm finding that the gravity of this situation (while admittedly borderline psychotic, seriously) cannot be fully grasped even by me because I spend so much of my headspace chronically suspended in hyperbole.

Does this even make sense? I'm hoping the absurdity of the reality is helping the point. I could have chosen any number of things that genuinely garner pure terror and anxiety, but I felt like Defoe was bizarre enough to forge the rule.

This realization last night sort of lined up with me stumbling across this great/weird blog and this great/weird little section of it called things that shouldn't give me anxiety but do and I'm like DUDE. This is a great time to have some ego-filled self-discovery trip where I try to actually identify what scares me, and not in like a "death/great unknown/unmitigated suffering" kind of way but definitely in a "Willem Defoe/missing my exit on an interstate highway/Pampered Chef parties" kind of way. Because these things DO genuinely give me panic-inducing fear and angst. And while I often say "x makes me want to pour battery acid in my eyes," the option really seems like a reasonable reaction to this particular list.

I kicked off with Defoe, and the idea of talking about him anymore would likely result in me punching the nearest living thing, so I'm just going to let this stand as a NON-BINDING commitment to actually write this stuff down for the enjoyment of all (at great risk to my fragile psyche, YOU KNOW).

On holy fuck, this is funny

2011-05-18T17:10:00.000-04:00

Go read the full article at The Hairpin (it's got videos!), but I absolutely had to re-post this. It is the most amazing summary of Full House ever written.

Snippet from "What ABC’s “TGIF” 1997 – 1999 Lineup Can Teach Us About Men"

Thanks to Full House everyone who came of age in the ‘90s expects their "Aha!" moments to be accompanied by the Harpsichord of Learning. Three dudes living together in a house in San Francisco might sound more appropriate for the LOGO channel, but John Stamos, Dave Coulier, and Bob Saget were just trying to make a good life for the three blonde moppets (Jodie Sweeten, Candace Cameron, and Tia and Tamara Mowry) left behind by Saget’s widow. Her cause of death was never explicitly said, but we can all imagine what it’s like living with the host of America’s Funniest Home Videos, so I’m gonna go with enthusiastic suicide. Full House didn’t have clever writing or exciting storylines, but it had that special something that appeals to us all: extra cheese.

There’s no point in beating around the bush; then and now, John Stamos is one fly-ass motherfucker. In terms of physical attraction, he cannot be beat, unless it’s by Rob Lowe, and even then it better be on Pay-Per-View, shirtless, with Ramona Singer's Pinot Grigio in my glass in order to determine a winner. In any case, Uncle Jesse had commitment issues and was a “bad boy” musician who played only Beach Boys covers. He eventually settled down with the equally attractive Aunt Becky, and they stayed in the attic of that Rorschach test of a house until they conceived gross twins. When they were courting, Aunt Becky was smart, sassy, and independent. Once he knocked her up, Aunt Becky drank the moral-seminar-spewing Kool Aid and was never cool again. And isn’t that the lesson here? (CUE HARPSICHORD, DAMN IT!) Never change yourself for a man. Especially if that man shares a house with…

Dave Coulier

Despite the fact that Joey “The Ugly One” Gladstone (a frighteningly accurate precursor for Joey “The Ugly One” Fatone) was widely regarded as the loser of the three, more and more men follow his failed comedian man-child route, leaving the women of the world with no choice but to sleep with them. Joey didn’t have a lot of romantic options, because nobody wanted to see a man with a flair for speaking in a Popeye voice making the night moves. When he did, his romantic options were mostly weirdos with Bullwinkle fetishes. The biggest lesson we can be learned from Joey is that comedians in San Francisco have day jobs as nannies and live rent-free in the basement, and that if you expect more from them, you should “cut… it… out.”

Bob Saget

Neat-freak Danny Tanner had a lot of trouble with the ladies. A widower with three daughters and a self-righteous speech always ready in his back pocket, he wasn’t exactly a catch. He was mostly looking for mom stand-ins for the girls. Still, there’s something appealing about a man who seems so… good. Danny taught us that if you’re going to get involved with a man with three daughters, you can expect them to crash your dates and sabotage your relationship because you will never be as good as their dead mother.

(A fun side game is to see how many Olsen Twins movies and TV shows exist where they actually have both of their parents. Those latchkey kids were always missing at least one parental unit — it’s insane.)

On please shut the fuck up, everyone in the world

2011-05-09T12:31:00.000-04:00

I spent all weekend lying around with a fairly nasty cold, which means, yes, I watched a lot of TV. Marathon episodes of Law & Order, mostly. However, the problem with any extended exposure to “live” television is that I’ve noticed that commercials have become absolutely intolerable to me. I have been destroyed by my DVR. Unless you’re going all “We Obviously Don’t Care, Here’s What We Came Up With At 3AM After Several Bong Hits” like Dairy Queen (rainbows on fire!), I do not want anything to do with your commercials. Fuck your commercials.

All that to say that I invariably got annoyed enough by the commercials that I would wander the dial in search of something – anything – commercial free. Of course the only thing on television sans commercials are movies. Now, admittedly, I am no film critic. I will pretty much watch anything, provided the premise is not SO repellant that the simple idea of it makes me want to perform self-surgery (ie, anything by Tyler Perry, and mostly anything with Vince Vaughan in it). I don’t necessarily like everything I watch … in fact, I hate most of it. Which you think would teach me to develop more discerning tastes and just STOP watching whatever happens to be on just, you know, in case it’s good. It’s not going to be good. It’s fucking NEVER going to be good.

Case in point! I watched Eat Pray Love. I had thus far managed to avoid pretty much everything about this movie/book, other than the fact that it existed, it was about a woman on some kind of journey of self-discovery, and was FULL of saccharine and Velveeta; enough that they sold monogrammed bath mats on Home Shopping Network for it. Like, in the hermetic compartmentalization in my head, this movie fell into the category of “Oprah Dry Humped This”

This movie? OK? This move made me fucking livid.

This is a loosely transcribed conversation I had with my husband while this train wreck was happening. For context, he got home from work in the middle of it.

Him: Ugh. Why are you watching this?

Me: I don't ... I don't know. It's fucking terrible.

Him: It's rich people! Finding themselves!
Me: Right! And holy god if I have to look at Julia Roberts' "epiphany face" one more fucking time! NO ONE HAS THAT MANY EPIPHANIES.
Him: At least Richard Jenkins is in it?
Me: Yes, being intolerable! He speaks in bumper stickers! The fucking character who is herself a WALKING BUMPER STICKER called him out on it!
Him: Well. It's a movie. About rich people. Finding themselves.
Me: I get that. And yet every time Javier Bardem is on screen, I can only think: "Heads or tails?" That, and marvel at the size of his head. I mean, god. It's fucking enormous.
Him: So turn it off.
Me: .... clearly you don't know me AT ALL.

My husband is ever the voice of reason. I insist on taking levels of unnecessary punishment; amounts to make the world weep, you guys. So I can, what, have some righteous indignation? Or something? About EAT PRAY FUCKING LOVE?

Bollocks.

On rapidly approaching Things, Things In The Mist

2011-05-02T12:01:00.001-04:00

First: context (for posterity)

The mere idea that news media is dutifully broadcasting massive groups of people vigorously celebrating clandestine military murder is absolutely fucking terrifying to me. I don’t care WHO they killed. There is something very, very wrong with this picture. I won’t pretend to be naïve enough to not understand humanity’s inherently dark/brutal/repugnant nature. Honestly. But to see such an enormous public display of it does give one pause.

What is also fucking terrifying is this jingoism over Getting The Bad Guy. Not only because there are always more Bad Guys -- real and imagined -- but jingoism to any degree is terrifying; that blind hysteria of patriotism leads to all sorts of nasty things, the least of which is gleefully handing over civil liberty. At worst, we’re going full bore into barbarism in the name of upholding some bizarre ideal that no one can actually define, but it sure feels good to be on the team, don’t it, fellas.

Apart from proselytizing over the general implications of this fucking circus of a blood spectacle: as someone who was, you know, present for the events of 9/11, as someone who wiped ash and human remains off the windshield of the family car … I don’t know how I feel that the man supposedly responsible for fucking my city and destroying like a gazillion lives in some form or another is dead (supposedly). From a purely emotional standpoint? Well. Um. OK, I guess? I can’t get past the whole Too Little Too Late thing. I’m not real sure what his death has accomplished. I don’t feel assuaged or avenged. I am certainly not about to take to the streets waving a giant flag and decreeing my undying love for my country and its assassins. This may sound very 'hug a tree, why don't you,' but I guess I'm just not sure that more death in a sea of fucking deathdeathdeath was the answer. I don’t even think there is an answer.

I just want to crawl into a hole, really. I don't like humanity or the fucked up world I live in very much today.

On the horse, and it's demise.

2011-03-28T12:38:00.000-04:00

I'm using the week I have off for spring break (a week, one week, between grueling quarters, like, kill me now) to try and remember what it's like to not live on cheese sandwiches and Hot Pockets.

Yesterday I made:

Peppercorn rubbed pork tenderloin
Seared yellowfin tuna
Mashed potatoes with roasted garlic & chives
Spinach & strawberry salad with goat cheese & balsamic vinaigrette

I also drank water. A ridiculous amount of it. And cleaned my bedroom. And vacuumed. And read blogs. And watched Fringe.

AND I didn't get up until 12:30.

All in all, a fabulous day.

On advances.

2011-03-24T21:45:00.001-04:00

Ain't technology grand?

Just saying.

2011-03-09T09:07:00.003-05:00

On clusterfucks.

2011-03-04T17:10:00.002-05:00

Obsession is brutal. And my brain works like busted gears; stops, starts, stutters. So it’s like watching the same scene skip over and over again, until - yes - I want to tear off my head and throw it in the corner like a wadded up mistake. The subject hardly matters anymore. Whatever the focal point of this raging echolalia (though be sure it is something silly; frivolous at best and absolutely dangerous in its distractions at worst), the primary dilemma is its simple existence. That, and the fact that these things seem to get harder and harder to shake in my old age. I used to think that youth made circumstances more intense, that the world was in technicolor because it was new. Now, I’m not so sure. Aging has seemed to impart a certain gravitas on what youth would discard as irrelevant. There are more and less possibilities. It depends on the arena. It depends on who’s fighting.

Fuck. I just want to sleep without flashes; dreams that are senseless and perpetuating. I just want to have a single thought that is not clouded around the edges. I would like a minute to catch my breath.

On besties, or why I love Jae

2010-12-20T09:59:00.003-05:00

Admittedly, this is really only funny if you’ve read the books we’re talking about, but I feel like the dynamic of the conversation aptly reflects our relationship.

We begin discussing a Scrabble game gone awry.

Dani: It expired! WTF! Um, yeah, sorry, I'll make a new one.

Jae: YOU SUCK!! You totally did that on purpose. I had the perfect start!!

Dani: HAAAAAAAA. If Joe had waited til Saturday afternoon and not 2 in the damn morning, I would have made it.

Jae: Is cool. I just handed you your ass in the other game ;)

Dani: Ugh. The game is still young, ma petite.

Jae: GROSS. Ma petite? I thought I had washed that out of my brain. Although, I keep thinking I need to read the series again from the beginning. Watching the train as it wrecks is VASTLY amusing. Wait until you get to like, The Harlequin, it is truly wondrous how she manages to jack up the entire premise of the series

Dani: These books are truly awful. Like, I can’t believe I’m still reading them. IT FILLS ME WITH SELF-LOATHING THAT I AM STILL READING THEM. I’m on #4 ... Lunatic Café. The names get dumber, the plots get stupider, and I am still (STILL) waiting for someone to get laid. But, honestly, the next time I have to go through any more occurrences of the following sentences, I am going to throw the book into the wall. I would burn it, but it’s Connie’s.

"And [blah blah] completed the outfit." STOP. IT. I DON’T FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOUR NIKES WITH THE FUCKING BLUE SWISH. Particularly when you mention them every other page!

"...but then again, who does?" YOU ARE NOT CARRIE BRADSHAW, and you do not need to remind me that any number of dumb activities you engage in would be frowned upon by omigosh normal people, wtf lol.

The process of answering, often sarcastically, any rhetorical-look-to-the-sky-question and/or statement of fact with "Riiight.", "Joy." "Naw." Or my personal favorite, "Bliss."

And stop talking about your guns! And where you keep them! And how they fit under your stupid completed outfits!

And I hate every characters name! Every! One! DOLPH. WHO NAMES A CHARACTER DOLPH.

Oh my god, Janet. Why am I reading these books? Why?

Jae: Yeah seriously. I HATE Anita's HEADVOICE. It makes me want to scream. The self-loathing and ZOMG I AM NOT NORMAL. Well. Duh. you raise zombies, asshole, that is not normal.

And I am 100% with you on the descriptions of the outfits. Plus, can we date ourselves any more? Polos and Nikes? For real? And black jeans? Gag me with a spoon. I don't mind the guns so much. At least the guns are relevant to the story. You know, they keep her ass alive. Although her constantly talking about her penguin collection made me RAGE.

I think the only book I actually enjoyed was Obsidian Butterfly. Which is #8 or something. There is a positive dearth of "ma petite" because she goes to Arizona or some such place that shouldn't exist but does.

Wait until she starts talking about the ardeur, or says meat like 17x a page. Or metaphysical. Or triumvirate. RETCH. Plus, she turns into a Mary Sue. And not even a Mary Sue that makes sense. Because she is an awful person, but everyone loveesss her. Everyone.

God, and the sex scenes are not even really worth it. Lots of couched metaphors. No dirty words. Despite sex becoming the major premise of the books, there is no money shot. EVER! It's like watching a skin flick on Cinemax, but one where they don't show anything above the ribs and below the bellybutton. NOT EVEN NIPPLES.

The only reason I read them all is because I torrented them for FREE. The formatting is utterly fucked, but I can sleep at night knowing that I gave her NONE of my money. And even though I kind of hated all of the books, I kept reading them. It was like having a bruise. You keep touching it because it's there. It hurts and is kind of annoying but you can't help pressing on it. Plus by the time the series went from interestingly bad to GODDAMN AWFUL I had invested so much time in it that I needed to know what happened next. Even now, I'm like "ooh she's releasing a new one in June". It makes me feel kind of sick to my stomach.

Dani: Dude. I love you because we torture ourselves in all the same ways.

Oh god, the "word of the day" continues. Where I’m at, she has recently discovered the word 'nefarious' (is this a big word? At her age/occupation, is "discovering" 'nefarious' even possible?) and is using it every third paragraph.

TRIUMVIRATE?! I love that word! I’m so sad at the impeding ruination of it! FUCK YOU, LKH.
The PENGUINS. WTF. WITH. THE. FUCKING. PENGUINS.

We clearly need to start a domain and call it "shutupanitablake.com"

I feel like if I can get through this series with most of my mental faculties in tact, I might try the Sookie Stackhouse books again. My memory has the first one sacrificed in effigy on the altar of terrible writing, but they cannot possibly be worse than these.

On the circle of life.

2010-11-30T09:13:00.005-05:00

Tonight, I have to murder a lobster. I’ve been in culinary school for over a year and have managed to avoid this nasty task. This is largely because despite how many thousands of dollars I pay them to educate me, they remain cheap jerks who never let me play with the cool stuff. The very few times I’ve had to cook lobster, they’ve arrived at my work station pre-murdered by way of the steamer. This sounds awful, but is in many ways easier to deal with. A commercial steamer is a hulking piece of equipment with heavy metal walls and no windows. The poor lobster may be scalded to an atrocious and painful death, but I don’t have to watch it, and more importantly, I don’t have to hear it.

Tonight, though, the lobster is all mine. It is a key ingredient in the cioppino I am tasked to make. The lobster must be incorporated to the stew murdered, but raw. No steaming allowed.

I have to hold down this lobster and STAB IT IN THE HEAD, you guys. Like, are you getting this? I know I have a reputation of finding abhorrent violence hilarious, but that is largely towards people, the dumb ones, and not innocent sea-life. Don’t get me wrong – lobster is delicious. And I’m trying really, really hard to accept the concept of being willing to kill for my food. I’m trying really hard to give the whole idea of respecting the creatures that die for my nourishment, and treating them with dignity, and blah blah, hug a damn tree. This is all awesome in theory, but I’m still – at the end of the day – left with the task of wrangling something living and making it NOT so. With a giant knife. While it’s looking at me.

I swear to god, if it screams, I’m dropping out of school and pursuing a career in accounting.

On descent in Atwoodian fiction

2010-11-16T08:27:00.002-05:00

Apparently I've landed somewhere in Oryx & Crake.

I just spent a ridiculous amount of money at this company for work. Wait for it ...

http://www.nu-meat.com/

They are clearly at the forefront of pigoon butchery and chickienob development.

Zomg.

IT'S A TRAP.

2010-11-11T13:59:00.003-05:00

The Japanese insanity had to go.

On having too much at stake

2010-10-29T22:13:00.004-04:00

Well. That was awesome.

I'm choosing to look at this as an opportunity to lick my wounds with whiskey while I still can.

Yo ho ho, kids.

On moving on

2010-10-28T11:55:00.001-04:00

Because I am a masochist? No, not exactly. Because I need something to focus on that will assuredly consume most of my idle thoughts. Yes. That sounds about right. And I need something I can accomplish – some kind of a testament to the strength of will I know that I have, somewhere, underneath all the murky dissonance and apathy that has become my current modus vivendi. What I’m saying is, something needs to happen, and my schedule is too stupid to commit to any more activities that require time and/or money. So I need to shake shit up where I can; where there’s room.

30 Day Detox begins November 1. Yes. That’s right. In 4 days. I will consider my upcoming Not A Halloween Party as a final brouhaha. It works out better that way.

My plan loosely involves:

- Little to no processed food (like, I’m not baking bread, okay? I will buy 100% whole wheat and consider it a win. But no more canned soup, Hot Pockets, Coke Zero, and shit like that)

- No processed sugars or foods with added sugar (natural sugar, i.e. the kind in fruit and dairy, are okay)

- Artificial sweeteners limited to one serving per day (I can’t drink unsweetened coffee. I CAN’T, you guys. I would rather just not drink coffee and switch to black tea with honey for a caffeine fix)

- No hard liquor … beer & wine in serious moderation, no more than 2 servings in one sitting. I’m going to try and go for less than 2 servings a week, but let’s not get ridiculous

- Couch to 5K will see a proper kick off, and let’s just forget about the half-ass attempts I’ve made previously. This is wrapped in a more general commitment to get to the goddamn gym at least 4 times a week. It’s a good gym! It’s costing me $30 a month! WHY DO I NOT GO. Ah, because I’m lazy and would rather watch The Food Network. Right.

This isn’t, like, an “omfg I’m fat and need to lose weight” type of deal. I have been there before and that sort of terror motivation doesn’t particularly do it for me. Honestly I have just been feeling like total shit for a while, and I’m done with it. I know that all of the above will grossly improve my general disposition – psychical and mental. I do not want to be a moody, tired, achy bitch anymore. It’s no fun for me or anyone who has to deal with me on a regular basis. So while a detox is omg haaaaaaard whine … it’s a start.

Oh, and I’m filling my Chantix prescription. I’m not super thrilled about this part, because man did that shit mess with me the last time, but I think I’m over smoking. I’m definitely over the cost of it, and the desperation behind the mere concept of running out of cigarettes, and the heaviness in my chest and the coughing fits that seem to be happening just a tiny bit more frequently than they did a year ago. I’m not gung ho. No. Maybe it will be my downfall. But I’m going to try to quit, and I’m promising myself right now that if I fail, I will NOT fucking beat myself up over it.

No more guilt. For serious. The fucking Roman Catholics will not control my goddamn life anymore.

To keep my shit on track, I’m going to attempt to check in here regularly. I do not promise it will be witty, engaging, or at all interesting. It may just be pictures of my breakfast. Seriously. Keep your expectations low, is what I’m saying here.

On further resonance

2010-10-27T11:45:00.002-04:00

The possibility of physical and mental collapse is ... now very real.

Is that dramatic? That's dramatic. But it's sort of apropos. Sort of. I don't know. I honestly feel braindead, like, moreso than usual. I can't formulate complete thoughts; just these weird fleeting notions that may or may not make any sense with or without context.

Once I would have called it restlessness, but I think I've been restless for so long that any minor spike in it no longer makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Instead I just sit, defeated, scattered, vaguely wondering what I'm supposed to do next, but not actually caring.

It sounds more bleak than it is. I'm okay. Mostly. But I need some kind of conduit to relay all this ... muddled misery. So I can stay that way. Okay, that is. Okay is a solid goal. I can work with okay.

I had some other thoughts on in betweens, interims, all that. But really I've noticed my life has two distinct stages. Treading Water and The Plunge. It's been a while since I forced myself to deal with a proper Plunge. I keep telling myself that I haven't recovered from the last one. But I'm no longer convinced that's entirely true. What I do know is that I am undoubtedly over Treading Water. What I need to figure out is what dark hallway I want to start down next.

Whatever. I don't know. Honestly. These metaphors are ambiguous and stupid. This shit doesn't even make sense to me.

On resonance

2010-10-25T09:57:00.003-04:00

If only I had an enemy bigger than my apathy, I could have won.

This song is pretty amazing.I would have embedded it, but I can't have three in a row on my conscience.

Mumford & Sons - I Gave You All

Go find it if you care.

Another one in the Top 5 for this month.

2010-10-22T13:30:00.000-04:00

I can't stop listening to this song.

2010-10-22T11:37:00.000-04:00

On the interim

2010-10-07T19:53:00.001-04:00

Right.

Try and maintain.

Thank god for whiskey.

On ... oh, fuck off, already

2010-10-04T15:41:00.002-04:00

Endless. It really is endless.

I would love to get in my car and drive until the gas runs out, but it will just overheat 10 minutes after I hit the road, and for that I can fucking WALK to Sanatoga.

I've apparently offended the ever loving fuck out of karma, somehow, with some action or inaction, some misdeed of such gross offense and negligence that I am being made to grovel to forces I can't understand. And it is all so very dramatic, isn't it, this futile fist-shaking at figments. Dramatic and stupid, and yet, this is my life, and right now it fucking sucks.

I hope you're enjoying the commas. I certainly am.

I just don't know what to do with myself, anymore. I feel impotent and beaten by things I can't control, and those things are slowly ruining my life. Yes, ruining. Yes. Because there are things I need to maintain my life, as it is. A car is one of those things. More than $10 in my bank account is one of those things. One stress-free day out of seven is one of those things. And I'm not getting them. And I can't fix it. And it is making me lose my shit in a very real way.

Go ahead, have a moment, proselytize about the meaningless of materials, of objects, of how today is just one day. Fuck you, okay? I love waxing poetic about the beauty of the world, and love, and the oft touted belief that money cannot buy happiness. I love it when I fucking have money, and a car that works, and bill collectors not calling me all hours of the day for $50 here and $200 here. Otherwise? Not so much. Let's just put that hippie bullshit aside and focus on the fact that existing in America as a relatively functioning member of society requires MONEY and I am so unbelievably tired of being the person that never fucking has any, regardless of how much I make on paper, regardless of how responsible I am, regardless of whatever else worth regarding.

Yes, I'm whining. Deal with it.

On a state of perpetual FML

2010-09-27T14:47:00.004-04:00

I think my fucking brain is going to start pouring out of my ears if today continues to be TODAY.

I'm just done. Over this. Over being fucking broke, over every fucking problem being complicated, like I'm spending every minute of every goddamn day climbing uphill, against the fucking wind, while some assholes on the side of the road throw fucking rocks at me.

When did my life get so daunting? Seriously? When did just the idea of having to deal with a DAY be enough to want to make me get in my damn car and drive until the gas runs out, miles and miles after I've thrown my stupid fucking phone out the window, possibly while laughing maniacally.

Please, planet and everyone in it, just leave me the fuck alone and let me be miserable for once.

Thanks.

Love,

On check in

2010-09-21T12:54:00.004-04:00

I feel weird and buggy; frenetic. Like I want to run a marathon and take a nap simultaneously.

I wonder who dropped a speedball into my coffee this morning. Those jerks from accounting have a sick sense of humor.

Meh.

On installation projects

2010-09-21T08:04:00.002-04:00

I could probably write a thesis on the Freudian themes inherent within this terrible, terrible ... painting? thing? ... but honestly, all I can think about is the South Park woodland creatures.

THEY'RE RAPING US!

On consistency

2010-09-08T03:46:00.002-04:00

Well, 3am. We always have each other.

The idea of sleeping is almost ridiculous. My head's too full of white noise; unfiled drudgery and moments I don't know what to do with it. Trying to find a framework now is a measure in futility if not utter masochism -- not that I have any grandiose illusions that compartmentalizing my brain will be at all easier in the morning.

I've smoked too many cigarettes and haven't drank enough whiskey for clarity. So I'm plodding. I won't pretend this will make any sense to me, much less you, dear ether. I still don't know what I want to say.

Despite this floundering, clearly these little moments of ours assuage some kind of aqueous need. To express what is not expressable. To pin down, to label. Despite. Right. Despite the nagging feeling that its just meager words thrown down empty hallways. Despite my fervent belief that this shit never does anyone any good anyway.

So I consider the fatalistic approach I have towards most moments in my life. That maudlin solace ever present at the surface of a good thing. Yes. This will end. Invariably, abruptly, and without apology. This will end, this poor moment fucking doomed to the sun dappled chiaroscuro of memory. In my head it will become liquid and mutable, warped and perfect. I will remember it better than it was. Even - especially? - if its just fine that way it is.

I don't want to do this anymore.

On nostalgia

2010-09-02T12:59:00.001-04:00

I spent a good portion of my youth at this place, primarily for the cheese fries.

Maples Lanes Turns 50

I miss Brooklyn.

On miscellany

2010-09-01T13:34:00.003-04:00

Delicious snack discovery of the week:

... ok, then. Apparently this product is so new (?? hard to believe, as I found it looking sad and almost dusty on the back shelf at Wawa), there is no official website for it. Well, here is a website for I guess what one USED to have to do to get this delicious item:

http://www.chex.com/recipes/RecipeView.aspx?RecipeId=45860&CategoryId=447

It is now, however, available pre-packaged. And full of nom. Despite the stupid name.

Honestly, that's all I have.

Two more classes til end of quarter, and two more days til I go visit Mikeface, which is fucking insane and awesome. Wisconsin, I hope you're prepared. Because one of us should be.

Addendum:

Deep-fried butter! Somewhere, Paula Dean just had an orgasm.

http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/32665106

On giving up

2010-08-24T15:15:00.002-04:00

A wise man once said:

"You could replace 95% of the population with futons and the quality of conversation would not deteriorate. And there'd always be somewhere to sit."

I've always felt this was a really nice way of saying: OMFG KILL URSELF!!!11!!1!!!1

Which is how I feel, really, about almost everybody today.

On Windows Terrorvision

2010-08-23T13:26:00.002-04:00

Seriously, what kind of batshit insane 13 year old Japanese girls does Microsoft have working for them? WHO LOADS THIS ONTO A PC?

Now I have this sudden urge to play Katamari. Fan-fucking-tastic.

On getting your damn initialisms right

2010-08-16T15:38:00.003-04:00

This is a useless work-related rant that no one will understand, but fuck you, it's my blog and I'll rant when I want to.

In purchasing parlance (and I expect I lost you right about ... now), the initialism (acronym? I think it qualifies) ARO means "at receipt of order." For instance, if someone asks me for a quote on an item, and that item's availability is 2 weeks from the date of order, I would tell them "price is $10, lead time is 2 weeks ARO"

Explanation out of the way. There are few things more fucking obnoxious than submitting an order to a company and having them reply with something like "thanks for the order, item is 5 days ARO." You have the goddamn order, you jerk! The "at receipt" part has already fucking happened!

Oh, and FOB? DOES NO ONE KNOW WHAT FOB MEANS? Seriously, it is lobbed at the end of every confirmation, every quote, every goddamn tiny piece of correspondence in the known fucking universe, for no good fucking reason.

For once, for all, take goddamn notes: FOB means "FREIGHT ON BOARD." Not, in fact, "freight on bill" or "free on board" - this is not Europe. This is not even Canada. If you do not know what FREIGHT ON BOARD means, I will explain it using the smallest words I can:

FOB alone means nothing. FOB must be followed by an instruction. It is a prequel, OK? It is a term used to indicate who is responsible for the transportation costs, and/or at what point the responsibility of the goods transfers from shipper to purchaser. Still with me?

Here are two examples:

FOB shipping point, freight collect - this means the responsibility of the item is assumed by the purchaser as soon as that goddamn thing leaves the dock/alley/hallway/wherever the fuck it's coming out of. So if it manages to burst into fucking flames halfway through Sheboygan, it totally SUCKS to be you (if you are the purchaser). It also means that the transportation costs are paid for by the purchaser, regardless of whether the thing bursts into flames or not, and will either be billed to the purchaser's shipping account or collected by a dude with a tire iron and 4 teeth at the time of arrival.

FOB destination, freight prepaid - this means that the shipper has your shipment in his or her loving embrace until the moment you sign for it at your front door. If this shipment is eaten by a band of acid-dropping alligators, the shipper is responsible for sending you another one, and would benefit from sending it via a carrier that doesn't ship with a fleet of psychedelic chickens through the Florida swamps. Freight prepaid means the shipper pays for all shipping costs, no matter how many damn times those fucking gators eat your shit.

GOT IT? OKAY? GOOD. NOW FUCK OFF.

On words

2010-08-16T13:27:00.001-04:00

I don't know when I stopped inhaling books. It’s been a while. Years, for sure. I still love books and I still love discussing books,* I just don’t read very many of them anymore. Four or five per annum is about where I’m at (I used to go through that number in a month, or less, easily). I am very much over wallowing in guilt for my own personal failures, so I’ll just leave it at that. Fine. Four or five. Annum. Got it. The point is, I do occasionally decide I would like to read a metric fuckton more than I’m used to, and start several books at a clip. This rarely works out – 2/3s of these books will never get finished; or at least not get finished for the foreseeable future. And here is why.

Day Watch – Sergei Lukyanenko

Well. You know. I accept the book was written in Russian. I accept there is going to be a bit of clunkiness in the translation. It took me a couple of months to get through Night Watch, but I did like it (and subsequently hated the movie – thanks, Janet). I plunged into Day Watch immediately following, however. And I am bored to tears. I don’t know if it’s like, Others overload (I want someone to count how many times the word “Others” appears in the book, I swear, it has to be in the high 700,000s), or just the fact that this book is not as good as the first one. The characters are one-dimensional, forgettable, and like CRAZY Russian. More Russian than I can relate to. And there are so many more song lyrics! I fucking hate song lyrics in a novel! There is ONE place in a novel for lyrics or poetry of any kind, and that is right at the beginning, after the foreword. Maybe – maybe – they are acceptable at the beginning of a chapter, but you’re seriously pushing it, Stephen King.

Harry Potter & The Deathly Hallows – J.K RowlingH

I have been trying to read this since it came out. It’s ridiculous. I LOVED the first five books, but was mostly annoyed by the sixth (like, omfg, SHUT UP TEENAGE HARRY POTTER), and I think my annoyance at that has overshadowed my desire to give a shit about the seventh. I did totally cheat and skip to the end, though, so, yes, I know how it turns out. That can’t be helping.

The Year Of The Flood – Margaret Atwood

I am super optimistic about finishing this one, because, um, I love Atwood. Like, love to the point of scariness. Love like maybe I will go to Canada and hunt her down just so I can be creepy at her. However, I have had it since Christmas and this is the third attempt I’ve made to get past page 10. My excuse was that it’s sort of a sequel to Oryx & Crake, and it’s been a while since I read that one and should go back and get, like, refreshed. It’s also a giant hardcover, which I love owning but hate actually reading. I am a paperback girl.** But I’m over it. I’m reading it. I got through around 75 pages last night, which is usually far enough to indicate there will be no turning back.

A Tree Grows In Brooklyn – Betty Smith

Uhhh. Yeah. I never read it. My father-in-law thought this was some irascible character flaw. I did get fairly far into it, but gave up when the cat knocked it behind the bed. I didn’t hate it, but it felt like junior high school homework. If I ever move my bed, I promise I will finish it.

The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Another one I never read, but the idea that is was an irascible character flaw was my own. I started reading a pirated ebook the other day and already know this is a doomed project. *** If Joe ever finds the copy he swears is on our bookshelf, I may give it another shot.

So, ambitious, right? These on top of my school stuff, which is entirely academic this quarter (algebra! World lit! OMG yay!). Not sure. I feel like I should take advantage of the willpower to de-atrophy my brain every now and again.

*obviously with, like, semi-intelligent life forms who know words like “anticlimactic” and “dithering” - two words I frequently use to describe books

** I don’t know where I stand on the e-reader thing. Like, maybe. I dunno. I feel like I need a much higher level of excitement and commitment to spend $200 on an electronic book jacket.

*** See, with the e-books. I can’t get into it.

On never wanting mental trauma before coffee

2010-08-16T08:39:00.004-04:00

My desktop background is on some bizarre setting that changes every 30 minutes with pictures culled from god knows where – usually sweeping naturescapes and random laser shapes and all that nonsense. However, this is what I got when I turned my computer on this morning, and I am now ready to go home and weep softly in a closet for a number of hours.

On fluff, and the opposite of paraskavedekatriaphobia

2010-08-13T13:30:00.001-04:00

It’s Friday. Indeed. As much as I generally bemoan – nay, fear and loathe – the whole genus of office culture, I cannot help but be swept away in the contagious euphoria that comes with a good, solid Friday. I appreciate the little things. I appreciate being able to wear jeans to work. I appreciate knowing that I can go home tonight and get fantastically sloshed and not worry about waking up at 5 tomorrow morning. Bliss.

I don’t have a thing going on this weekend. Not a one. I may be productive and clean my house, go for a run, or a bike ride, change the wiper blades on my car, organize the pile of mail collecting dust by the front door. I may. Probably not, though. I will probably bankrupt my DVR, slog through yet another disc of Battlestar Galactica, and if I’m feeling really ambitious, play Assassin’s Creed 2.

I might even call someone and attempt to be social. Beer and board games! Or beer and … whatever! I don’t know. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon on a Friday and the possibilities are still endless.

Right. Exactly. Fuck gravitas.

Clearly ...

2010-07-29T08:51:00.002-04:00

... I am going geek girl all over VNV Nation today. For reasons unknown.

Another excellent track.

VNV Nation - Precipice

The hope of my redemption
Is such that I believe that I am free
To Confess would bring me no salvation
I alone hold the power to forgive me

And of my acts, I will admit I've no pretensions,
I've no regrets for all the things that I have done
My faiths, to me, are as foundations
None has the right to judge my soul but me

There is no going back, no quarter now remains
No return for me, no sanctity, a single chance prevails
The lands behind lay waste, no doubt no amends to make
At break of day, until the light fails, march ever on.

Great are the paths of our creation
That have been made for the brave to see
The fools who would condemn our existence
Or as lands to be vanquished and seized

There is no going back, no quarter now remains
No return for me, no sanctity, a single chance prevails
The lands behind lay waste, no doubt no amends to make
At break of day, until the light fails, march ever on.

There is no going back, no quarter now remains
No return for me, no sanctity, a single chance prevails
The lands behind lay waste, no doubt no amends to make
At break of day, until the light fails, march ever on.

There is no going back, no quarter now remains
No return for me, no sanctity, a single chance prevails
The lands behind lay waste, no doubt no amends to make
At break of day, until the light fails, march ever on

On weekly obsession.

2010-07-29T07:12:00.002-04:00

This song immediately makes me feel 16, in that I will play it over and over again and not notice it getting any less good.

I don't know if the link works, but give it a try.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-C-Pi-A3UE

VNV Nation - Verum Aeternus

If you and I had been
Anything less than these tormented souls
We would have never have gone so far
To become what we are

If you and I had never seen the world
Through the eyes of a child
We would never have wanted to stop time
Sleepers passing by

If you and I had been even less
Than these disenfranchised minds
We would have looked the other way
As we passed each other by

And for the things I know
From the broken who I ask
Is to look beyond this place
Stop staring at the clouds
Thinking only what went wrong

I know there are days
Too dark and hard to take
I hope you know
This is just one day you'll have to face
This is not the whole of your life

This is one day
This is one day
This is one day
One day out of the whole of your life
One day out of the whole of your life

On ... I have no fucking idea.

2010-07-25T01:52:00.000-04:00

I'm tired of the televison. Tired of small screens, glowing, all reminders of what I'm not doing, what I could have done, tenacious in their goading insistence of my own potential ruin. It has become increasingly easier to be irrevocable. To say things I shouldn't, that I probably don't even mean. But man. That shit looks pretty.

Keeping my head in a box has more or less got me here. Here, in the literal, figurative, whatever. My life. Breathe it in. I spent so many years trying not to reach ends, or find conclusions, that I've gotten so accustomed to this vague ambiguity. I put a lot of stock into tomorrow. Anymore, I can't make predictions. My predictions always sucked, anyway.

I don't even know what I'm chasing half the time; constantly striving towards some opaque future of muted colors and flitting shadows. That is what happens when you lose your passion. Life in general gets a bit watery.

So, what. Stir shit up with some half-realized intention of solidarity. But I can't force it anymore. I can't keep enforcing an ideology that isn't there. I can't engineer honest emotion. Nights like this? I have apathy, whiskey, and cigarettes. I'm choking on my own fucking inability to confront the nasty bits. Even my intended stirring is rife with cowardice. I do these things because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what I've become, and how my meager existence will pan out by remaining in this space. I don't have much concept of the theoretical big picture. I focus on fragments. Moments. And all of this is so fucking rote.

This is a mistake. The wrong means to the wrong end, as they say. But what wouldn't be. Inaction, action ... the time for delicacy has long passed, if it ever existed.

So I don't care. Do whatever you want with this. I have no input, instructions, precision with sentences. I feel fucking broken and haphazard and out of place. This applies to any number of realities.

I should probably just go to sleep.

On doom.

2010-07-14T13:40:00.000-04:00

Doomed. Not in that cool pessimistic/blase way, but doomed like inevitably fucked dead by your own inability to accept certain truths about the universe and your place in it.

On brief mental demise

2010-06-03T08:56:00.002-04:00

Note to self: crawl the fuck out of your head and focus. Get it together. This slow-unravelling shit is working for no one. Address the problem, fix what you can, ignore what you cannot, and move on for gods sake. And no, you cannot carpetbag your ass around Europe, no matter how appealing it sounds. Let it go.

Message brought to you by exhaustion, defeat, minor revelation, and the letter Q.

And here is a creepy picture of bananas.

On freedom, and its recourses.

2010-03-16T13:57:00.001-04:00

Right, blog entries, right, assignment, right, due, okay, now, on it, gotcha.

The problem is, she notes, I don’t have anything to say that I haven’t said before in a more interesting manner. Here’s where I insert: redundancy is like the rain, though. Eventually you accept it as an inevitability.

The problem … honestly, the problem is I’m not feeling very flip today; have not, in fact, felt very flip in some weeks. Blame the season, or my 70+ hour/7 Day schedule and the subsequent fatigue of being genuinely too tired to care. I don’t know. Blame whatever.

There is a greater root which I may have nailed last night while staring desperately at the wall like I do when sleep runs off without me. It was some half-spun notion revolving haplessly around the state of being tetherless; of freedom not always being so worth fighting for. Freedom can also mean flailing, drifting, unbound and aimless, towards some murky future impossible to foresee.

I do feel unbound, mostly. If I’m going to be brutally honest, I’ve felt unbound since being orphaned (I almost wrote ‘abandoned’, yes, abandoned, which is ridiculous; childish and cliché -- but goddamnit, I was, I can say, at least in my head). In November, my mother will be dead five years. It’s kind of mind-blowing. It doesn’t feel like five years, but each day makes her face a little foggier, the details sharpened by photographs and subsequently paper thin. I remember her face in pictures, but often struggle for genuine memory. I don’t even know what genuine memory is, anymore. Flashes, occasionally. The feeling that I was there, it happened, there were witnesses. But I never could understand how people transcribed 20 year old conversations in memoirs. It’s impossible. When I read them, I feel lied to.

[Right about here is where I would normally apologize for meandering, but “meandering” implies there was a base to meander from, and I’m not sure I quite got there.]

So my parents are dead, I have no tethers, and freedom is sometimes a curse. Covered. But I have my husband. But I have my brothers & nieces & some awesome & not-crazy inlaws. But I have the kind of friends that I would follow off that proverbial bridge. I have a decent job. I’m going to school for something I love to do. I have a roof and food and clothes and video games. What else do I need.

Ohhhhhhhh, right. Purpose & passion. Damn.

On auto-complete (because really, I got nothin')

2010-02-23T15:35:00.004-05:00

I've been testing out all the bizarre Google auto-completes I can find for the last 2 hours. This was after a someecard war with people that sit 3 cubes away from me, but during a silent contest on who could design the best Courage Wolf.

So, I give you Random Nonsense O' The Day, because I honestly can't think of one single interesting thing to otherwise natter about. Not one.

Winning Auto-Complete (caption: "because he cheats!")

Winning Someecard:

Winning Courage Wolf:

On ... wait, WTF?

2010-02-12T13:40:00.006-05:00

First, the most amazing misspelling of my last name ever.

Second, the most bizarre "thanks for your business" present I've ever received in all of my years of being in a position to receive "thanks for your business" presents. Tit-shaped chocolates and a Do Not Disturb door hanger? Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

On Mennonites and their smogasbords.

2010-02-02T15:46:00.004-05:00

At the urging of friends & countrymen -- and because there's only so much why-t-f haven't you been to the smorgasbord yet I can take -- I went to Shady Maple in glorious Lancaster County on Saturday night. For the uninitiated, Shady Maple this crazy exercise in gastronomical excess brought to us by the Lord's own Mennonites (consider them Amish lite.) It is larger than your high school gymnasium by half, seats twelve hundred (1,200) people and on your average meal serves 80-90 different kinds of food. That's eighty to ninety. Admittedly, I was pretty psyched. I'm a fan of food in general, but of red meat in particular, and it was prime rib night, man. Prime rib! Hard to go wrong.

And somehow? Despite all that awesomeness? It kind of sucked. It's probably me, yeah? Like, I get that. I'm by no means a food snob, but if I'm going to drive upwards of 45 minutes and pay $20 for a meal, it better be something slightly better than instant mashed potatoes and/or macaroni & cheese. The prime rib was available in two choices: mooing and on fire. There was no in between. It was a crime against beef. I also dared to try the salmon, which was overcooked in addition to being a very long time away from the sea. I think I just need to accept the fact that I hate buffets and can't understand why I keep going to them and expecting to be surprised.

On a positive note, the gift shop was pretty amazing -- rows and rows of John Deere paraphernalia, creepy Amish baby dolls, and Jesus t-shirts. Of course I bought a Jesus t-shirt; nuclear orange with a mock up of a Monopoly Get Out Of Jail Fee card, only replace "Jail" with "Hell" and insert some psalm or another beneath it. I'm sure I could use all the help I can get.

So, go to Shady Maple if you value quantity over quality. The breads and desserts were pretty good, comparatively. I'm told there's an impressive flower wholesaler next door, but it was like 4 degrees on Saturday and I was in no mood to go exploring.

Karma paid me back on Sunday, during which I spent 4 hours elbows deep in red meat. My group grilled like 90 steaks and an entire Chateaubriand. Thanks, Karma.

On gimpery.

2010-01-25T12:01:00.000-05:00

Daily Activities I Never Knew Relied So Heavily On The Use Of My Left Thumb:

- The putting on and removal of pants

- The fastening and unfastening of said pants

- The putting on and removal of shoes

- The fastening and unfastening of said shoes

- The washing & combing of hair

- The tap of a spacebar when typing

- Text messaging

- Video games

- The opening of food packages

- The ashing of cigarettes

- The twisting of caps

- Then opening of my manual car window

- The filling of gas into my car

- The placing of my purse on my shoulder

- The opening of my wallet

List provided because all of those activities are now – when carelessly performed -- causing levels of pain heretofore unrealized as existing.

Not only did I cut the everloving christ out of my thumb yesterday, I did it while essentially being covered in a fine glaze of raw chicken parts, so now I’m pretty sure I’m dying of salmonella poisoning. However, I did bleed for 45 minutes, so maybe whatever poison that transmitted was drained along with all of my vital fluids. I probably should have gotten stitches, but I’m trying to be a chef, goddamnit, and I will not be taken off the line by a flesh wound (she says with gritted teeth.)

Adventures in culinary school, kids! I’m actually pretty pleased that this is only the second nasty wound I’ve taken in 13 weeks. Well, while in school. I’m not counting the grater incident because that was in my kitchen. Both school wounds have in fact been suffered because of careless knife washing and not actually while chopping anything, so clearly I need to pay more attention at the sink.

On the bright side, I can now dismantle an entire chicken. Snapping the legs into a position god never intended them to be in is sooooo satisfying. You should try it.

On never been asked to forsake your tomb.

2010-01-14T13:06:00.001-05:00

Resurrection! Honestly, my blogonality is becoming less like Lazarus and more like the Venture clones; clearly ever more dumb and painful than previous incarnations. And yes, I did just use the word blogonality. Deal with it.

I’ll take a brief moment to pretend that I’m doing this out of some genuine desire to Say Something, but really it’s just a guise for a class assignment involving the illustrious art of blog authoring, and it seemed kind of ridiculous to start yet another stunted presence on the interwebs that will merely serve as a constant reminder of how much I suck at this anymore. Loyal reader (Portugal? Still with me?), you will notice that the propensity towards run-on sentences has not suffered during my absence.

So, what, then. Grand updates on my life, as it were? No. You get nothing. I just have no desire to redact months of banal existence. You know the balancing act – life and work and school, oh my. If you know me at all, I’ve already been showering you with petty grievances and obnoxious whining (as is my want) while, you know, retaining just enough of that blasé charm that works so well for me. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore, so out of practice at this 10,000-Words-About-Nothing business am I. More than likely I’ll be slinging some hazardously misshapen metaphors your way in a moment, so I suggest you use this time to prepare.

Should I start over? Introduce myself with an extended hand and a how the frak are ya? Can I take for granted that my Battlestar Galactica reference right there coupled with the abovementioned use of blogonality speaks volumes about what kind of person I am? Do I want those two minor details speaking volumes? No. Decidedly not. Though I do really like Battlestar Galactica.

I am Danielle. Some people call me Dani. Some days I have a preference. Today is not one of those days.

I am 27 years old. I am rapidly approaching 28, which will sooner or later become 30, and that scares the hell out of me.

I am from Brooklyn, NY. I live in Pottstown, PA. I moved to Pottstown late 2006. Answers to the questions in the order people ask them: Yes, it is a culture shock. Yes, I miss NY. Yes, I sort of like it here anyway, with a list of caveats to the statement. No, I do not have an accent because I decided to not. Yes, if you catch me after a few drinks and bring up a topic that boils my blood, I will probably lapse and say something embarrassing.

I have tattoos. I want more. If you have a tattoo as well, please do not use this fact to assume that we are at all alike. The simple possibility that you would think that means that we’re not. I assure you.

I wear a lot of black but it’s mostly because of laziness. I was a goth in high school and briefly thereafter, but you can only do that sort of thing so long before killing yourself. Sometimes you need to move on.

I mostly hate humanity but I’m pretty pleasant to individuals most of the time. I have no tolerance for stupidity, ignorance, sexism, bigotry, racism, or blind hatred of any variety. On the same token, I thoroughly enjoy tasteless humor than plays with all of them.

I am pretty good at Scrabble, but my husband and best friend are better. So I lose a lot.

My parents are dead. My mom died of cancer in November 2005. My dad followed suit in July 2006. Yes, it sucked. Thank you for saying so.

I have some siblings, some cats, some fish, some guinea pigs. I drive a red 97 Pontiac Sunfire. Her name is Dr. Girlfriend.

I like whiskey and cigarettes and Margaret Atwood novels. I like freak shows and burlesque and roller derby.

And my brain hurts. So. To be continued.

The ruin I've made

2009-09-27T03:46:00.003-04:00

I've been drinking Maker's Mark and cheap cab sauv all night. So I'm feeling verbose. Joe's asleep on the couch and I'm so over explaining my whereabouts to an imagined audience of people who know me. There's no Portugal anymore. My peak as a blogger was before the days of the word, and I need to let go of the delusions of grandeur.

...well, I'm not sure how that got there, but on to the meat.

Words I love. In this state. Breathe it in.

"He wondered whether home was a thing that happened to a place after a while, or if it was something you found in the end, if you simply walked and waited and willed it long enough." - Neil Gaiman, American Gods

"But some people can't tell you where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling." - Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

"No more photos. Surely there are enough. No more shadows of myself thrown by light onto pieces of paper, onto squares of plastic. No more of my eyes, mouths, noses, moods, bad angles. No more yawns, teeth, wrinkles. I suffer from my own multiplicity. Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five. That would have allowed for a firm idea: This is she. As it is, I'm watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves. Turn the page: you, looking, are newly confused. You know me too well to know me. Or not too well: too much." - Margaret Atwood, The Tent

"No matter how careful you are, there's going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn't experience it all. There's that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should've been paying attention.
Well, get used to that feeling. That's how your whole life will feel some day. " - Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

"Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym." - Stephen King

"God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time" - Neil Gaiman, Good Omens

"When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn't make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. "It's all right" we whisper, "I'm here, I love you." and we lie: "I'll never leave you." - Neil Gaiman

"Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you've made." - Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye

... my brain hurts. That took some thinking. I didn't fact check, so some of the specific words might be fucked. But the sentiment is totally there.

Squeeze.

2009-07-01T08:33:00.000-04:00

I will eventually remember this blog exists.

Mantra, not promise.

Whoa.

2009-06-04T09:24:00.002-04:00

Oh right. Well. Hi there.

Stuff going on. So will update later. Maybe.

Smooches.

Head on the door.

2009-03-01T23:52:00.003-05:00

Drop off. Hmm.

Stare long enough into the abyss ... well, you know the rest.

Feeling kind of disjointed. Dreading trying to get to work tomorrow through the tundra. I'm done with winter. It hasn't snowed much this year, but it's snowed enough. I can't shake this funk. I don't know how much the season has to do with it, exactly, but it's certainly not helping.

Bed time, then. Before this ends up somewhere it doesn't need to go.

Taking what I can get.

2009-02-15T04:37:00.000-05:00

Well. The risotto was good, at least.

Overextended

2009-02-08T10:38:00.002-05:00

I have officially taken on too many stupid websites to keep up with. Here they are, in order of time consumption:

1. Facebook
2. Blip.fm
3. Twitter
4. Last.fm

If LibraryThing had anything close to a decent social networking interface, I'd probably be all up on that too.

I'm gravitating towards empty shit like the above because it doesn't require me to think much. One line, maybe 2. That's about what I can commit to anymore, and I feel like that is better than nothing.

So. See ya around.

Shades

2009-01-27T10:35:00.003-05:00

First and foremost, how cool is this little bastid?

http://www.usbgeek.com/prod_detail.php?prod_id=0921

Otherwise, uh. I'm sort of shuffling along the precipice of a fairly nasty midwinter funk. Don't know if I'd call it "depression," but maybe a distant cousin. I have a head for a lot of projects that don't just want to get done, but seriously need to get done, and I'm finding that falling asleep on the couch while watching reruns of Tales From The Darkside is about all I'm capable of actually accomplishing when I'm home. I've been trying to defray the impact by making small efforts at work, but it's pretty futile; that whole double-life thing.

Hoping I can scare up some motivation today. Meh.

Wednesday link slurry

2009-01-21T12:52:00.003-05:00

All courtesy of Scott. He surfs so I don't have to. At least, that how it goes in my head.

As always, the comments are key.

"I would have given this product 5 stars for the teeth and the project on embracing diversity, but I deducted one star because of the giant mutant ants. "

"What goes better with apocalyptically bleak science fiction than, you know, a comically inappropriately named chicken meal?"

Bruce Dickenson is just like you, he puts his pants on one leg at at a time, its just that when he's wearing those pants, he makes gold records.

Trumpets, etc.

2009-01-20T11:37:00.002-05:00

Watching the ceremony on CNN.com. Please, o please, won't someone throw a shoe at Dub! If not a loafer, at least a mandal.

As it is, the announcer was apparently drafted from Monday Night Football. Or it could be the Rumble guy. I keep expecting to hear the loudspeaker break out into "...are y'all ready for this?"

Alright, so I guess we can.

2009-01-20T09:20:00.002-05:00

I feel like the inauguration is at least worth mentioning for posterity. I was/am a supporter, but lord above, the man is not Jesus. I'm wincing a little at the inevitable fallout that will happen when the rest of the country begins to figure that out.

Didn't your parents ever tell you to keep your expectations low, America? It's much more difficult to be disappointed.

I'm optimistic, but still a realist. The country is, in a word, fucked. It took 8 years to get so fucked, it's certainly not going to get unfucked overnight. Hang on to your britches, is what I'm saying here. It's a start, but Mr. Obama is not about to part the seas and lead the Americanss out of fuckery in 40 days or 40 nights.

Meh.

2009-01-19T12:50:00.003-05:00

Win: The Eagles lost, The Steelers won, subsequently my office is quiet except for the occasional sniffle/lump swallowing. Oh, and my constant assholish jeering. Because that's the kind of person I am.

Fail: It's fucking Hoth outside. And I'm at work. And it's Monday. And I'm full of chicken soup and can think of nothing more appealing than passing out for a solid 4 hours.

Overheard of the day: "Having sampled the sausage, I have to say it went really well with the whole Green Giant/Bird's Eye party in my mouth."

On contradiction. And crankiness

2009-01-16T13:02:00.005-05:00

A short while ago, my company had their first annual Health Fair, which was basically a week full of barely qualified "experts" telling you a bunch of shit you already know about not smoking, watching your diet, and getting exercise. But it was a lot of shit; pretty comprehensive, VERY heavy-handed, like here-are-some-grapes-get-off-your-fat-ass-already type stuff. Right. Behold the email that went out from HR yesterday:

FYI - We are doing a special tailgate theme menu for Friday's "Fly Eagle's Fly"
employee lunch:

Spicy Buffalo Wings
Nacho Chips & Salsa Dip
Roasted Veggy Quesadillas
Grilled Sweet Sausages & Peppers
Ropa Vieja (Cuban shredded beef sandwiches)
Conshohocken Steak
Rolls
Dill Pickles & Hot Cherry Peppers
Fiesta Seven Layer Salad

Honestly. Not even a damn side salad (the "fiesta" salad was pretty much a bowl full of sour cream & beans with maybe a fine mist of wilted lettuce). Picking my way through that calorie land mine was next to impossible. I had some pickles, a couple of spoonfuls of salsa, half a quesadilla slice and a link of sausage. It cost me 12 goddamn points and I'm still fucking starving.

As an aside ... my hatred for the fucking Eagles, seriously, has never known such depth. If I hear that fucking song one more time, I'm taking out a fucking elementary school. See if I don't. Come Sunday, The Cardinals better own them like gimps in Turkish prison.

I stand corrected.

2009-01-16T09:59:00.003-05:00

Dude, it sucks way more to be you.

My blood is too thin for this climate.

2009-01-16T09:52:00.002-05:00

Dear God,

What the fuck.

Love,
Dani

I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

2009-01-15T13:04:00.004-05:00

Two things.

One, courtesy of Scott:

Two, courtesy of poor judgement:

Overslept this morning (thanks, honey, ahem), didn't have time to eat breakfast. We stopped at Dunkin Donuts for coffee and I grabbed a "reduced fat" blueberry muffin. I was about to pat myself on the back for making a smart decision, but then I looked up the NI. Behold: 450 calories and has 9 grams of fat. In WW terminology, that's NINE freakin' points. Nine! I only f'n get 28 for the whole goddamn day! Son of a bitch! Lesson learned, then. Stick to the toasted flatbread. Grumble.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

2009-01-13T13:31:00.004-05:00

The anti-abortionists win this week.

CURSE YOU, DELICIOUS PIZZA & BEER.

I'm gonna, like, go donate $10 to Planned Parenthood to offset the guilt.

ETA: Oh, and the 30 Day Shred? Jillian can lick my soft places. I'm sticking with the elliptical until that bitch is not sure to give me a heart attack in 20 minutes or less.

Overheard of the day.

2009-01-12T14:42:00.003-05:00

It's not a comment, but it is worth noting.

The strains of Rainbow in the Dark are wafting over from 2 cubes down. The hilarious part is that the source is a local "easy listening" station. Dio! Easy listening! BWAHHHHH.

Sons of bitches.

2009-01-12T13:49:00.003-05:00

... well, T-swab alerted me to the fact that the Dead template's comment function didn't actually work, which ... hey, thanks! Was wondering about the crickets.

I'm using this POS in the interim. Needs some tweaking, obviously. Hopefully I can get it to it tonight. Note to self: learn CSS. This nibbling on other people's subpar crap is for the birds. And why the fuck is everything in Spanish? I'm asking.

Basic Instructions by Scott Meyer: Your all-inclusive guide to a life well-lived.

2009-01-12T09:53:00.001-05:00

Basic Instructions by Scott Meyer: Your all-inclusive guide to a life well-lived.

"I'm proud of you!"
"For admitting weakness or proving that the cat's a minion of Satan?"
"Let's say both."

Briefly.

2009-01-12T08:44:00.001-05:00

I keep smelling cooking oil, or some kind of grease. It started in the car this morning, but it’s still in my nose at work, so now I’m like … jesus christ, is it me? Do I smell like a fryolater? WTF? I used a teaspoon of olive oil to cook a chicken breast this morning for lunch, which I’ve done like 1000 times, so I hardly think that’s the cause. It must be psychosomatic. All that godawful shit I consumed on Saturday is seeping through my pores. Fucking beer & Dominos. Way to ruin a perfectly good on-wagon week.

Whatever. Britches yanked up and back on course. Gonna check out the oft-bandied 30 Day Shred this evening if I don’t have time for the gym. I’ve heard good things, and Comcast has the first two sessions free On Demand. Woot.

Oh, and? Fuck you, Eli Manning. Fuck you right in your pretty goddamn face hole.

People Like Food | The Onion - America's Finest News Source

2009-01-09T12:54:00.002-05:00

People Like Food The Onion - America's Finest News Source

And it's true.

Endless.

2009-01-09T10:02:00.002-05:00

The week back from the holidays ... jesus christ, words can't describe this craptacular suckfest.

I'm barely getting through it with the Repo! soundtrack. There's something about Can't Get It Up If The Girl's Breathing? that makes the minutes tick less painfully.

NYC this weekend. Weeeeeeeeeee!

Brutal truth.

2009-01-06T22:55:00.002-05:00

... because I'm mostly tired of addressing what has kind of consumed my life for 20 years as a nasty little secret. This is not an earth-shattering revelation by any means. But I need the metaphor of tying Me to This. I need to put it out there in naked daylight (or, bloglight, which is far harsher) instead of hopping around it with tongue firmly in cheek as some half-ass defense mechanism which means nothing to no one.

I am, as one Jame Gumb so eloquently pointed out in Silence of the Lambs, a great big fat person.

This is not a disparaging decree of woe and self-pity. My ego is as large as ever, my confidence that I'm fucking awesome has not dissipated. It's just the truth. I'm freakin' overweight and I have been to one degree or another since the age of, like, 3.

The healthy weight range for me at 5'11" (BMI 20 - 25) is 143lbs - 179lbs.

At 18, I clocked in at 230. That was my heaviest. That was the initial punch in the face that led me down the endless road of dearth and surfeit. So I stopped eating fast food and walked a lot.
Between 20 and 24, I hovered in the 180 - 190 range.
For a brief and glorious year, I was between 160 and 165. This was throughout the whole parents dying drama, but I didn't lose weight unhealthily. I ate right, and worked my ass off. Because it was something to focus on that wasn't death and disease.

Then. You know. I moved to PA. Happy, yay, marriage, yay! However.

In NY, I didn't have a car. I walked 2 miles to work every day. I walked all over Manhattan every weekend. My roommate and BFF was as committed to maintaining/losing weight as I was. We went to the gym together. We bought groceries together. We talked each other out of going to Cold Stone Creamery (except that one time.)

Here? I drive everywhere because there are no sidewalks. I am surrounded by people obsessed with food 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. At home, I've got a very thin husband who consumes obscene amounts of cheese and chips and vodka and Coke and will never gain an ounce. And of course he loves me regardless of what I look like (or at least he tells me so, possibly because I'd stab him if he said otherwise.)

The point? I'm 26. I'm 209 lbs. I'm not quite as fat as I was at 18, but holy god, I'm way closer than I'd well fucking like to be. I've gained 40lbs in 2 years. I have veritable closets full of clothes that don't fit anymore. I've got a piss-poor opinion of my body, and I'm goddamn fed up with it.

So. My brutal truth. The point is, I'm trying to commit to a change. And it is very, very difficult without the support system I had the first two times around. I am accountable to no one except myself. I tried Weight Watchers meetings, but really, I fucking hate people, and I don't want to sit around with yet another group of women twice my age bitching and moaning about the lack of chocolate cake in their lives. The WW program does work, so I'm doing it solo (as I've done before), but again ... it's difficult.

I suppose what I'm trying to accomplish with this is getting over the fear that talking about the Eternal Struggle will somehow make me less cool. The fact is, it's a very large part of my life and trying to just keep it all stealthy-like has clearly not been working. So, shout it to the roof tops. I guess. I don't know what else to do. Obviously I know how to lose weight and get in shape, having already done it. Who the hell knew that the second time would be such a head fuck. Who the hell would have thought it would be so easy to forget.

I've already told my cube neighbor that if he tries to put any more cookies on my desk, I'm going to cut his hands off. A step in the right direction, methinks.

I did meet my Stickk goal this week, so at least we'll all be happy to know that the anti-abortionists are not getting $5.

That's all. For now.

Not in the least bit work safe ...

2008-12-31T11:06:00.002-05:00

... but awesome just the same. Thanks, Mort!

Talk about incentive.

2008-12-30T13:37:00.004-05:00

Checked out this article on CNN about this website that contractually fucking obligates people to get off their asses and actually do the things they've been putting for [insert obscene length of time here]. Contractually, like, if you don't do it, your ass is paying for it in cold currency.

This is the sort of thing 1) that I need, and 2) am pissed I didn't think of myself.

So naturally I had to jump on board:

Contract End: Jul 28 2009
I commit to: lose 30lbs or more by Jul 28 2009
Target Pace: 1.00 lbs. per week
Contract Length: 210 days
Recipient of stakes: Anti-charity (Abortion: Americans United for Life), $150.00

... meaning I have to log in once a week and report my 1lb loss or anti-abortionists get $5 of my money. See? Incentive. There is an honor system, but also a "referee" system, in which someone ELSE has to log in for you and assure that you're not lying and you did, in fact, do what you said you would. I'm trying the honor system first, but I will take photographic evidence of said progress and pop it on the dusty WL blog I started months ago.

Already I'm biting my nails (they're calorie free) and trying to remember where I put my goddamn gym bag.

Old, but hilarious.

2008-12-29T12:36:00.002-05:00

"Fucking Yankees," reports nation

"It's like they can't lose," said Connecticut resident Gerry DiCenzo, who could only watch helplessly as the Yankees overcame a late Orioles rally to win their fourth straight. "They literally cannot lose. Suddenly no one can beat the Yankees. The Red Sox suck. The Orioles suck. Everyone sucks. Everyone suddenly sucks when they play the Yankees."

"Unbelievable," DiCenzo added. "Un-fucking-believable."

A series of small walls

2008-12-29T11:33:00.001-05:00

Cross-blog post import. I seeeeee, Blogger, you nefarious beast. How did I miss that memo? I'm asking.

It's not exactly what I was looking for, but it's a start. Ideally I'd like to be able to choose which posts are private v. public. Ideally. Otherwise I can only access unpublished posts through the dashboard, which is kind of a pain in the ass. Maybe I just need to look harder.

Went to Q-Mart yesterday with the usual suspects. Hooboy. I imagine it's what Zern's looked like 30 years ago (this is a good thing -- Zern's today is a depressing cesspool of old sweat and pork sausage, as opposed to a bountiful quagmire of old sweat and pork sausage.) I didn't buy anything of note, but there were actually things I wanted to, as opposed to just sort of eyeing them up with the sick curiosity I usually display the markets called flea- and farmers-. I've sworn to never go to Zern's again of my own volition, whereas I could definitely see going back to Q-Mart if not in the near future (kind of a drive), then at least the not-so-distant one. Yes. There's a difference.

Otherwise, I spent pretty much the entirety of the long weekend shooting zombies in the face. I did take a break to perform extensive surgery, serve up multiple 6-course meals, and kick the everloving shit out of The Flash.

Oh, and may I add: while that geekfest of lethargy was going on, I was trying, REALLY TRYING to install WoW. This whole drama started well over a year ago when Mike sent me the damn game in a vie to bring me over to the dark side of all that is dorky and lame and I'm all stoicly "go fuck yourself." Seriously. It has been collecting ire on my desk since June of 2007.

Right, so, what, 2 weeks ago or so; in a half shove brought on by drunkeness and the vague acceptance that holding out for 18 months was long enough to make my statement loud and clear, I decided to blow the dust off and load this bastid up. But of course that doesn't work. Disc two (OF FIVE) is all fucked. Somehow. Being unopened and all. I check out a few FAQs for a workaround, and lo, I can just copy all the files onto my C drive and load the thing from there. Fine, easy enough. It only took approximately FOUR DAYS to transfer that clunky fuck.

Whatever. Data's loaded, ready to install. That goes well. Set the account up. Go to rev it up so I can create my character and get this geek party started. And ... oh, look, a patch. Well, sure, I expected that, it's been 18 months after all. Oh, look again, Blizzard has their own downloader, ok. I can handle that. Click.

45 minutes later... I notice that only 6mb have downloaded out of the 500 that need to. Hum. Something's gone awry here. I certainly don't have the fastest connection, but jesus christ, it's not a 56k modem. Let us look into this.

An additional 45 minutes later ... I've figured out that I have to set exceptions for 1) my router, 2) my antivirus firewall, and 3) my Windows firewall. I'm beginning to get the "this is batshit ridiculous" giggles of impending insanity by this point. Apparently all that time of ire and snobbery is being served back to me times like a zillion. Potentially on the back of a dinosaur.*

I did get the download speed sorted. So that's alright. Although the patches? Right? I started them off on Saturday evening. It is now Monday. There are still 4 or 5 left. Granted, they havent been running 24/7, maybe a cumulative total of 6 - 8 hours or so. But still. This process has been fucking EPIC. And I feel like I've already paid for my reticence in blood.

I'll not mention the fact that I'm going to need to transfer everything to an external HD tomorrow, because my laptop has nowhere near enough space for the metric fuckton of geekery I'm trying to inject into its soft places.

All this to say? I hate you, Mike. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

That tangent went on longer than expected. Uh, sorry. The point's been lost. As per usual.

*Note: All of that entirely glazes over the fact that shortly after noticing the discs were not working, I installed the 10-Day trial from the website, named my character Cokmonger, proceeded to call Mike and laugh uncontrollably at him for riding what appeared to be a stegasaurus. Yes. I was hammered. Friends don't let friends play World of Warcraft hammered.

Also?

2008-12-27T15:10:00.003-05:00

What should have been on our Christmas card, had we actually sent any:

Das Loot

2008-12-27T13:12:00.008-05:00

"Christmas is the Disneyfication of Christianity."

And I approve! And now the annual list of the loot scored for Jesus' birthday (or, Unbirthday, going with both the Christian context and the Disney theme wrapped in one):

Due to budget restraints and [insert now cliche' muttering about the piss-poor economy here], the PA kids decided to do a Secret Santa along with both a Rancid Pollyanna (useless objects in your home you've been wanting to offload) and a Dollar Store Extravaganza. Along with the usual merrymaking of too much whiskey, Patrick Swayze, 5lbs of meatballs and a karaoke machine -- not necessarily in that order -- we had the aforementioned yuletide exchange. Since, you know, I'm married, I'm including some of JoE's loot, because I use his stuff and he lets me.

Our Dollar Store winnings:

I am particularly partial to Patriot Pride Embroidered Sport Head Bands. There is another not-pictured gem of a prize -- a woodcut of a hot pink reindeer head that is so awful/wonderful that I had to put it on display immediately. The Catch-Pop Ball caused some tears, as that is a game that haunted my childhood. I could never fucking get the ball in the cup. Not ever. Especially not the one with the string attached to it. So, thanks for that bit of salt dragged through open wounds, Connie.

Our Rancid Santa gifts:

Martini glasses & a fish bowl (both in form and fuction!). Now, personally, I see nothing rancid about either of these things -- particularly the Most Awesome Fish Bowl Ever Crafted -- but hey, one man's trash, etc etc. We have yet to decide which of our bettas will get to live in the Taj Mahal of bowls. Perhaps we'll have them fight it out.

Our Secret Santa gifts:

- One (1) 750ml of Maker's Mark whisky
- One (1) 1600 point card for Xbox Live
- One (1) copy of Left 4 Dead (Xbox)

If you combine all of the above, it's the most fun you can have by yourself on a Friday night.

On to the traditional gifts.

Media (JoE's in italics):

- The Dark Knight (DVD) - n0, I was not immune to the awesomeness of this movie.
- Mother Of Tears (DVD) - best scene of a baby being thrown off a bridge ever
- Robot Chicken seasons 1 & 2, and the Star Wars special (DVD)
- The Magnetic Fields - Distortion (CD) - about damn time
- Repo! The Genetic Opera Orig Motion Picture Soundtrack (CD) - with possibly the most hilarious song titles I've seen yet
- Ohgr - Devils In My Details (CD)
- The Gonzo Tapes: The Life & Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson (CD)

Games (and I'm done hyperlinking):

- Nintendo DS Lite Crimson/Black (System) - sweeeeeeeeeeeeeet!
- Iron Chef America (DS)
- Trauma Center: Under The Knife (DS)
- The Orange Box (360)
- Mortal Kombat Vs. DC Universe (360)
- Bad Company (360) - I returned this yesterday due to lack of interest
- Star Wars: The Force Unleashed (360) - same as Bad Company

All The Rest:

- iHome v9
- Ion USB Turntable
- Demonia Red Spike backpack
- Domo 2009 wall calendar
- Handbook For The Recently Deceased t-shirt
- Mooninites Will Rock Your Face t-shirt
- Darkwing Duck t-shirt
- Remote control zombie
- Stickman Action Figure
- Giant Largemouth Bass Pillow (...honestly)
- Godzilla ornaments w/ sound (x2)
- Jack Skellinton foot-in-mouth slippers
- Skull-oriented knee socks (x2)
- Visa gift cards, Starbucks gift card, Wizard's World tattoo gift certs

JoE got a few other things that I will not beg, borrow, or steal, so I've left them off. And I've done this a bit earlier than previous years, so there may be some Edited To Add notes later.

Overall, not a bad freakin' haul! Thanks to everyone who gave me/us shit. We like you more than we did prior.

Now, off the roll around in the pile.

Gold, frankincense, and apathy.

2008-12-24T10:39:00.008-05:00

Well, the text function seems to be fine, but the pic posts are all fecked. Which is what I wanted it for in the first place. Lame. Twitter doesn't offer me the luxury of instantly uploading teamable finds (like that "I'd Rather Be At A Clay Aiken Concert" license plate border), and more often than not all that comedic gold sits on my phone for weeks before I delete it out of frustration at its impotency.

Why am I working on Christmas Eve? Seriously? I'm stuck here til 3, then I have to go pick up Dr. Girlfriend (the car) from the shop, then run around like some sort of fowl sans head getting last minute stuff done before heading out to Jersey at like 5:30.

I started the whole Gung Ho Christmas thing way earlier than I usually do, and I'm realizing now that the reason I had such a fondness for the holiday was that I never inundated myself with it for over a goddamn month. The human mind cannot handle Christmas for a month. I was officially Done with caring at least 2 weeks ago, and I'm still forced to plod on through the respective myrhh-soaked trenches of good f'n will towards men. And that, friends, is absolute balls. I'm sort of at a point where if my cube neighbor hums one more off-key version of Jingle Bell Rock, I will leap the divider and tear out his fucking soul.

Alright, so, that's more of a personal issue than a Christmas issue. But still. The sentiment is there.

I'll resurrect the Loot List (for the none of you that remember that), and potentially introduce another one over the weekend. Four days, man. The baby Jesus is at least good for that.

Enjoy your Christmas, despite all the morale-sucking cash-hemmorhaging, and depressing aspects that goes along with it. Here are two all-purpose cards you can use that should cover all your bases.

Overheard of the day.

2008-12-23T15:09:00.003-05:00

"No matter how many executive nuts I put in my mouth, there's a new batch every day."
"Life lesson learned. Your lips can never wrap around enough executive nuts."

ETA:

"I can't eat nuts and work at the same time."
"Surely not. It's a two hand operation."

Fluke.

2008-12-23T11:20:00.001-05:00

Knew the Twitter-At-Work thing would be short-lived.

Sonovabitch.

At least we have each other.

And another thing.

2008-12-22T15:24:00.001-05:00

Well, yes, it's me. Accept that Following invite.

Afresh! Anew! Or rather, lazy. Blogger does not offer a post-specific filter, and at least 70% of the stultified blog was stupid shit no one needs to see anymore; have in fact regretted letting you see it once. Since I can't go back and edit out the howling, I turned the whole damn thing off. I don't know what I expected to achieve with all that bloodletting. I do know that what I did achieve was a lot of hand-wringing and brain-poking, which is certainly not what I was shooting for. Lesson learned: if you don't know what you want, you end up getting a lot of what you don't.

Anyone who knows me even moderately well has a pretty good handle on my personality, and that blog was not an apt depiction of such. I'm fun, for fucks sake. I wrestle demons* Sure. But I don't need to wrestle them in an accessible forum. I'm not 15. I'm not even 25. Time to grow up, lock up, keep that noise away from my adoring public. Even Portugal (I'll miss you most of all.)

Censorship, maybe. I'll buy it. I could get all self-rightgeous with the "I Don't Owe You Anything"s, but it's not about that. It's about me, and the mental exhaustion that comes with tearing your skin off for a wincing audience. You don't want to read it. You might think you do ... but really, you don't. I understand that. And it's okay.

So, here I be. For good or ill. I promise to update this one at least as infrequently as I updated the other one. Hold me to it.

*for profit & pleasure, and always in spandex

Oh, look. Misteltoe.

2008-12-22T13:19:00.001-05:00

Well, this is awkward.

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

A Colbert Christmas: Jon Stewart

Colbert at Christmas
Colbert Christmas DVD

Green Screen
Bill O'Reilly Interview

Malaise.

2008-11-30T16:17:00.000-05:00

Maybe I should pick up a meth habit.

Imaginaaaaaaaaation-land ...

2008-10-25T16:24:00.000-04:00

Bye bye, boat. We hardly knew ye.

There are few things more depressing to coming back from a week's vacation to autumn thunderstorms and incessant cat fights. Fucking furbags.

We had a great time, despite somewhat inclement weather and a nasty encounter with the equivalent of an entire bottle of tequila in a seaside bar in Cozumel. My head remains swimmy and my body fatigued, but at least I have another day before I have to drag my ass back to work. Joe has not been so lucky. Poor bastard is stuck with a 12-14 hour shift today, and potentially another one tomorrow. I will not belabor a point regarding my thoughts on the subject.

Key West. Yes. I'd move there tomorrow if given the option. However, it doesn't take too far a delve into reality to figure out that, sensibly, there are no jobs worth having and no way on earth to afford a roof over your head. Sure, be homeless, live on the beach, maybe knock off one of those chickens for sustenance every now and again. Drink a lot on the generosity of others. Right. A brilliant fantasy, but really, little else. That particular realization, however, will not stop me from buying this book and keeping my ear to the ground.

Cruise-thoughts in general? Decadent and expensive. A lot of fun, but something I probably don't need to do again unless it's one of the 10+-dayers that actually allow for a bit of time at the ports of call (we had 6 hours in Key West and 8 in Cozumel). The buffet food was mostly good and available pretty much constantly -- the dining room food was very good, but not the best option if you're into super-casual consumption. Drink options were everywhere, and about the same amount you'd pay at an average bar. Service was exceptional. Other passengers ranged from acceptable to lame to older than dust (though surprisingly few opportunities for Teaming). I could count the freak quotient on one hand, we'll say. About 100 kids too many, but I wasn't pulling my eyes out of my head.

The flight home was grueling. We got to the airport at around 11a, and our flight wasnt scheduled to depart until 4:40. We didn't actually get on the plane until 5:20ish, and didn't actually take off until 6:30. Got to Philly around 9:45, and home somewhere around 11p. Bullshit, all around. Unpacking sucked. The laundry will suck further. This vertigo thing is driving me kind of batshit, so I hope that goes away soon.

Not totally cohesive yet, but there you have it.

Life lessons.

2008-10-19T12:50:00.000-04:00

What the fine people at Lucid Absinthe have to say about their beverage:

Pour 1.25 - 1.5 oz of lucid into an appropriate glass. Place a sugar cube atop a flat, perforated spoon that rests on the rim of the glass. Using the sugar and spoon are optional. Slowly drip 4-5 oz of ice cold water on top of the sugar cube (or directly into the glass), which slowly dissolves into the Absinthe. The cold water causes lucid to louche ("loosh") into an opalescent cloud as the herbal essences emerge from the Absinthe and perfume the room.

What they neglect to tell that you following these instructions and inserting several of your own steps in between imbibing (including but not limited to shots of Makers Mark and several hits of the other, dryer green fairy) will put you in a state that you will under no circumstances be able to describe at all clearly because you are probably chewing on your own tongue. Or someone else's.

But no hangover! I win. Sorry if you were drunk-dialled. I have no idea what I did or didn't say, so you are absolutely no allowed to hold it against me.

I'm supposed to spend today putting everything in order for our trip tomorrow, and I'm mostly just eying items of note suspiciously. Hello, luggage. I imagine you want me to put things in you. We'll just see about that.

Rough. Really.

And it's supposed to thunderstorm the entire time we're in Cozumel on Wednesday. Wee! Like I say ... a shitty day on a cruise ship is better than a good day at work.