Skipping Past Conclusions

What I’ve Learned This Post-Christmas Vacation—So Far

2010-01-06T17:43:00.001-08:00

1. “Dayton has suffered its first double-homicide of the year” is the most depressing sentence in the world.

2. There is an entire television show in which second-rate celebrities pretend to be retail or food-service slaves, and say “I get that a lot” every time someone cries, “holy crap, you totally look like a second-rate celebrity.”

3. Lean Pockets are repulsive.

4. A shocking number of people do not secure their wireless networks.

5. Some people think I need to lose weight. Some people think I’m too skinny. Apparently, I have two options: be a trophy, or be a typical southern Ohio resident. Both of those options suck, and actually aren’t really options, since I’m pretty sure I’m stuck with my own damn metabolism. Alas.

6. I have no upper-body strength. My arm is still sore from playing Wii—although, in my defense, I did spend hours stubbornly trying to beat my power throw bowling score.

7. If I lived here, I wouldn’t do anything—just sink into my rapidly-expanding body and cuddle my Wii console as I gave way to a sugar coma, with the strains of country-pop bouncing in the background and lending amusing contrast to my pathetic situation.

8. I’m really just not that interesting. Hopefully that changes and I can write something semi-not-completely-dull soon.

Drainage

2009-11-02T15:09:00.001-08:00

I suffer from a complete inability to care.

Except for when I’m stressed out and grumpy, in which case I’m pretty easy to piss off.

“You keep eating burritos that big, you’ll be huge!”

Thanks for the concern, sir, but burritos have beans; this is a coriander shrimp wrap. Still, you’ve got a point – what the hell am I doing, eating lunch like a normal person? Next thing you know I’ll be eating dinner or some shit. Maybe even snacks. And one day? I might descend to the level of a cupcake guzzler.

I’m not sure what it is that makes people think it’s their place to make those sorts of comments, but you know what? Shut it. Especially since I could fit in one of your pant legs and probably still need a belt.

(I’ve been sitting here listening to a bug fry in a ceiling light. The sound is like heavy radio static. Then the bug fell on my shoe and lay there twitching while I yelped and spent a good thirty seconds jumping around like Rumpelstiltskin at his most gleeful until I succeeded in shaking the thing off. And it was horrible.)

“Is there any way you could photocopy part of this book for my daughter so she doesn’t have to buy it?”

“No way that’s legal.”

Had to love the eye roll I got for that one. And I suppose my stance was pretty ridiculous. After all, what’s the problem in making illegal photocopies of books that also negate the incentive for our customers to actually, like, buy merchandise? I should be catering to even the cheapest of these peoples’ whims.

But I fail at cheapness catering, so they left. Sad news.

So, Wednesday. I was pretty relaxed on Wednesday. I’d popped some biscuits in the oven and was curled up in my nest of blankets, reading a novel completely for pleasure – no highlighter in sight. I had tea and I felt great.

And then came the stress lasers. Do you know the stress lasers? Those blazing little shitheads. They skewer your brain cells and push them out through your eyes, which, in turn, causes the cells to take on the form of giant glittering stress tears. The empty space left by these former cells is then filled with pooling golden stress light that completely incapacitates the surrounding brain material and sends the body housing the brain in question to embark on a wonderfully fun panic attack.

Stress lasers blow.

The upside: dressing as a hipster zombie for Halloween, as in the photo at the top of this page, and as below:

I may not look enthused, but I wouldn’t have relinquished that Guinness for anything.

Thanksgiving break come quick, so I can be chipper once again.

The Witching Hour

2009-10-14T23:34:00.001-07:00

I hate midnight. I hate being awake at midnight when I’m alone and there are drunk people outside loudly attempting to waltz. All the booming drunken guffaws with their breathy giggle counterparts, catching on burps and cigarette smoke…it’s painful. It makes me feel horribly guilty for all of my drunken shenanigans.

Trying to hide behind curtains while peering through the gap in them is hard. Impossible really. Luckily these people are oblivious.

The waltz has devolved into…I don’t even know. Vague circles that stretch into ovals and then snap shut. I don’t know what you’d call that, except for maybe stupid. Very, very stupid.

I enjoy listening to these people talk. I like hearing their words stumble over each other and collapse before the sentence is complete.

I’m going to pretend now that I have an actual alcohol tolerance, because if I don’t I’ll start to feel something vaguely like shame. No, my hand has never gotten confused and chucked my cell phone at a glass of hard cider, submerging said phone in the cider’s bubbly depths. And it definitely did not do that twice in one evening.

The couple is in the building now, climbing the stairs to the top floor. I can hear them walk down the hallway, with their irregular weaving steps. I can hear a door slam shut, and then, for the hundredth time this month, I can hear the creaking springs of the bed upstairs.

Seriously, this girl needs a hobby. I might destroy her otherwise.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak squeak. Squeeeak.

I need some tea.

Labor Day

2009-09-08T08:39:00.000-07:00

There are times when life does not make sense. Like when you wake up to find a nearly nude Russian exchange student frantically searching for his boxers, explaining, while still thoroughly obliterated, that he has all his cash hidden in said boxers.

"Well, but how much cash?"
"Two thousand dollars."

And then everyone's faces flatten and sag.

"But...why? Why would you have that much on you...?"

I mean really. There is nothing logical about that scenario. Especially not in the morning, when waves of stale vodka are crashing against your temples and you don't know where your glasses are. And you're standing in a hallway while the Russian stumbles drunkenly around, and his 40-year-old host mom looks flatly on.

Then you notice that the Russian appears to be wearing your boyfriend's shorts, as they're far too big for him and are exposing the majority of his skinny ass. You're wondering how exactly they stay on, since you walked past the bathroom at a very inopportune moment the night before and know conclusively that there is distressingly little to hold them up in front...

So your boyfriend and his roommate are searching for the boxers in the bathroom, and the kid has passed out on the bed you woke up in. You're still standing there in the hallway, alone save for the host mom; you look into the kitchen, at the empty bottles of Jameson's and Jack, the one-third left in a bottle of vodka, various crushed beer cans and empty glasses scattered over the counter, and you suddenly feel like the Worst Person in the World.

Then you notice your shirt for the first time. It says "Do Something With Your Life. Get me a beer." Your humiliation is compounded.

"So. So yeah." You try to cover your shirt with your hair, crossing your arms high up over your chest to keep it in place. The host mom blinks at you; stupidly, you bluster on. "I mean, so those boxers. I know I saw them somewhere. They just...yeah. They've gotta be around."

Your brain and your vocal cords mercifully detach. You continue talking, but your brain's submersion in last night's booze renders you unable to recall any of the idiot things you say. Your boyfriend finds the boxers in the cabinet under the bathroom sink ("he must've hidden them last night"), and you all take a moment to observe the wad of cash sewn into the crotch. The Russian wanders into the kitchen and vomits gracelessly into a wastebasket, as you gaze pensively out the window and consider your life.

But all you come up with is, god damn I need an aspirin.

Maybe I'm Just Bitter 'Cause I'm Klutzy

2009-09-03T16:47:00.000-07:00

There was some kind of hippie concert thing on campus today. I was walking to class and there was a band playing, a woman singer with a thin wail and a random cluster of instruments behind her. (Actually, they might not have been that bad, I don't know. I wasn't really listening. I heard it as buzzing occasionally broken by the singer's wails.)

But mostly I was disturbed by my fellow students' ebullience. They were leaping across the green like athletic-shorted gazelles, snatching frisbees from the air, their charming attempts at facial hair lit by the joyful late afternoon sun. I looked to my left and saw a physics professor demonstrating gravity by playfully lobbing freshly picked apples at his students' heads.

Well, no. I just expected to see this. Because I was pretty sure I had walked into a college brochure. And so I stood there thinking, "oh, come on. I do not really go to school here." And then I walked into the building for my next class, leaned against the cold wall in the shadowy hallway and felt much better.

Best of all, by the time my class ended, both the music and the ebullience had died.

Five Wonderful Sights I Didn't Get Pictures Of (While At the Bike Rally)

2009-08-07T12:46:00.000-07:00

1. A rat atop a cat atop a dog, who was being lead around on a leash by its owner. The cat and rat sat perfectly still while dog and owner wove through the maze of motorcycles.

2. The Christian Coalition of Motorcyclists, who trudged through the heat bearing wooden crosses (I still say they were hollow inside) and signs saying "Got Jesus?"

(I desperately wanted to follow them singing "Always Look On the Bright Side of Life," but I didn't. Because I suck.)

3. A man with "TANK" tattooed across his beer gut, who totally checked me out.

4. A woman wearing her underwear and bra with silver knee-high hooker boots, her hair styled like Cleopatra's.

5. Two children asleep in a little red wagon, being pulled down the sidewalk alongside a row of motorcycles.

Or They Might Just Be Tacky As Hell.

2009-08-05T21:33:00.000-07:00

I hate it when children cry. It's not an emotional thing - I just really hate the sound. And I hate watching their faces crumple and their mouths stretch open like rubber bands.

Not that I want children to be sad and miserable, because amazingly, I don't. I just want them not to look so incredibly grotesque on the (hopefully rare) occasions that they are.

And I want them to stop wearing those damn blinking sneakers. Those have been around since I was a kid, and you know what? I never wanted a pair. I thought they were weird, which is pretty much how I feel today, and I really think that if any of these intellectually lazy toddlers stopped and thought about it, they'd come to the same conclusion.

Children are not cars; they don't need a turn signal. I can hear them coming perfectly well without a visual warning. Unless the blinkers were designed as an aid for the deaf, in which case my whole world ceases to make sense.

But then I was a weird kid, so maybe I'm just missing out on something. When I was little I had to spend six weeks of every summer in Ohio, and one of its (admittedly few) highlights was this store in the mall called The Imaginarium. It had a regular entryway for adults but a smaller door for kids that I would always crawl through, into a shiny plastic and taffeta paradise. The Imaginarium had tons of shit, but mostly I remember the rows of costumes, none of which I ever tried on. I would just stand there, touching the fabric and looking deprived.

It was a good time.

Anyway, I remember being in there once when a pair of girls, probably about fourteen, were taking pictures of themselves in sequined hats, holding child-sized ball gowns up to their necks, etc. They were giggly and loud and bothering me, so I glared at them, prompting the taller of the two to turn to me and say:

"We're just having fun. Don't you ever have fun? Or don't you know how?"

And I thought, I'm walking through The Imaginarium alone while my Bio-Dad stands outside the store reading USA Today. Of course I don't know how to have fun.

Only I didn't say that. I just walked out and told Bio-Dad that I wanted a soft pretzel, and he got me one. And then when we got back to my grandparents' house I split my identity into three so I could enjoy a lively card game alone.

So maybe I shouldn't be judging kids for their sneakers. Those blinkers are probably really fun, and I'm just not getting it.

Actually, On Second Thought:

2009-08-05T09:25:00.000-07:00

The NASCAR Harlequin romances are amazing. The one I read last night (yes, I read the whole thing) is called On the Move, and the male love interest is an illiterate NASCAR driver.

No really. An illiterate NASCAR driver named Brandon. He always wanted to read, but his awful father, so intent was he on pushing his son into the world of competitive racing, neglected him in his homeschooling. Brandon asked for a tutor, but Daddy said no - and when Brandon failed his standardized tests, well, no biggie. He'd had racing sponsors since he was nine.

But luckily, he has this great new agent named Vicky. She's way hot, in a buttoned-up sort of way, and she's going to teach him to read if it's the last thing she does. Which is not to say it's the first thing she does - she isn't always successful in fending off his wholly unprofessional advances - but she sort of gets around to it. A couple of times anyway.

Vicky's hotness, working hand-in-hand with her sexual reticence, ultimately helps Brandon to man up, develop his confidence, and tell off his douchebag dad. Apparently Dad, in addition to giving Brandon an incredibly shitty education, used Brandon's earnings for his own benefit, buying cars, boats, and the like. Only he doesn't see it that way:

"I told you in Florida, I bought that for us," his father said, taking a step toward him.

"Yeah, right," Brandon said. "And when the money dried up, when I lost my ride, where was the us?" His cheek began to twitch. Brandon told himself to calm down. He shouldn't let his father rile him up, not anymore, and especially not just before qualifying. "I can't believe you," Brandon said. "I can't believe you have the nerve to come here as if nothing had happened."

"I came because I'm your father," Harold said.

"I lost my dad years ago," Brandon said, refusing to back down. "I lost him when I made my first million and my dad went on a gambling binge in Las Vegas. But you know what? I probably lost him before that. Back when I was thirteen and I begged you to get me a tutor because I wanted to learn how to read. Do you remember that, Dad? You told me I didn't need to learn that stuff. That I was going to be a famous race-car driver and all drivers needed to do was learn to go fast. I begged you to get me some help, and when I when I wouldn't shut up, what did you do?"

He waited for his father to answer. He wondered if he'd have the guts.

He didn't.

"You beat me black-and-blue," Brandon said.

His father's eyes went hard.

On the Move also features one of my all-time favorite relationship paradoxes: a man who wholeheartedly supports the driven, suit-donning female lead in her career, but acts like a condescending asshat who often jeopardizes said career, by - for example - running his hand up her leg during important meetings.

It's a great book, and I'm not the only one who thinks so; Amazon.com reviewers agree.

"Brandon Burke is the 'bad boy' to end all 'bad boys'. Big-time. He is so over-the-top you just want to punch him out. Or else shake him until his gorgeous blonde hair falls off his head." - Kelly in Cleveland Heights

"The story line is faster than a spin around the oval as Vicki and Brandon fight and kiss and fight." - Harriet Klausner, Amazon's #1 reviewer

"This book like more so the genre is G-rated but is a fun read - which I always pick up." - Brandon the Illiterate Driver

Life, Let Me Go. I'm Through With You and Your Consumerist Shenanigans.

2009-08-04T13:52:00.000-07:00

Nascar Harlequin Romances.

I've officially lost the will to live.

Is There a Drug For This?

2009-08-01T14:59:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time I ordered a chicken barbecue pizza and gnawed on it absently for four consecutive days. I can, however, remember the last time I prefaced my sauteed chicken with a roasted red pepper and feta salad (last night), and this disturbs me greatly. All that saved me from complete adult emulation was the fact that both courses were consumed with me sitting on the floor watching Monty Python - but even then, I was sitting on an actual floor pillow, and the space around the pillow was free of crap magazines and empty milk dud boxes.

And this morning...I made an omelet. A real omelet. A tasty, herb-seasoned omelet, which I washed down with a tall glass of orange juice, all while reading a book that I marked my place in before leaving for work. With a bookmark. A bookmark picturing a white rabbit under a tree in the snow.

Next thing you know I'll have my own car.

My Only Real Motivation to Succeed Is My Aversion to the Following Phrases

2009-07-31T13:01:00.001-07:00

"Well, at least you can always say you did your best."

How in the hell is that supposed to make me feel better? "You did everything you could and still failed. Ergo, you just plain lack the ability to succeed." That is what this says to me. I would much rather have someone tell me to "just try harder" or "not be such a damn slacker, you lazy bum" - at least then I could delude myself into thinking that I only failed because of my attitude (or other circumstances unrelated to my abilities).

"Just remember, things could always be worse."

Now there's a comforting statement. "Yeah, your life sucks right now, and guess what? Eventually, it might suck more!" I guess this is supposed to remind me of how green my grass is compared to, you know, someone else's significantly less green grass, but all it really does is remind me that my grass could be subjected to a drought, possessed lawn mower, or plague of locusts. None of which is terribly cheering.

And finally:

"Welcome to the real world."

Which, come on. That's just obnoxious.

Reason #89057 Lady Micromanage Should Not Own a Bookstore

2009-07-30T09:39:00.000-07:00

What I'd Like to Say

2009-07-29T14:44:00.000-07:00

Q: Can you recommend me a book? I like everything.

A: No - no you don't. Nobody likes everything. And if you were truly the exception, you wouldn't need my advice; since, as someone who literally cannot be disappointed, you would just close your eyes and pull a random book off the shelf. And you would like that book. You would like everything about that book. You would even like the cover, and the blurbs on the front, and the ragged faux-antique page edges.

Whereas all I like is the world "blurb." It makes me giggle.

Q: Omigod I love the Twilight books!!! Have you read them?

A: Just the first one. I vomited glitter and Mormonism into a bowl formed out of dead feminism immediately after. Coincidence?

Q: What's the cheapest thing you have in here?

A: You.

Q: I'm from out of town. Can I get a deal on this bookmark?

A: 1. Being from out of town is not going to help your case, and I have no idea why you people insist on bringing it up. Surely there are better weapons in your cheapskate arsenal. 2. If you can't afford to spend $1.25 on a bookmark, maybe you should have forgone the vacation? Just a thought.

Q: Do you have a boyfriend/phone number/drastically low standards?

A: For you, yes/sorry, I'm a technophobe/not nearly low enough.

Q: Ya got any books in here?

A: Yeah, 'cause I totally haven't heard that one before.

Q: Where do you have [such-and-such author]? Oh, you don't have to get up! - just point me to the right shelf.

A: Look, I get that you are trying to help me out, and I appreciate your lack of demanding assclown-like behavior. Really I do. But this is a small store - it is cluttered, with the spaces between the shelves forming a winding maze of windingness - and I simply cannot point you to the right shelf, at least not from my desk. I honestly have no problem standing up and walking to the other side of the store, so please don't fret, okay?

Q: What's your favorite book?

A: Yeah, so, I don't do favorites. I don't have a favorite food, color, animal, movie, musician, or song, and I definitely don't have a favorite book. I have books I love, but I do not have one that I prize above all others, and I fail to see anything wrong with that. Oh, don't give me that pitying look - maybe I'm just less reductionist than you. Maybe you fail at life.

Q: Hey, you need to look up a book on that little computer thing there. You know how to do that, right?

A: Yeah, only I can't now - I'm too busy blogging about how much I hate you.

Hollywood > Real Life

2009-07-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

He was tall. He was burly. He had a blond buzz cut, so he really wasn't my type.

He followed his mother and sister into the store, and then stopped and looked at me curiously. I thought he looked familiar, and as it happened...he was.

"Hey," he said after a moment, "were you...on a plane at all? Like yesterday?"
"From Denver to Rapid?"
"I think I sat next to you."
"I think you did too. How weird."

His mother was delighted. "Really! What a coincidence! Did you two talk the whole way?"

"No," he answered. "We were reading."
"You were reading Twilight..."
"You were reading a very interesting-looking book. It was...Brief Interviews With Men - despicable men? I remember they weren't good men."
"Hideous men. Brief Interviews With Hideous Men."
"Right. What was wrong with the men?"
"Mostly they were misogynists."

The rest of the conversation wasn't particularly notable. We reminisced about the toddlers who squealed with delight during the plane's turbulent descent and then we marveled at the smallness of the world, and as he left he made a point of saying that he was glad to have seen me again and hoped to see me soon.

All of which would have been kind of awesome and mid-90s-romantic-comedy-esque were he remotely my type.

(And of course his airplane reading choice didn't help matters.)

Yeah, the New Harry Potter Movie Was Good. However:

2009-07-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

There are things I want to know. Things like: Who the hell takes a full bag of popcorn into a bathroom stall? Well actually, I know who - giggly preteens. But what is the thought process there? And why did they have a full bag of popcorn post-movie?

More importantly, what makes said giggly preteens think it's okay to leave the spilled popcorn on the floor, along with their spilled water? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to wade through an ocean of wet popcorn kernels. That's disgusting. Therefore, Dumbshit Youths, I'm not going to let you leave the restroom giggling about your mess - I am going to block the doorway with my imposing frame and watch as you pick up each individual kernel. You will crawl on your hands and knees as you rid the world of your ridiculous mess, because this entitled bratty rich kid shit? Does not fly.

Thank you girls. You have a terrific, sunshiney day now.

Proof That I Need My Upcoming Vacation

2009-07-10T09:29:00.001-07:00

Um, tourists? You can't hide. I saw the brim of your pastel visor from a mile away. I also saw the bag in your hand advertising "Authentic" Western Wear, with your flamingo pink cowboy hat inside.

Seriously, where do you even get a pink cowboy hat? I don't know any place in town that would sell them, but I'm guessing it must be somewhere nearby or you would have stashed the bag in your car, am I right? Or maybe not; you don't seem too bright.

I can't decide if the majority of tourists are tacky by nature, or if the act of touring brings out the tack they never knew they had. All I know is that middle-aged men should never wear polo shirts in colors with names like "mango dream" or "fresh mint swirl" - and under no circumstance should their wives coordinate their eye makeup to said shirts. (Okay, fine, the shirt colors probably have much more masculine names - "citrus rage," perhaps, or "herbal death freeze" - but you can bet I was right on with the eyeshadow names.)

And no, we don't sell newspapers. And while I am perfectly happy to direct you to the nearest newspaper stand, I will not apologize for the inconvenience of you having to walk an entire extra block.

Anyhow, Herbal Death Freeze does you no favors. Your body's need for exercise is clear.

I really don't understand why you're harping on about this, Good Sir Death Freeze. "You should really have newspapers. It'd be a good business venture." Yeah, and you know this how? There are three coffee shops within three blocks of our store, and all of them have newspaper stands. There's also a newspaper stand down by the barber shop. There is no need for us to sell newspapers. In other words, there is not enough demand to necessitate supply.

You're looking for the Wall Street Journal, yet you can't grasp that concept?

Of course, there was also the guy who asked me to explain our credit policy, and then stopped me midway through my spiel, saying, "well, I have a better idea."

Oh do you now?

"I have a bookstore in Nebraska" (uh-huh) "and I think you should do a straight trade. We can give you our books and then you can give us some of your classics, since they don't sell."
"Actually, our classics do sell. That's why we have so few of them."
"We don't sell many classics at our store."
"That's unfortunate. But I can't change the policy for one person."
"You mean you don't have the authority."
"No, I mean I'm not going to change the policy just for you."

I know I'm pushing my luck when I say things like that, but come on. Just shut up.

And look: I understand that you want someone who will discuss the merits of Jodi Picoult with you. But that someone? Is not me. Because I. Hate. Jodi. Picoult. I hate her clunky phrasing. I hate her Lifetime movie dialogue. And I freaking. LOATHE. her cop-out endings.

I think the merits of Jodi Picoult can be best summed up by observing that none of her fans know how to pronounce her name.

So yeah. My vacation starts this Sunday, ends next Sunday, and necessitates the use of planes, which had better not screw me over. Because if I get stalked by a crazy drunk woman at the Radisson and have to eat at their restaurant (called - I shit you not - "Enigma") again, I will cry. And if that crazy drunk woman stands outside the door to my room and tells me to "make sure I lock the door tight," well...that would be messed up.

I Only Date Guys Who Wear Ascots

2009-07-06T10:58:00.000-07:00

Smartly-dressed Jovial Man: Where's the men's clothing store in town?
Me: Actually, I don't believe there is one.
Jovial Man: What? How can that be?
Me: Erm...
Jovial Man: What has happened to Spearfish?!
Me: I don't recall there ever being -
Jovial Man: There was when I lived here! But that was before you were born.
Me: Ah. I see.
Jovial Man: Maybe there's one a way's up? Up on the hill?
Me: I don't think so...
Jovial Man: Huh. I would have thought, what with all the college students and all...

Yeah. Because when I think dress shirts and tasseled leather shoes, I think the men of Black Hills State. Seriously guys, stand up and fight.

Fight for your right to look like pretentious asshats.

So, This Unbelievably Stupid Woman Came In Today.

2009-07-03T14:36:00.000-07:00

She held up a book on hand reflexology and asked, "do you have any books on foot reflexology?"

"Um, I'm not sure. I'll take a look." I walked out from around the desk and started toward the health section; she blocked my path, saying:

"And I'm also looking for a book called Heal Yourself From Within. And one called...I think it's Move Your Stuff. And I think it's by someone called Carter - like, Karen Carter. I think."

"Okay." I walked back to the computer and ran a search for the titles. "Hm, I don't see either one."

"I'm not sure of the title for the second one. Something like Move Your Stuff, Move Your Life...I don't know."

Well maybe you should have figured that out before asking me.

"Well, I don't see anything with a title like that, and I checked for books by people named Carter as well. What kind of book is it?"
"Feng shui."
"Okay, well, I can show you the section where -"
"What about Healing Yourself From Within?"

Yeah, it's not like I just told you we didn't have it or anything.

"We didn't have that one, no."
"And books on foot reflexology?"

Are you freaking serious?

"Well, I'll have to take a look - over in health -"
"Where is health?"
"Right this way."

I walked her over to the health section and started scanning for reflexology books.

"Where would stuff on feng shui be?"
"Probably in self -"
"Self help? Really?"

Yes, really, although I don't know how you could be so sure about what I was telling you since you didn't let me finish.

"Yeah. I'll check in -"
"Why wouldn't it be in decorating?"
"Well, it could be - I'm going to che -"
"And foot reflexology?"

Forget checking. Maybe I'll just shoot you.

"...Would be here, in health."
"And where is self-help?"
"Right there, where you're standing."

I continued looking for foot books; then she turned to me...

"Where is self-help again?"

DIE.

"That shelf in front of you. And it doesn't look like we have any books on foot reflexology, sorry."
"I don't see any feng shui. Why isn't it in decorating?"
"I'm looking there now."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Do I know what what is? Feng shui?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, I'm familiar with it. But we don't get very many books on it in, so..."
"Well that's surprising."
"I guess."
"I don't see any books on feng shui."

I am going to cry.

"Well, I'm looking over here, too - but again, it's not something that we tend to have a lot of."
"Ooh! Dr. Phil!"
"Um..."

She held up a copy of Love Matters. "I like him."

Yes, I'm sure you do.

"Ooh, you have a whole Dr. Phil section!" She pointed to a label on the shelf reading Dr. Phil.
"Mm-hmm."
"Are the books here in order?"
"Yes, somewhat - the labels tell you the sub-categories..."
"Like what?"
"Like...Dr. Phil. Or relationship issues, here. Or parenting - it's all categorized."
"I can't remember the name of the feng shui book. Do you have internet access? You can find it on this website, called Amazon."

Oh my God. No way. There's a website called AMAZON? And I can look shit up on it? My whole. World. Has opened up.

"Yes, I've used Amazon. I'll check for you."

I abandoned my perusal of the decorating section, did a search for the book, found the correct title, and checked our database again. We didn't have it, which I told her, and then I enjoyed a few moments peace while she browsed.

Eventually, though, she walked up to the counter with a stack of books. And amazingly, she had a question.

"So, like, how does it work?"
"Um, how does what work?"
"Bringing books in."

Oh, Christ. Now I have to explain the credit policy to this woman?

I explained the policy in painstaking detail, and she listened with her head cocked so far to the side it was almost lying on her shoulder. When I finished she stared at me for a moment; then:

"Well, can you give me an example?"

So I did. I gave multiple examples, and after about five minutes or so she seemed to digest it. She asked me to set some books back for her so she could buy them later, which I did, and then she asked:

"So did you find any books on foot reflexology?"

And I killed her.

This Is the Abridged Version, On Account of I Am Lazy

2009-06-27T08:28:00.000-07:00

I went out for a beer last night with a friend, and then we ran into another friend, and then we made a friend, although I don't believe she ever told us her name. But then it's hard to remember all that when you're so trashed that you start hatching schemes sure to win you a Darwin award.

"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."

Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.

"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."

She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.

And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:

"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."

Being a Pansy Can Be So Inconvenient

2009-06-26T11:04:00.001-07:00

My family left for Ohio this morning, so the house, and its multitude of pets, are in my care. There are two dogs, three cats, some random fish, and one other pet - the one my brother dragged me outside to see.

When he said there was another animal my first thought was please, for the love of Jesus, don't let it be a snake. My brother loves snakes, because he is weird, and he had a snake once before (who died by choking on his own food - an understandably traumatic experience for Cormac, who witnessed the scene). We went outside and he lifted the lid of a plastic container, saying,

"He eats nightcrawlers or slugs, but the slugs can't be any wider than his head and the nightcrawlers need to be cut up or he'll choke and die. And the slugs are hard to find so you'll probably have to get a worm. Now I'm not too happy about this either, but we need to keep him alive for study purposes so you have to take good care of him."

And I thought:

Shit.

It's not the snake itself that I mind, it's the worms. I do not want to cut up a worm. I do not want to drop little wriggly worm bits into the home of a snake that is "probably a bull snake but could possibly be a baby rattler," and I do not want to watch the thing digest.

I'm not too thrilled about feeding the fish either, because I find fish kind of gross-looking and hate how they look when they die, and if any of them die on me I'll have to take them out of the tank and flush them down the toilet, which is disgusting. But asking someone to take care of fish is, at least, a normal request, and doesn't necessitate slicing up a live worm.

I am so tempted to don a trench coat and, looking all shifty on some curb, offer naive kids five dollar bills to do the dirty work for me. But then I might feel guilty about luring unsuspecting adolescents into the seedy world of worm-dicing, and anyway, I'm not a Dickens character. So instead I will prove my love for my brother beyond any reasonable doubt, and hopefully overcome my fear of potential rattlesnakes and the worm bits they slurp.

With shaking hands and my eyes squeezed shut, of course.

Lately...

2009-06-05T17:31:00.000-07:00

Things I haven't done in awhile:

1. Woken up twenty minutes before class and contemplated skipping, only to find myself sitting in my usual seat sixteen minutes later with my hideously knotted hair indiscreetly tucked under a faded black shirt that says "don't mind me - I'm with the band."

2. Wondered where on earth I would have gotten such a dumb shirt.

3. Said "screw it; I don't care," and worn sweatpants outside my apartment building, then glimpsed my reflection in a glass door and realized that the message I am sending to world is "I have given up." And then decided I didn't care, because, let's face it...I have. Given up, that is.

4. Been the only girl in a game of Truth or Dare with enough class not to traipse around in cheap lingerie.

5. Written "I am going to punch that kid in the face" in my notebook, then turned the notebook at a forty-five degree angle in order to share this profoundly empty threat with the person next to me.

6. Become so thoroughly obliterated that I found myself puking...in a bar...at five a.m; subsequently been forced to endure endless ribbing from my parents, who also made a point of thanking the bartender who had been working that night for ensuring I lived to see another day.

7. Made a fake Facebook friend. (Seriously, four of my friends are not real people.)

8. Twisted around in my seat to ask the guy behind me if would "just shut up," then stared him down fearlessly when he told me to "turn around. Right now. Turn around and don't even look at me."

9. Gotten an A for Making Shit Up.

10. Generally embraced the role of Cranky, Stressed-Out College Student Who Is Probably a Little Irritating to the Rest of the World.

But here's something stupid!

I was shuffling to the laundry room on my floor to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Because I am OCD, I knew that my clothes could not have been ready for more than three minutes; thus, I was not one of those obnoxious people who leaves their clothes in the washer hours after they've finished, rendering them a congealed, soapy mass of icky.

When I got to the laundry room, though, there was a guy already there. The washer was running and there was a pile of clothes on top of it, leading me to the reasonable conclusion that this guy was one of those assholes who doesn't give you five minutes to remove your clothes before he takes it upon himself to contaminate your freshly laundered underwear with his hands.

Only he wasn't one of those guys. He was one of those guys who pours detergent onto the clothes already in the washer - the clothes that are not actually his - pays the machine a dollar, and starts a new cycle. I'm sure you know the type.

When I turned to him and asked, "weren't there some clothes in the washer there?" he looked confused, then opened the washer (luckily it was a top-loader), stared at the clothes inside, and went "oh. Are these your clothes?"

"Yeah, that'd be them."

"I'm...sorry."

"S'okay." I reached into the washer and started lifting out of my clothes, which were dripping wet and covered in soap scum. Naturally he stood and watched, and naturally, this particular load of laundry included all of my cutest underwear. And of course I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, and of course I had put my hair up, so I couldn't just flip it in front to cover my dampened shirt. Of course.

He offered to pay for the cost of drying my clothes but I told him not to worry about it. I went back to my apartment, unpaused Pride and Prejudice, and picked up the washcloth I'd been knitting. I thought of happier times, when womens' underwear was something to be imagined but never seen; when you didn't have to sacrifice four quarters just to have your sweatshop-produced clothing swirl for half an hour in cold water.

And then I made myself some waffles. Waffles cure all ills.

I Am the Lumberjack of Shitty Music

2009-05-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

When confronted with a forest I will always, and without apology, focus solely on the trees. I do this because I like trees. Taking this cliché to its metaphorical extension, I dig details, and frankly, I see nothing wrong with this. Big Pictures are fine; they are varied and expansive and cover a blank space on the wall quite nicely, but as I am a Seinfeld fan, I find my greatest satisfaction in the dissection of irrelevant trivia.

As a result, I have a thing about stupid lyrics. The song itself could be fine, and the overall lyrics could be decent, but if there is one stupid phrase, I will harp on it like nothing else. Take, for example, this line in the Death Cab For Cutie song “Crooked Teeth”:

At night, the sun in the trees
Made the sky line up like crooked teeth
In the mouth of a man who was devouring us both

I actually think this is kind of a cool image. Except:

At night, the sun in the trees

Yep, that makes sense. Because, y’know, I love going sun-gazing at night. I like to just lie on my back under the pitch-black sky, soaking up those glorious golden rays. Just make sure to wear your sunscreen, kids – 90% of skin cancer is contracted by professional spelunkers.

The song, to be fair, is really pretty decent. But you know what song isn’t decent? That Proud to Be an American song. I don’t know exactly what it’s called – probably “Proud to Be an American” – but I’m not looking it up, because I’m lazy. Anyway, forget the forest; this song contains one particular tree I’ve been dying to eradicate for a long time. I’ve ranted about this line many times, so I expect that some of you will read this, sigh, and type your way to a less redundant destination. But you know what? I don’t care. Because this lyric pisses me off, and I want my disgust recorded for posterity.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I have many problems with this line, but let’s start with the problems I have with its message.

First, there is the notion that all it takes to be proud of one’s nationality is freedom. That’s it. Freedom. Nothing else. And this annoys me, because it requires that one’s standards be tragically low. Add to this the fact that “freedom” in this instance is such a vaguely defined concept (not that this is terribly unusual, but whatever) and you have one cantankerous Sam.

The use of the word “American” to refer solely to citizens of the U.S. rather than those of two entire continents is also irritating, but could possibly be justified on the grounds that “U.S. Citizen” does not lend itself well to lyrics. I’m willing to give a little leeway here, if for no other reason than to keep from appearing militantly P.C., since those people drive me bonkers. Bonkers, I say.

Anyway, it’s not the major issue. What really burns my toast is the fact that this lovely couplet makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.

I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free

I too am proud to be what I where. Or proud to be where I what. Or where I know, or what I’m free. Also:

My brain just shriveled up and died.

So We Stopped At This Sketchy Gas Station

2009-05-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

There was a curb I had to step over on my way to the door, which was coated with a thin layer of dirt and smeared with breath. The cashier was a disheveled, heavy-set woman whose long, yellowing fingernails bore curving strips of glittery blue polish - crack nails, Anna called them - and she tapped them menacingly on the counter as I walked by. When I looked closer I saw that the nail on her middle left finger was beginning to detach; it dangled by its corner, swinging with the motion of her hand.

On my way to the cooler I passed a tall kid with delicate, slightly feminine features, who stared hollowly ahead at the wall in front of him. His mouth was a straight, fixed line, and he held something against his leg, covered with his hand. I pictured a knife, or a razor - something that would appear, suddenly, between his fingers, slicing through the air and turning my life into a Lifetime movie. (Two girls on the road, victimized by a teenage psychopath. Two mothers, bent on revenge - at any cost.)

I got a Sunkist from the cooler and stood in line, behind Potential Psychopath. At the front, a balding man with a body lumpy and pale as a pierogie pounded his fist on the counter, crying, "but I don't want to sign. Why can't you sign?"

Crack Nails tapped his credit card on the counter and smirked. "Well, I guess I could sign. I could sign your name."

"No! I'll sign my own name." Pierogie drew a loose slipknot slightly below the line, then looked back up and whined, "I don't cause problems."

"You don't cause problems?" Crack Nails dropped his card back on the counter, then folded her arms across her chest, digging her crack nails into her upper-arm skin.

"I've never caused problems."

"Alright, you don't cause problems."

"That's right, I don't."

"Bye, William."

Potential Psychopath's hand shifted slightly as he watched Pierogie leave. I embraced my histrionic side and flinched, stumbling back a couple steps; and then my suspicions were confirmed when he lifted his hand and held up a sleek, gleaming silver razor.

Or rather, Razr. Like the cell phone. I'm an idiot.

No.

2009-03-14T11:16:00.001-07:00

Seriously, people?

If you want to buy some books, you buy them all at once. That is, you set them on the counter, I ring them up, you pay me, I bag them, and you leave. You don't bring up some books, have me ring them up, tell me to bag them, and then let your four year old granddaughter prance around the store with them for THIRTY MINUTES while I wait for you to decide what else you want. That is not how it works.

Also, if you have store credit, you either give me your credit slip or, if we have it on file, you tell me so and give me your name so I can like, I don't know, look it up? I mean, that sounds pretty logical to me. But you know what isn't logical? Staring at me blankly for about thirty seconds, then sputtering, "what do you mean it's thirty dollars? We're part of your book club thing!"

"'Book club thing'? You mean you have credit?"
"Yeah, that."
"Do you have your paper, or -"
"You never gave us one!"
"Okay, then you left it here?"
"Yeah!"
"Fine. What was your last name, please?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I think it's under [name]."
After a few moments of searching:
"Okay, found it."
"Why didn't you have it before?"

Yeah, um, that's annoying.

"Because I'm not actually telepathic. If you have credit I need you to tell me."
"...Oh. Well, we didn't know that."
"No problem."

I applied their credit, adjusting their total accordingly, and naturally, Grandma Genius (who, by the way, was neither senile nor particularly old, just dumb as a freaking post) decided to pay me almost exclusively in change. I swept the change into my hand one veritable pound at a time, and she shoved four pennies across the table with a condescending:

"You forgot these."

I raised my eyebrow. "Actually, I didn't. But thank you for assuming otherwise."

Luckily, she didn't get it.

And yes, I know that one day my attitude is going to bite me in the ass, but I don't care.

I Could Totally See Why.

2009-02-21T13:41:00.000-08:00

So...this

is listed as a "unisex" item.

I just wanted to share that.

Maturity

2009-02-14T08:26:00.000-08:00

...is when, faced with a paper tablecloth and a cup full of crayons, you and a friend decide to debate whether writing "THIS IS ART!!" does, in fact, constitute art.

Then you roll up the tablecloth and take it with you when you leave.

(I wish I had a picture of this masterpiece in its entirety, as it was sheer brilliance. Particularly the drawing of George Costanza/Ghandi.)

(Also, Roma's, I apologize for acting like a precocious third-grader...but sometimes it just needs to be done.)

I Hate My Job, and Should Probably Be Fired From It

2009-01-12T13:01:00.000-08:00

So, I just saw this chick. She was about my age, and she was stupid. I know this, because she asked stupid questions - questions like "is the number on the price tag the price?" and " does B come after A?" I answered her questions patiently, with the sort of adolescent perkiness that usually annoys the crap out of me, until this chick, spurred to ever-stupider heights by the sweetness of my demeanor, held up a book and asked, "is this, like, a book?"

I stared at her.

"What?"
"Is it a book?"
"I -"

I paused. She was so innocent. So naive. So mind-blowingly stupid. I looked into her blank, expressionless eyes, thought of all the nice ways I could phrase my "yes," and then I smiled and said:

"No."

And she believed me. Christ.

Why I'm Not Getting a Degree In Journalism

2008-12-29T13:45:00.000-08:00

Our local paper is the Black Hills Pioneer. I don't expect much from it, because it sucks. But when I looked it up today for information on the recent murder that took place at a local motel (the mayor's stepson was the killer) I was even more disgusted than usual. The whole article is pretty badly written, but this part really stood out:

Bell was arrested at 8:15 a.m. Sunday only blocks away from the motel. He had been on the run for almost nine hours in bitterly cold weather and his feet were bandaged in court Monday.

You'd think they'd have taken care of that earlier - and in a more sterile environment.

A Sad State of Affairs

2008-12-19T13:48:00.001-08:00

Some lady dropped off a bunch of books yesterday, saying she'd come back later for her store credit. I said that sounded like a fine idea, and off she went. People do this all the time and I'm totally cool with it, but in this instance especially so, because I'm not sure I'd have been able to disguise the look of horror that took up residence on my face as I perused her offerings. (That sounds...weird. I mean, "perused her offerings"? If Edith Wharton wrote erotica, maybe.)

First I pulled out a couple books on how to build a happy marriage. Aww, I thought. Mawwiage. Then I came across something called "Not Just Friends: Rebuilding Trust and Recovering Your Sanity After Infidelity." That was significantly less cheering. Then there were some books on parenting in the stern, unattractive face of divorce. And finally:

As a friend of mine said, the truly tragic part about this is that "none of the books worked." It's a valid point, no?

You Suck. Also, Why I Never Blog.

2008-12-09T12:35:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm at the library, and I just went to print something off, and what did I see? Another queued document awaiting printing. Well, okay, I saw a bunch of documents awaiting printing, but this one stuck out, as it was titled "suck ass." Naturally I checked the name of the student to whom this sucky bit of writing belonged, and when I saw the name I smiled. That kid really is an ass.

Then when I sat back down, I noticed that the laptop I had checked out had the words "THIS LAPTOP SUCKS" scratched into the lid. (Do they call that thing a lid? Probably not. But then what do they call it? I'm sure it's totally obvious, but I have no idea.)

So, um, yeah. I'm not really sure what my point was. I guess that life just kind of sucks right now. And also, I really need to finish this paper.

Thomas's stories force his listeners to view their present situation in the context of their past, blah blah blah blah blah...

Don't Blame Me, She's the One Who Sucks

2008-11-27T13:05:00.000-08:00

A certain blogger of questionable quality has deemed me her mortal enemy, and is apparently planning to exact revenge. However, this blogger would like to state, for the record, that she considers her status as the blogger-lacking-in-quality's enemy a compliment. Also, she plans to exact her revenge first, with an unprecedented level of vengeyness.

And while it is true that I am utterly lacking in fighting experience, I will make up for it in passion. Ranting Non-Pacifist is the six-fingered man to my Inigo Montoya, and she should prepare to die - in a figurative sense, that is. I mean, I don't really want her to die. I like feeling superior, and she's good for that.

So. Yeah. We're enemies now, and shit is going to go down.

Also, happy thanksgiving.

All I Want Is a Lunch Break

2008-11-26T12:07:00.001-08:00

Creepily perky but incoherent blond wearing a heart-patterned hoodie: [mumble] DMV?
Me: Sorry?
Creepy Blond: [mumble mumble mumble] the DMV?
Me: I'm sorry, still didn't catch tha -
Creepy Blond: [mumble] DMV. [mumble] IV pictures here?
Me: IV?
Creepy Blond: ...IV pictures.
Me: I, um - no. No, we don't. We just...we don't, yeah.
Creepy Blond: Oh! Well! Thanks...anyway...
Me: Okay. Yeah. You're welcome. Bye now.

Five Minutes Later:

This Guy: Didja get my Star Wars book?
Me: I did, yeah. Here it is.
Guy: Wowee! Ya really got it! Well how about that!
Me: Yep.
Guy: I just have the best luck with you!
Me (trying to be perky!): Well. Thank you!
Guy: Ya always get everything on time.
Me: Thanks - I try!
Guy (pointing to book): Isn't that Darth Vader cute?
Me: ...Yes?
Guy: Wouldn't ya just like to kiss him more than any guy you've ever met?
Me: Absolutely?
Guy: I thought so. Now whaddo I owe ya?
Me: It's -
Guy: That's too much!
Me: Um...
Guy: I'm just kiddin'. Whaddo I owe ya?
Me: $11.65?
Guy: Well, that Vader's pretty cute. I guess I'll get it.
Me: ...Alright then.

If I Only Had Knowledge of 19th Century Poetry I Could Totally Come Up With a Clever Post Title

2008-11-24T09:45:00.000-08:00

So I got a paper back today. I got an A-. I'm not complaining - it wasn't an A paper. Plus I forgot to title it and, um, I did embarrass myself a bit with a tragic lack of attention to detail...

My sentence:

It is therefore determined that Earl should report the incident to Greggy Longfellow, the local sheriff, before the three take any further action.

My professor's comment:

Longwell. Longfellow also pompous but a 19th century poet & not a member of the police force.

My reaction:

It's nice she has a sense of humor about it, because I'm a little mortified.

I called him Longfellow throughout the entire paper, too. Damn it.

Those Who Do the Lord's Work Are Rewarded In...Whores?

2008-11-15T09:36:00.001-08:00

Pretentious Regular, Reading Back Cover of Son of a Witch: "Saint Glinda? God. Those goddamn Christians are gettin into everything.
Pretentious Regular's mother: It's those goddamn missionaries.
Regular: That's exactly right. The missionaries. God damn missionaries.

Me, thinking: I love it when people trash religion while invoking the Lord's name simultaneously. The fact that Son of a Witch is about, like, a witch, makes this so much funnier.

Regular's mother: You know, most of the apostles had whores.
Regular, turning to me: St. Francis had a whore.
Me: Which one?
Regular: What do you mean?
Me: I mean, which Francis - Xavier or Assisi?
Regular, after a long, uncomfortable pause: Both, I think.
Me: That's interesting. Which of the apostles?
Regular: Francis.
Me: But they weren't apostles, were they?
Regular's mother: They sure were!
Me, annoyed: I don't think so. I went to Catholic school, we had to study this.
Regular: Well, whatever.
Me: ...Right.

And then they scampered away like the whore-deficient non-saints they are.

Yeah.

2008-11-11T19:40:00.000-08:00

I need to stop writing in the passive voice so much. By which I mean, it is advisable that I cease writing in the passive voice. This stupid paper (you know, the one due tomorrow) read likes a freaking Sarah Palin monologue.

And that's all I have to say about that.

As If I Needed Confirmation

2008-11-05T11:55:00.000-08:00

Sarah Palin, when asked about possible plans to run for president in 2012:

"Right now I cannot even imagine running for national office in 2012. When I say that, of course, coming on the heels of an outcome that I did not anticipate and had not hoped for. But this being a chapter now that is closed and realizing that it is a time to unite and all Americans need to get together and help with this new administration being ushered in."

I'm not exactly sure what this means. I think it's code for "there's a reason it took me five colleges and six years to get a bachelor's," but who knows?

Then, in response to the awesomely blunt suggestion that she might have cost McCain the election, Sarah says:

"I don't think anybody should give Sarah Palin that much credit, that I would trump an economic time in this nation that occurred about two months ago, that my presence on the ticket would trump the economic crisis that America found itself in a couple of months ago and attribute John McCain's loss to me."

I love that she starts talking in the third person, then shifts to first. She's of two minds, this one.

And I know I should be gracious - McCain managed to be, so why can't I? - but...yeah. No. Hey, look! - a slideshow of Sarah Palin's Election Night Tears.

Alarmingly incoherent quotes courtesy of CNN.

Regarding the Election:

2008-11-04T20:35:00.001-08:00

I thought I'd be relieved. I didn't think I'd cry.

In Which I Get Obnoxiously Political

2008-11-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

And now, for the most wonderful thing I've done all week - or possibly month:

When I recieved a particularly heinous and poorly punctuated piece of propaganda from the so-called "pro-life" movement, I decided, at the encouragement of a girl who usually dispenses wretched advice, to make corrections in red ink, grade it an F, and mail it back to the pit of stupidity from whence it came. And beneath that enormous blocky F I wrote:

Formerly pro-embryo; however, in light of your barely rudimentary grasp of the English language, I have switched teams, and am now batting enthusiastically for the rabid anti-American baby-killers. Also, a suggestion: if you truly wish to end the "97% of abortions which are used as birth control," perhaps you should encourage the immoral people who seek them to Go Gay. This could be both pleasurable and highly effective, in my view, and while I realize that my plan has the potential to make Jesus cry, at least the six-month-olds in overalls pictured on this charming flier would be safe from harm.

Love,

A Lesbian

P.S. - Why is the smallest photo on this flier also the only ethnic baby pictured? Is black ink just less cost-effective?

And, okay, maybe that was mean, but Christ. I like this state alright, but the local Crazies are unusally motivated. Most Crazies just fire off grammatically puzzling letters to their senators, but the people in South Dakota are actually trying to overturn laws. I mean, just shut up, Leslie Unruh.

I would like to add here that I do understand that abortion is a difficult issue, and not all who oppose it are moronic assmonkeys; that said, the self-righteousness of some of these people occasionally makes me want to punch walls. Also, this "exception for rape and incest victims" crap is utter BS, since it would mean that in order to get an abortion, a woman - or girl - would have to prove not only that she was a victim in the first place, but that the pregnancy resulted from that assault. Well, good luck with that, sweetie. Even if you did manage to prove it, the chances of you doing it in time are slim to none.

And what does "abortion as birth control" even mean? When I graded the flier I wrote "PLEASE CLARIFY" every time they used that phrase, because clarification is sorely needed. What woman says to herself, "hmm. I could get on the pill, pay about thirty bucks a month...or I could just mess around and get abortions when necessary. Yeah. That sounds like a wise and cost-effective plan." Uh-huh. Their hypothetical woman sounds like a financially illiterate dumbass.

So the point is, I'm kinda proud of myself. Even if I don't change a single opinion, at least I got to exhibit some impressively curmudgeonly behavior.

But On the Bright Side, I No Longer Read Elizabeth Wurtzel

2008-10-30T12:48:00.000-07:00

So my dad said that writing an entire blog entry about the word "obfuscate" was a tad pretentious. Which, okay, maybe he's got a point. (I really want that entry to become a huge controversy so I can refer to it as "Obfugate." Please, someone?)

The thing is, though, I know I've had my pretentious moments, and I do my best to own them. When I was fifteen, for example, I would lock myself in my room listening to Fiona Apple and pretending to read Kierkegaard. That was pretty pretentious, yeah? By the time I was eighteen and had my head too far up my ass to walk in a straight line, I had moved on to Leonard Cohen and Elizabeth Wurtzel, which...ugh. (God, I still can't believe Wurtzel wrote an entire book about herself, then had the audacity to name it Prozac Nation. Could her narcissism be any more apparent?) Also, I read a lot of Nietzsche. Until, that is, I broke up with a guy who happened to be borrowing my Nietzsche, and who never returned it because he is a great big asspanda. Ahem.

So I don't excuse myself from criticism. I criticize myself all the time. It burns calories. And I am definitely no stranger to pretension, as anyone who has spoken to me for longer than ten minutes can attest. I mean, let's face it: I'm an English major. Semi-colons are my dearest friends, and I love verbs. My personal library is pretentious, too - though not quite as pretentious as claiming to have a "personal library" - as is my pseudo-poetic love of black coffee. (It's black like my soul, y'see.)

I take great pride in accepting my pretentiousness. I like to think that it absolves it, somewhat. I mean, it probably doesn't, but it sure is pretty to think so. (Yes, the Hemingway reference was a deliberately pretentious move on my part.) And...um...what was my point again?

Oh, right. Obfuscate. Look, I will grant that, as a word, it is irreplacable. There is no other word which could do the job that obfuscate does. However, it sounds ugly, and in that sense it is the sports bra of my vocabulary. That is to say, it is effective, but horrendously unattractive. And I still prefer "elegiac."

Fail.

2008-10-25T08:51:00.000-07:00

There's a small child in the store named Grammer. I'm sure of the spelling, because his backpack is monogrammed. He's a cute kid, and quite well-behaved; however:

Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick. That may be the worst name I've ever heard.

Because I'm Feeling Random

2008-10-21T09:29:00.000-07:00

A few nights ago I listened to someone sing the praises of the word "obfuscate," and found myself thinking that as far as word-loving goes, claiming an attachment to "obfuscate" seems kind of pretentious. I stand by that point - or would, if I'd made the point in the first place, instead of just nodding and then mentioning that "exacerbate" is a kick-ass word - because really, listening to people ramble on about obfuscation annoys me. And yes, I have heard enough obfuscation-centered rambles in my day to know whether or not it annoys me. Sad but true.

And honestly, I don't even like "obfuscate" that well. It sounds congested and muddy. It's like that sound people make when they're talking too fast and stumbling over words, when their voices get all fuzzy and saliva builds, and the syllables are spit out all wet and cloudy - when the mumbling fogs up the glass of the sentence so you can't see a damn thing and just drive blindly through the conversation. And then, sometimes? You crash. Into a semi-truck of confusion.

Wow. I don't think it's possible to stretch that metaphor any further. The poor thing is just begging for mercy.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say here is that the sound of "obfuscate" is perfectly matched to its meaning; and while I usually find this quality endearing, in this case it kind of annoys me.

It just sounds like an SAT word - which it probably is. But I took the ACT, so who knows. (I've often wondered what my SAT score would have been. Everyone says the SAT is harder, so although I kicked half of the ACT's ass - its linguistic buttcheek, if you will - I've always suspected that the SAT would have kicked mine. Both cheeks. And left bruises.)

So yeah. Obfuscate. It looks icky typed. If spellings were foods, o-b-f-u-s-c-a-t-e would be fried coke. (People say it's delicious, but come on. That's gross.) And although obfuscate has its uses, I generally feel that the people who like it are constantly trying to show me up. Maybe it's the way they enunciate it. They have this tendency to stomp on each syllable, kicking them into my brain until they become permanently embedded in its coils.

OB-foo-skate.

Uck.

You know what word I like? Elegiac. It's such a clear, precise word. It's like glass. If I tapped on it, I think it would ping.

But obfuscate? I don't think you could tap on it. You could only poke it, and if it made any sound at all, it would be a squelch - the squelch of an obese person walking barefoot through a swamp.

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

The sad thing about this entry is that it is a frighteningly accurate look into my mind. I once went on a date with a guy who told me that I always looked deep in thought, and that he found it intimidating. "I feel like you're analyzing everything. It freaks me out."

"Well," I said, "it shouldn't. I'm not thinking anything very interesting. My brain doesn't sleep, but that doesn't mean it's all that active, either. It's just lying awake, wishing it hadn't had all that coffee."

He really didn't get my wit. That, coupled with his bigotry ("I don't care about any country that ends in -stan"), kind of made it impossible for me to enjoy myself. Although dinner was good. (On a side note, if you want to get a guy to leave you alone, just tell him you identify with Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. It's instant man repellent.)

So, in closing: loving "obfuscate" makes you a pretentious asshat, my brain is a congealed lump of pointless musings, and countries that end in -stan are good.

(I just corrected the best typo ever: "obfuscare." As in, scared, but in a vague, blurry way. I'm so going to use that in conversation.)

Well. That Was Weird.

2008-10-20T19:06:00.000-07:00

So there I was, walkin' along, in search of a delicious yet nutritious lunch, when I got catcalled by this really pretty girl. A really pretty girl who, in addition to making that ridiculous "ow!" call which is apparently meant to suggest that the object of said call is painfully hot, yelled out "hey sexy!" as she leaned out the passenger's window of a black SUV.

I was far too perplexed to be offended.

I mean, do I look gay? Not that there's anything wrong with that. (God, that joke has officially become a cliche. Sadness.)

Anyway. Chicks dig me, and that's all. The End.

I Like Lists

2008-10-19T17:05:00.000-07:00

Five Things That Are Making Me Want to Punch the World In the Face:

1. The doors to the library squeal when opened. They do - they squeal. The squeal is long and protracted, the sound of a colicky baby preparing for an epic scream. If it was only a little more high-pitched it would be audible only to dogs, but as luck would have it, it's just low enough that every time the door opens my brain feels like it's being stabbed. Which kinda hurts.

2. I don't understand how to factor quadrinomials and I don't give a shit. I really don't. Those goddamned quadrinomials can factor themselves, for all I care. They can find their own parentheses and distribute their own exponents and scrounge up their own negative signs, because I'm done. I am. Screw you, quadrinomials.

3. I have to write about integrity, and all I can think of is that Seinfeld episode where George won't let NBC make Jerry a show about something because he doesn't want to compromise his artistic integrity, prompting Jerry to point out that "you're not an artist, and you have no integrity!" But something tells me that won't work for this particular writing.

4. I forgot to eat before coming to the library, and now I am hungry. The library should serve strawberry whipped cream waffles and cranberry juice, but does it? Oh no. And why? Because it sucks. God, I love waffles. You know what else sounds good? Vanilla ice cream with maple syrup and nuts. That would be freaking delicious right about now.

5. I started reorganizing my apartment this morning and haven't finished yet, meaning that when I do get home - poor, downtrodden, with equations I don't quite understand swimming in my beleaguered brain - the first thing I see will be my dresser. In the middle of the floor. And then I will probably step on my jewelry box. At which point I will likely cry, or do something equally immature - like stomp my foot, pull on my hair, and scream, "it's not fair!"

The sad thing about the ridiculously cranky mood I'm in is that I can't blame it on a hangover. It's just me being a pain in the ass and reinforcing negative female stereotypes. Bad at math, hyper-sensitive to noise, addicted to sugar, obsessed with interior decorating to a disturbing degree: I am everything that is wrong with women. Also, I will grow up to be a cat lady.

And there's no turning back now.

Yes, I Am Unabashedly Honest, Often to My Detriment. Your Point?

2008-10-17T13:02:00.000-07:00

5 Stupid Things I've Done Since Wednesday, Which Kind of Sum Me Up:

1. Worn my v-neck shirt backwards until two in the afternoon, when I looked in the mirror, observed the unusually high neckline, then twisted around to see a triangle of spine cleavage.

2. Walked into a drinking fountain, then stared in shock as a jet of water sprayed my stomach. Considered how to "get the stain out," pondered simply using soap and water, and then thought...oh. Right. Duh.

3. Washed my hair with bubble bath. Was surprised at the foaminess.

4. Watched the presidential debates sober; listened to smug rich republican kid blabber on about economic policy, protesting only when he attempted to single out my energy drink as a symbol of the merits of consumerism.

5. Admitted these things.

Huh.

2008-10-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

I just ordered a Star Wars book for someone who was holding a coffee cup full of booze with a curly straw sticking out.

Just thought I'd share that.

Recipe for Temporary Depression

2008-09-30T19:33:00.000-07:00

1. Bake one lone potato.
2. Unwrap the tinfoil, slide sad wrinkled potato onto plate, smother in cheese to conceal the blank white space of pure, unadulterated starch.
3. Eat.
4. In front of computer.
5. As you write a paper on the topic of what it's like to grow up the child of a bipolar alcoholic in war-torn Rhodesia.
6. Remind yourself that your childhood was significantly happier; feel sincere yet fleeting gratitude.
7. Stab morosely at potato with fork.
8. Drink some cider.
9. Spit out the dregs.
10. Stare blankly at your bulbous, cheese-smothered potato.
11. Consider potato's potential as metaphor.
12. Hate yourself for being so cheesy.
13. Ha! Cheesy! Like my potato!
14. Drink tap water.
15. Realize that you are wearing pajama bottoms with pictures of moose and black bears, while eating a solitary potato and writing about someone else's mother.
16. Bake at 350 for one hour.
17. Eat with potato.
18. Blog.

A Rant

2008-09-29T09:49:00.000-07:00

I am so sick of people trying to argue that the book is always better than the movie. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the book sucks, and the movie manages to extract the good parts, add interest, make the characters more believable, use a freaking awesome soundtrack, and just generally improve a hopelessly sub-par book.

And sometimes the movie does suck - it smacks the characters with terrible dialogue until they become 2-d, paper-thin with generically attractive faces; or it turns the story into an incoherent mess of garbled words and unclear motivations. But sometimes the book was garbled and vague to begin with - sometimes the movie is just being faithful to the story, the characters, the dialogue; sometimes the movie's suckitude is just mirroring the book's, and I don't understand why people are so surprised.

And can we please get over this bullshit notion that film is somehow an inferior medium? Because it isn't. Don't blame Micheal Bay on the art form he's chosen to eviscerate. Micheal Bay is a terrible director with a barely rudimentary understanding of dialogue, and that's all he is. He doesn't stand for anything but his own gaping plot holes, yeah?

Oh, and also? I don't get Hugh Grant. I thinks he's a competent actor, but far from exceptional, and I find him incredibly unattractive. While some people have posited that I only hate Hugh Grant because "he never called me in the morning," I call BS. Hugh Grant is icky, and his accent makes him sound so snobbish I've often wondered if it's fake - maybe he's just a pampered kid from Jersey who went to Syracuse and smokes clove cigarettes, who listens obsessively to the New Pornographers, not because their music is catchy but because it's oh-my-god-indie.

In fact, I was talking to someone the other day who claimed to do a fantastically fake British accent, and when I finally convinced him to prove it, I immediately said, wow, dude. You sound like Hugh Grant. Because he did. Hugh Grant is a walking satire, and his apparent ignorance of the fact is something I find highly amusing.

Plus he cheated on Elizabeth Hurley with a prostitute. I don't care one way or another about Elizabeth Hurley - I'm not even sure what she does, exactly, which probably means she's a model - but damn. That's low.

So, in sum: people should stop constantly whining about movie adaptations ruining the books they are based on, Micheal Bay is a talentless asshat, Hugh Grant is an oblivious walking satire whose appeal I will never understand, it must really suck to have your husband cheat on you with a prostitute, and I could use a good night's sleep.

Yeppers.

Knitted Limbs Are Creepy

2008-09-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

So the new Knitty is out, right? And it's got some cute stuff. Like really cute armwarmers, and this quite interesting shell with armwarmers, and, well, lots of stuff to protect my arms. This issue is just chock full of armor. (Good Lord, am I witty.)

Unfortunately, it also features actual knitted arms. With hands attached, no less.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE SAVE THAT CHILD.

Because, in addition to "Hug" featuring some truly hideous knitting - what size needles did she use, anyway? - it kind of looks like it's about to drag that adorable creature into a cave littered with bones. And that just isn't right. The kid knows it, too. He's doing everything he can not to touch those arms. And his face is just crying out for help.

This hideous piece of crap totally reminds me of the "Therapy Buddy" from American Inventor - you know, the creepy blue doll with arms that wrapped around your shoulders (or wherever) and said "everything is going to be all right." Remember that?

No? Well then, I envy you.

But seriously. I bet that all over Manhatten, pampered upper-class moms are firing their nannies and knitting "Hug" as a replacement. Which is really pretty sad, is it not?

Free Disease?

2008-09-21T13:34:00.000-07:00

I just got a long boring e-mail from the student health center reminding me of all the wonderful services they have to offer, and I read it, for reasons unclear. Then I got to this bit:

The health services also have some vaccinations available. If you are 18 years old and younger, we have HPV, hepatitis B, and meningitis available for free. (Bold mine.)

And I thought, damn. I'm barely old enough to drink, but too old for free hepatitis.

On a different note, every time I write the word "damn," I have this brief moment where I want to berate myself for pronouncing it wrong. "Duh, Sam, it's dammen."

And that is all I have to say. For now, at least.

Team Angelina

2008-09-18T15:56:00.000-07:00

Whenever I'm standing in line at a coffee shop, waiting to order my 20 oz. breve with an extra shot, there's always a brief moment when I consider just getting coffee. A plain coffee, with a bit of cream and nothing else. It's a solid, reliable, and sufficiently caffeinated beverage, is it not? There's nothing wrong with just a coffee.

That said, there's nothing all that exciting about it, either. Its main attraction is its affordability. Well, that and the fact that it's convenient. Whereas espresso is fresh, and exciting. It's dark. It's mysterious. It packs more energy into less liquid. It is, in essence, the Angelina to coffee's Jen.

Anyway, I was standing in line today, thinking about these things, and I said to myself, you know...maybe I should give Jen a chance. She seems like a nice girl, and she's probably better for me. Angelina is all shades of awesome, but kind of intimidating. Let's get a Jen.

My decision made, I started reading the sign with descriptions of each coffee flavor, but ultimately found myself horrified by the way they were written. That isn't to say the writing was poor, exactly, but that the descriptions read like personal ads. The bodies of each coffee were either "good," "very good," or, delicately, "full." Some were "very bright," while others had "a tinge of fruitiness." Some flavors were "powerful," while others were "light" and "gentle." At which point I realized: why jeopardize my meaningful relationship with espresso by taking up with some drip coffee floozy?

So I ordered a breve. And then I spilled it, and the foam dried in my hair. But whoever said that love was easy?

P.S. - Don't let foam dry in your hair. It's gross. Also, it reminded me of that scene in There's Something About Mary. "What is that? Is it hair gel? Oh good, I needed some."

Serious Fangirl Moment Comin' RIGHT UP

2008-09-15T13:14:00.000-07:00

I saw the Wallflowers. They were awesome. Jakob Dylan, what with his chiseled jaw, intense gaze, and prominent cheekbones, is hands-down the most beautiful specimen I have ever had the good fortune to set eyes on. He is gorgeous. He does not look forty. He was a dry, understated sense of humor that catches you off-guard, and a knack for skillfully layering blazers over checkered flannel shirts. He looks good in a cowboy hat, and I'm pretty sure he could read my mind if he felt so inclined. (If only.) His eyes are piercing, his voice is perfect, and I'm pretty sure I love him.

Oh, and he's also a good musician. So yeah.

Quote of the Day

2008-09-12T13:15:00.000-07:00

"Do you have bibles, or reasonable facsimiles?"

Yeah, who doesn't want a fake bible? A reasonable one, that is. An outlandish fake bible is simply not acceptable.

Seriously though, what was she talking about? And do I really want to know?

Something I Noticed While Checking the Weather

2008-09-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

The top searches on MSN today are Victoria Beckham, 23,000 Big Macs, and Child Brides.

That's wonderful. Or would be, were it not for the fact that I will probably have some weird dream tonight involving all three.

Scraper of the Flies

2008-09-05T13:31:00.000-07:00

One of the many occupational hazards of working in a used bookstore is the possibility of touching books which are utterly disgusting. Books that are molding; books that are speckled with mud; books that shower your shoes with dirt when you shake them. I have seen books stained with blood, both dried and fresh, and I'm pretty sure I once smelled cat pee while flipping through the suspiciously yellow pages of a Danielle Steel novel.

All these things are pretty repulsive. The fresh blood in particular. It got on my shirt - a shirt I no longer own - and on my hands, which I must have washed fifty times that day. For a week I agonized: What if I get hepatitis? Did I have any open cuts where it touched me? Did I put my hands near my mouth? Am I going to die?

Eventually, yes, I learned to live again. But it was a long, hard battle - one I wouldn't wish on anyone. (Except that one chick. God, she sucks.)

So anyway. Today I got a box of books, right? They were old and dusty, but that's par for the course 'round these parts. The woman who brought them in apologized for the dust ("sorry, they've just been sitting in my garage so long"), and I assured her it was no problem to clean them. I started going through the box, wiping each book down with a paper towel soaked in Windex as I went - but then, as I neared the bottom, there appeared a colony of flies.

They were repulsive, these flies. Some had been crushed beneath the weight of the books and become two-dimensional, while others had fallen in the gaps between the books and had actually expanded, their puffy bodies rolling back and forth like marbles over the dirty cardboard.

I turned the book I was holding over in my hand, and found about five or six flies stuck to the back cover. They were so flat they were starting to become one with the jacket: their wings were tissue-thin, and their heads looked like ink blotches.

"Um." I paused, unsure of how to proceed. "Huh. It appears that these ones are a bit...damaged."

"Well, but you can just wipe that stuff off, right?" she asked.

Oh, of course. Of course I can "wipe that off." I mean, how are mashed-up flies any different from a bit of water? You just grab a towel, and...well, no. When they're all mashed up like that, you usually have to scrape them. So you grab a chisel - you know, that chisel you keep on your person at all times - and you...oh, wait. THAT'S REALLY GROSS.

But I didn't know how to say that in a professional manner, and anyway I didn't feel like arguing with her, so I shrugged, grabbed a Kleenex, and used it to pick off one of the flies. I managed to rip the body loose, but the wings remained; they glowed green and pink, like the wall of a bubble caught in the sunlight. I stood there for a moment, pressing my thumb and forefinger against the lump embedded in the Kleenex, and then I took a deep breath, looked at her, and said:

"Of course."

Thereby cementing my status as the patron saint of retail.

Something I Noticed Last Night

2008-09-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

I have a pair of wire cutters, but no screwdriver. Also, I have orange juice but no vodka, meaning I couldn't even make a screwdriver. I guess I'm screwed in both departments.

I'm Hungover, Okay? This Is As Deep As It Gets.

2008-08-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I sit and try to imagine what I'll be like when I'm old. I look at my hands and picture them thin and wrinkled, with bulging blue veins, or envision the future lines on my face - brackets at the corners of my mouth, crow's feet clawing their way to my ears. I wonder whether I'll be thin and delicate, with severe osteoporosis, or cheerfully dumpy, with heart disease. Will I wear polyester pantsuits, or live in skirts? Will I embroider cushions, or will I scrapbook? (Embroider, probably. I don't have many pictures.)

The image I usually end up with is one of a tiny, hunched-over woman with crinkly skin and a hair net. She wears "sensible shoes" and carries a parasol, occasionally using the curved handle to poke bratty youngsters in the shin. She calls it trespassing when people step on her lawn, and has three cats who all hate each other.

She attempts to cook, and is constantly baking bread for people, but although the bread is terrible, no one has the heart to tell her so. They thank her profusely every time she stops by with a new loaf, and then, once she's gone, they toss it in the trash. The bread is so dry, it crumbles where it falls. Even the banana bread is dry.

In all my versions of the story I'm a spinster, and bitter as hell. I'm a little like Barbara in Notes on a Scandal, if I'm being honest. Of course, Barbara wouldn't bake bread, and I'm not a lesbian, and I can't imagine ever being cruel enough to completely destroy someone's life the way she does to Sheba's, but I have her acerbity, and air of disdain. (Disdain masking a crippling insecurity, as it usually does.)

Okay, truly, I don’t believe I’ll end up like this, but I can’t envision any alternatives. Sweet pie-baking granny? Um, no. Red Hat Society member? Hell, no. Spry, athletic spitfire of a senior? Well, I could probably be a spitfire, but I’ve never been spry.

The funny thing is that I really enjoy talking to old people - I find them interesting – but I dread becoming one. I worry that I’ll be the wrong type of old person: the bitter, angry type, who missed out on everything, and only realizes it when it’s too late. A person who goes from angry but functional to angry and senile, who becomes a burden on people who never wanted to hang out with her in the first place.

I’ve heard so many people say that once they’re senile, they don’t want to live anymore. I get where they’re coming from, and I usually feel the same way, but ultimately I know that I will cling to the last remaining shreds of my life the way Madonna clings to relevancy. Pathetically.

Which is all just a rather long-winded and not terribly articulate way of saying that I am utterly terrified of death and the last dozen or so years leading up to it, and would prefer to stay twenty-one and aimless for the rest of time. You know?

Quick Question

2008-08-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

Is it normal to have 135 movies in your Netflix queue?

My Power, Unleashed

2008-08-20T15:24:00.001-07:00

And from my spam folder:

Something titled "hey pretty momma," from someone called "Darwin." Deleted without reading, for obvious reasons. The obvious reason being, of course, that eradicating Darwin is oddly satisfying. Survival of the fittest, and all.

If only Darwin had been a "pretty momma," he might have made it out alive. Poor Darwin.

I Am Doomed to Be a Solitary Bubble

2008-08-20T09:27:00.000-07:00

On Monday, I bought a book. I bought it for my English class. It's called "They Say, I Say: The Moves That Matter In Academic Writing," and it looks like this:

When I picked it up, the first thought that popped into my head was, "what's with the cover? It reminds me of something. Something bad. Something endorsed by Oprah, penned by the very essence of douchebaggery."

And that's when I realized: it reminds me of "He's Just Not That Into You."

I mean, yes, there are some pretty obvious differences, but the colors are there. The green background, the blue and orange bubbles. No, the bubbles on the second book don't overlap, but they come close. (If the authors were only a little more into the New York Times, there would be some definite merging taking place.) And, of course, both books are written by a Mars/Venus team of authors with different last names.

What sucks about this is the fact that, every time I am required to open "They Say, I Say," the image that pops into my head will be of Greg Behrendt.

Seriously, how is this jerk qualified to tell me why my dating life sucks? He sports a spiked pseudo-mullet and appears to be winking. Also, is that a popped collar?

And before anyone mentally chastises me for being shallow, consider the book. I don't doubt that some guys are just not that into me, but I don't need Greg here to be such a condescending asshat about it. Some of my hatred for his book has to do with my overall disdain for the self-help genre, but the other 40% is aimed specifically at the book's content. I do not need another talentless wannabe guru telling me I'm not good enough. Oh, I know it's all just tough love, that it's supposed to help me find my soul mate, the man who really is into me, and yada yada yada, but, um, Greg? I wouldn't accept a date with you anyway, much less heed your wisdom.

Besides, I know why my dating life sucks: I am a judgmental ice queen who never gives out her phone number. (It's (605) 877 3007. Call it. Seriously.)

Of course, for most of the world, the time of Greg Behrendt is pretty much over. The book has been praised, then roundly criticized, and is nearing the end of its slide into oblivion. But for me, the time of Greg Behrendt is only just begun.

At 8:00 a.m., every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Greg will descend upon my mind like a vindictive woodpecker, his bulbous beak pecking at my brain. And it's all the fault of the jerks who designed the cover of "They Say, I Say."

And it simply isn't fair.

Ross Perot, I Love You, Really

2008-08-09T13:26:00.000-07:00

So I have a blog entry in the works - an icky entry, which recounts the story of how I literally got pissed on - but it isn't done yet. Mind you, it is not a glowing, urine-colored beacon of light, not a shocking expose of the toilet industry, nothing like that; it is merely the kind of gross-but-oddly-funny-so-long-as-you-aren't-the-protagonist story I love to tell.

However, as I said, it isn't done yet. So for now I give you the thought that has plaguing me all day:

When Ross Perot looks at this book cover:

What does he think about?

Does he think, "damn it. Here I had a book praising my heroism, written by the guy who would later write Pillars of the Earth - a man who would go on to obtain Oprah's blessing, and subsequent endorsement - and it did nothing. I suck."

Or: "God, that Ken Follett guy was no help at all. What a douche bag. He owes me big time."

Or maybe: "Hmm, think maybe that cover made me look like kind of a cocky bastard? Heroic, but cocky?"

I don't know. But I think enlisting a guy whose previous writing experience is limited to thrilling tales of espionage to promote your bid for presidency is probably not the wisest course of action. At the very least, don't put your picture on the cover. Because somewhere (here) a young bookstore employee (me) is giggling at you (Perot).

And using you to delay writing a real blog post, at that.

Milk In a Bag

2008-07-30T09:27:00.001-07:00

I lived in Wisconsin during fourth and fifth grade. It was okay. Kind of cold. Very slushy snow. The grocery store closed during the Superbowl, which was inconvenient, but then again, this was at the height of Favremania, so I guess that's to be expected.

Anyway, Favremania aside, the main thing I remember about Wisconsin is that our cafeteria served milk in a bag. I've tried explaining milk in a bag to other people - privileged people, people with cartons - but they never seem to get it.

"You mean, it was like a Capri Sun?"
"Well, kind of. Except it wasn't vertical."
"What?"
"It didn't stand up. It just...flopped around. Like a fish."
"What kind of bag was it?"
"Like a Ziploc. Only no zip. Or lock. But it was plastic like that."
"How did you drink out of it?"
"You poked a straw through the plastic. The thing that sucked about it was that it was really easy to poke the straw through both sides, and then milk would go everywhere."
"I don't get it."

Well, I can't say I blame people for not getting it. Milk in a bag is a messed up concept. I had resigned myself to people never understanding this particular tale of woe, and honestly, I was happy for them, because there are certain things people should never have to understand. But today, I found a picture of milk in a bag, and I am gleefully posting it.

See? I told you it wasn't vertical!

Milk in a bag has made me the girl I am today.

A Wise Tourist Doesn't Monkey Around With Grammar

2008-07-29T15:03:00.000-07:00

I just waited on a clueless tourist with a unidentifiable accent (she asked me if Helen Keller had written any "poyms"), which in itself is not that strange, except that this chick was wearing a bright orange t-shirt with a picture of one monkey pulling the tail of another monkey, and the words "a wise monkey doesn't monkey with another monkies monkey." I don't really think it's all that funny, but more importantly, shouldn't it say "a wise monkey doesn't monkey with another monkey's monkey"?

I think it should. And that disturbs me.

Pardon Me; I'm Just Having a Fangirl Moment

2008-07-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

Last night I started watching Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, and it was intense and well-acted and achingly sad, but because I was more in the mood for happy rainbow-striped unicorns eating cotton candy in a grassy meadow than piece-of-shit brothers robbing their parents' jewelry store (a literal "mom-and-pop" operation), I turned it off and watched Penelope instead. Which was so freaking cute I almost couldn't stand it.

Okay, so there weren't any unicorns, rainbow-striped or otherwise, but it did have Christina Ricci's face marred by a pig snout, Reese Witherspoon on a Vespa, a midget reporter, and best of all, James McAvoy.
Friends, I can tolerate you mocking my love for Stephen Colbert, but my adoration of James McAvoy will go unmocked. (According to spellcheck, "unmocked" is not a word; also, neither is "spellcheck." Well, screw that.)

The point I'm making here is that, like the movie he starred in, James McAvoy is so freaking cute I almost can't stand it. See?

Oops, wrong picture.

That's better.

If I had gone to high school I would probably have gotten my fangirl-like tendencies out of my system, but I didn't go to high school, so I am still capable of blind adoration of actors who are probably moody and irritatingly eccentric in real life. To my underdeveloped mind, James McAvoy is pretty much perfect, and he can act. Also, he's Scottish, and his shoes in that last picture are artfully battered, and he has good hair, and...

Well anyway, it was a fun movie.

So tonight I'll be finishing Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, to find out:

Is Phillip Seymour Hoffman capable of shooting up on his own, or will he continue to seek assistance from that weird guy in the silk bathrobe?
Is Ethan Hawke going to come completely unhinged?
Will his ex-wife stop being such a bitch?
Does Marisa Tomei own a shirt?

And then I'm going to watch Penelope one more time.

Too Early In the Day to Be So Ridiculous

2008-07-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

Woman looking at audio books: I don't want cassettes. They go flying everywhere at night and you can never find them in the morning.

What?

Middle-aged woman in valley girl voice: Do you have any books on, like, butterflies...or dreams? Like a coffee table book? Something pretty, like with angels?

Well gag me with a sequin-encrusted fairy wing.

For Christ's sake, who are these people? Why do they plague me so? When will they stop?

Fly with the cassettes; dance with the butterflies; just leave me be. I can't deal with you morons anymore.

The Horror

2008-07-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

At dinner last night I used the phrase "I've never saw." I blame the red wine (the menu boasted of its "peppery overtones") and mood lighting.

That's right: a single glass of wine turns me into a redneck faster than a six-pack of PBR. (Not that I've ever had a six-pack of anything - and if I did it certainly wouldn't be PBR, which is disgusting - but, you know. At least I hope you do. 'Cause I sure don't.)

A Gift For the Silicone-Pumped Lolita In Every Man's Life

2008-07-02T11:13:00.000-07:00

Is it irony? Or is it just offensive?

Pro-Date Rape T-Shirt, Sold By Amazon (Update: shirt is no longer available through Amazon. Ha. There are still pictures of them, however.) (Update 2: The pictures are down as well. Which is good. The shirt in question was a three-quarter sleeve raglan emblazoned with the words "Anti-Abortion, But Pro-Date Rape.")

Maybe it's meant to point out the hypocrisy of the so-called "pro-lifers" - in fact, it probably is - but I still felt sick when I looked at it. If it is meant to be ironic, it isn't clear enough, and thus it has failed.

Of course, you can also get this shirt - in a junior size - at the manufacturer's website. Or this one. Or this one.

But no, I think my favorite is this "girly-sized" stunner. One would presume that once she gets drunk, the shirt comes off.

Actually, wait. I don't mean to be one of those indecisive, wishy-washy women with breasts for brains, but after further perusal of this charming website, I've found it. The shirt I want. The shirt I need. The shirt every girl is destined to wear:

Yes, it comes in a junior size.

I Love My Feet More Than You

2008-06-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Every once in awhile I fall asleep ridiculously early - think 8:00 - wake up at around 3:00 a.m., and spend the rest of the night/early morning watching movies and drinking caffeinated tea. Sometimes I feel compelled to eat something, or maybe replace the movies with music performed by individuals desperately in need of a little Prozac while I reminisce about all of the odd things that have ever happened to, or been perpetrated by, me.

I find this fun. Which is why I was happy as a clam when I found myself awake at 3:30 on Thursday morning, making pasta and listening to angsty Welsh rock. (Is The Manic Street Preachers not one of the best band names ever?) And it was as I was sprinkling garlic powder over my freshly buttered egg noodles that I remembered the time I denied my boss the use of my socks.

Yes, the socks I was wearing.

It was about a year ago, and it was raining. The woman I like to call Lady Micromanage had been micromanaging something or other outside, and in the process, her socks had sustained some - quite serious - water damage. Upon reentering the store, she eyed my Converse-clad feet and asked if she could have mine.

"My socks?"

"Mine got all wet outside."

"Oh. Huh."

I ran through all the possible counterarguments in my mind. My socks are too small - oh wait, no they're not. My socks don't match - but she wouldn't care. My socks prefer the sanctuary of my shoes to hers - but that's really insulting.

Then I wondered if my reluctance to share my socks with a person in need made me a horrible, selfish wench. Her feet were cold. Her socks were soggy. (That's a gross word, isn't it? Soggy.) My feet were dry, and I could go without socks for a few hours, couldn't I?

Well, yes. But then so could she. Keep your socks on, my feet begged. You're walking home; she's driving. We are more important than her stupid feet. And they were, I decided, absolutely correct. I needed my socks.

"Well," I said, "normally I would. But I was outside earlier too, and my socks are wet as well."

"Oh." Her voice was even flatter than usual, crushed with disappointment. I felt bad for a moment, and then I thought, what kind of person asks her employee to relinquish her socks? She'd promised to give them back, which she probably considered generous, but I found it repulsive. How could I ever wear them again? Once my socks touch the sweaty, rain-soaked feet of another human, they become dead to me. It's cheating, as far as I'm concerned, and cheating is something you do behind your partner's back, not with her grudging permission.

And asking people to give you their socks is abnormal, right? Or, at the very least, a slight breach of etiquette? Because I didn't buy those socks on a lark, I bought them for a specific reason. I bought them because I wanted my feet to be swaddled in cheap stretchy cotton.

Don't my feet deserve that much?

My Snarkiness: Provoked, Explained

2008-06-19T11:55:00.000-07:00

"I dropped some books off here two years ago. Name's Ulong. I'd like 'em back."
"You want them back? The books you dropped off?"
"That's what I said."
"Well, um, we don't have them anymore."
"You don't. Have them. Anymore."
"Sorry, but...no."
"So what did you do with them?"
"If you bring us books we put them out for sale."
"And you can't take them back off the shelves and give them back to me?"
"If it was two years ago we probably already sold them - but even if we hadn't, I wouldn't be able to tell which ones were yours anyway, so no, I really couldn't."
"Get out of here!"
"I'm sorry, but that's just the way it works."
Muttered: "Stupid bitch."

I've been trying to cut down on the vulgarity - in this blog, at least - but seriously? Fuck off.

No, really. Because guess what, asshole? I am smarter than you. I am smarter, I am wittier, my clothes are free of mustard stains: I am superior to you in every possible respect. You are stupid and rude and condescending and I hope to God you don't have any daughters.

I know I'm too sensitive about this crap and I shouldn't take it personally, and I realize that at some point I'm going to have to hitch up my big girl pants and get on with my life, but at the moment all I want to do is track down this guy and mace him. Or cry. I don't know.

I mean, why? Why call some girl you don't know, who's answering your idiotic questions as politely as she can, a "stupid bitch"? What does it accomplish? Did he really think it was going to make me sympathetic to him?

You know what this guy needs? He needs a blog. He needs a place where he can type up nasty, insult-laden, poorly-written pleas for underpaid 21-year-olds to be his personal slaves. And then he needs to drink a Guinness, unbunch his panties, and adopt a disabled puppy.

As for me - I just need a cupcake.

Of Death and Food

2008-06-07T14:15:00.001-07:00

There is a bird trapped somewhere in the store, and I can't figure out where it is. Its chirping is beyond obnoxious, loud and shrill - it's amazing how ugly chirping sounds out of context - but if it stops for good I'll know the bird is dead, and then I'll have to sit here, wondering exactly where the carcass is rotting, and that will just freak me out.

Also, my boss was supposed to come in to give me a break today, but he didn't, and now it's 3:30 and I haven't eaten in seven and a half hours. Another ten minutes and that bird is going to sound pretty appetizing.

You know, I never thought I'd want to microwave a robin, but damn if it isn't tempting. Although, let's be honest: as much as my stomach desires fullness, its innate weakness forbids the digestion of wild birds.

Stomach, you suck.

Bitter Much?

2008-06-03T14:56:00.000-07:00

Classified from the Northern Hills Advertiser:

JOE had a job making $4,000 a week but the state took Joe's driver's license away. If you want Joe's job, call today! Must be trainable. Call Michelle 1-877-313-3633 8am-4pm Mon-Fri.

I wonder how Joe feels right now. And what did he do to piss Michelle off so badly?

Also, I love how the only qualification is that one must be "trainable." "We don't care if you have skills; all we ask is that you possess the capacity to develop skills. Which basically means that you can't be a lazy ass. Which really shouldn't need to be said, but what the hell - we're willing to spend the money to cram those three extra words in the ad in order to hopefully weed out people like Joe. So yeah. You want four grand a week?"

Seriously, that ad made my day.

Which is good, because this almost ruined it: Study shows ability to detect sarcasm decreases with age.

Pushed to the Limit

2008-05-24T15:06:00.000-07:00

Guy, to girl: Did you want to look around a little longer?
Girl: No. They don't sell these books. (Turning to me) Right? Ma'am? These books aren't for sale, are they?
Me, confused: Er...no, they're for sale.
Girl: Really? Then what are these stickers?
Me, dismayed: Price tags?
Girl: Oh. Where's the price?
Me: It's the number on the bottom. With the, uh...with the dollar sign in front.
Girl: I don't see it.
Me: (Bangs head against wall)

I swear to God, I cannot take this anymore. Each day finds me buried beneath an avalanche of breathtaking stupidity, and I can't - keep - digging - myself - out. I'm done. I give up. Apathy, be quick.

Just please, for the love of God...make it stop.

Praise Be to Boing Boing

2008-05-20T14:43:00.000-07:00

For they have shown me how to save my poor, decrepit Converse.

Yep, those are knitted Converse tops. Granted, the soles of my Converse are a bigger problem than the tops (the bits of rubber on the heels that say All Star, for example, have ceased to be), but still, replacing the tops would help.

I am so tempted to try this.

Link

To Hell and Back

2008-05-20T10:53:00.001-07:00

...In which Sam is forced to attend an utterly asinine two-hour customer service training seminar given by an obnoxious jokey douche bag who fills her with thoughts of rage and causes her to overindulge in adjectives of negative connotation. Told in seven parts of varying horror/inanity.

Part 1: Damn It.

I am incredibly hungry for unhealthy food, and have decided to share this piece of news with my co-worker.

"You know what I could go for right now?"
"Hmm."
"A soft pretzel. A great big one with a cup of melted cheese to dip it in. Or - a soft pretzel on a stick, coated in cinnamon."
"Those are disgusting."
"Yes. Yes, they are. And yet, they're delicious."
"Um, no they're not."
"Well, whatever. I just wish there was someplace downtown that sold them."
"Sucks to be you."

This last comment is quickly proven true, when my boss comes in and announces that I will be going to This Really Awesome Customer Service Seminar!! My co-worker had gone to one this morning, but a doctor's appointment had gotten me out of it. I'd thought I had escaped it entirely, but as luck would have it, there's an afternoon seminar as well. Of course we have to leave immediately, so I don't get time for lunch, which sucks, and the seminar is two hours long, which sucks more, but oh well.

I have no choice. To the Holiday Inn I go.

Part 2: Attempt at Optimism Crushed By Reality

I drag myself into the conference room, silently cursing myself for working a job where this sort of thing is required. I consider bailing right then, becoming a freelance writer or a dutiful housewife with seventeen children and one more on the way, or living on the streets of Rapid, recycling glass bottles for quarters...and then I see the pretzels.

Yes, pretzels. Soft, warm, lightly salted pretzels. And cheese. A huge pot of cheese with a stack of little white cups leaning against it.

Suddenly, it's worth it.

I take two pretzels and three cups of cheese (I'm hungry and cranky and damn it, I deserve it) and sit next to a white-haired, red-suited woman with a clipboard, who rambles for a few moments about how absolutely brilliant this speaker is before asking if I would please move over so she has a place to set her clipboard and plate.

I do so, and then I realize: I'm relinquishing my chair to two inanimate objects that would have been equally apathetic on the floor. Also, the salt on this pretzel is not evenly distributed. Screw being positive: this place sucks.

Part 3: Wait, What?

The speaker is, naturally, an assclown, and his customer service experience appears to be limited to this one time? when he worked in a gift shop?, which is obnoxious. Still, at least he's boring, and thus easy to ignore. That is, until he says something so witty, and yet so deep, that I am struck dumb by his profundity. I stare reverently at his douchily animated face and bask in the glow of his beauteous words of wisdom, desperately wishing I could come up with something as enlightening as:

"Remember, we are human beings, not lima beans."

Except, wait: what the hell does that mean? Beings and beans are two entirely different words, so there isn't even a pun in there, but more importantly, what particular undesirable traits do lima beans possess, and how could they be confused with human ones? I'm not light green and chewy. Children don't hate me. (Although, when I was a kid, I loved lima beans. God knows why. I hate them now.) Why do my differences from lima beans need to be mentioned at all? Frankly, Mr. Promotional Speaker, I'm offended. In fact, that one phrase has put me on the fast track to hating you. Do you have anymore tricks up your sleeve? Anything that rips off/cheapens Lewis Carroll, perhaps?

I think you do.

Part 4: Cheshire Cat Rip-Off

"Does anyone have a co-worker who doesn't smile? Anyone? A co-worker who never smiles? Surely someone does. Someone who never smiles at customers or the people they work with? A co-worker who never smiles? C'mon, people, I know one of you has one..."

A lone hand emerges from a sea of blank faces, waving slowly back and forth like a broken car antenna. When Mr. Assclown leaps to her side and presents her with his World-Famous Smile On a Stick, I die a little inside.

The Smile On a Stick is precisely what it sounds like - a paper cut-out of an obnoxiously toothy grin glued to a cheap wooden stick, meant to be held up to one's face when one's frown won't reverse itself. It's creepy as hell, as disembodied facial features generally are, but even worse, it's a Cheshire cat rip-off.

I swear to God, that's exactly what that damn smile looked like - overly curved, lip-less, and no bottom teeth. The only difference was that it couldn't levitate.

Part 5: My Body Stages a Protest

Damn, I need to get me some glasses. I'm squinting at his power point presentation, taking careful note of every misused or conspicuously absent apostrophe, feeling my blood pressure rise every time I read a phrase like "customer's who leave," and my eyes just won't take it anymore. No, they plead. Stop. We can't read anymore. We're tired. Don't you love us?

I look down at my empty plate, and my stomach swells with dissatisfaction. I wanted a pretzel on a stick. Can't you do anything right?

My brain shouts at me to, just this once, take a nap. No one will notice. Please? Every word from this man's mouth is a kick to my frontal lobe. Every sentence is an angry black bruise. Do you know what a brain bruise is, Samantha? It's a concussion. You are giving me a rapid series of concussions, and that's abuse. If you don't get me out of here, I'm going to call a neurosurgeon and have him transplant me in a nicer girl's head.

I disregard their pleas for mercy. I tell my brain, oh, but won't this be something to blog! I tell my stomach to shut up and think of the starving children in Argentina. I promise my eyes a pair of shiny new glasses. I pacify them with words as cheap and empty as the ones my ears are trying desperately to ignore, and the guilt overwhelms me.

Part 6: No, Really, What?

Mr. Assclown Promotional Speaker has run out of things to say. I know this, because he has resorted to making us speak. He asks each of us to state the most important thing we've learned today; the one piece of advice we plan to follow religiously, no matter how asinine it proves to be. I stare at his pompous jackass face and think, damn. What a pompous jackass. Then I think, oh, shit - does this mean I have to talk?

He starts with the opposite side of the room, and at first I'm amused by the uniformity of everyone's replies. "I'm going to go above and beyond what my customers request." "I'm going to smile all the time." "Use customers' first names." "Have fun at work!!!" But after awhile the repetition starts to get to me, and I realize that if this doesn't stop, I'm going to...actually, I don't know. But it will not be good.

When he gets to me, I promise to use customers' first names. It's not a lie, since I do it already, and it's boring enough that he doesn't ask for details or congratulate me on my Really Hot Idea, thank God. Instead he moves on to the next woman, who says she is going to "be more intentional in my customer service." She says this as though struck dumb by her own brilliance, and I am reminded of a girl I once worked with at a job hated. This girl was perfectly nice and had an upbeat, positive attitude. She was also dumb as post, and spoke as if she was constantly in the middle of a religious epiphany. This is the girl who once said to me, "I think I'm going to stop sleeping with guys I don't know!" as if the suggestion to stop hooking up with every available guy in a fifty-mile radius had come straight from the mouth of Jesus. I stared at her, watching her open a bag of cold chicken with a steak knife, and then I said, "well. That sounds like a plan."

But let's be fair - not sleeping with strangers is a noble goal. I can't fault her for it. I think it was a smart move on her part, especially since it meant I no longer had to listen to stories that began, "so, this one time, when I slept with four guys in a row?" Good girl.

And at least Dumb Formerly-Trampy Girl's comment made sense. Because, really,"I'm going to be more intentional in my customer service," makes about as much sense as "we are human beings, not lima beans." I'm still not sure what that woman was trying to say. Was she saying that she intended to be more conscientious while dealing with customers? Or was she saying that her customer service skills are usually a happy accident, and that from now on she intends to think while answering the phone?

I just don't know.

Part 7: My Really Hot Idea

I'm standing in the lobby, waiting for my ride. I'm cranky and pissed off and seriously disappointed with the quality of the soft pretzels sitting like wet lumps of clay in my stomach. Outside it's raining, which under normal circumstances would have thrilled me to no end, but I'm too annoyed to appreciate it. Then I see one of the women from the audience, the one with the co-worker who never smiles, run outside. She has an umbrella, but it doesn't protect her Smile On a Stick, which she holds out to her side. And as the corners of that repulsive disembodied grin bend beneath the weight of the rain, turning the smile to a toothy grimace, I realize what I want to do with my life.

I want to have my own seminar. A seminar for customers. I will call it the How Not to Be an Assclown Seminar, and it will be wonderful. It will include such topics such as "I Don't Want to Know About Your Incarcerated Child-Molesting Son" and "No, You Really Can't Have My Phone Number." The only items on sticks will be soft pretzels, and I won't compare my audience to legumes.

Mr. Promotional Speaker, you're more than welcome to attend.

There Are No Words

2008-05-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

My Religious Epiphany

2008-05-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, en route to my blog, I made a simple typing error and became lost. By switching the s and p in blogspot, I found myself in a crazy religious site run by people who think that, since I am a Catholic who sins frequently and flippantly, I am going to Hell. Which is entirely possible, I suppose, but something tells me that God would decline to share such a juicy piece of gossip with self-righteous borderline-psychotics.

Anyway, I thought it was odd for a religious site to have http://www.skippingpastconclusions.blogpsot.com as their URL, since 1. they're not a blog, and 2. "skipping past conclusions" is meant to imply a lack of both focus and knowledge. (Although, maybe that's why they misspelled "spot.")

Then this morning, on my way to Carrie's blog, I once again switched the s and the p, and, once again, I wound up in Psychotic Pseudo-Christian Land. This seemed strange, so I started testing other blogs, and the same thing happened every time. Rachel, it works for your blog. It works for the Guerrilla Knitters as well. It works for everything.

And that's when I realized - the roads to hell are both profuse and varied, but all it takes to bring us to Jesus is a simple typo.

Thus, stupidity saves.

In Praise of Linnea

2008-05-09T08:41:00.001-07:00

So, I realize that there are an infinite number of childless people who nonetheless have very strict notions of what constitutes good parenting. I like to think that I am not one of those people. All I ask is that when children come into my work, they speak in a reasonable tone of voice, don't run around knocking things over, and if they do, that their parents make some effort to control/discipline them. I have no intention of procreating, so I rarely start sentences with "if that was my child I'd...," because it sounds strange to me. I can't picture myself with a baby. I would be so bewildered by a a baby's presence - the sort of person who would be confused at a newborn's inability to use a spoon.

That said, I do have one very strong belief, one I would certainly adhere to should a baby fall from the sky and into my lap, and that is the belief that every little girl should have a floppy doll.

Specifically, Linnea.
I had the one on the right, and she was awesome.

Linnea rocked because she was smart, she liked to garden, and she wore a cute hat. Also, her hair was adorably low-maintenance, and although she dressed well, she was not afraid to get her little cloth hands dirty. She had a pretty name, which she shared with a flower, but it was an unusual flower name, nothing obvious like Rose or Lily. (Not that I don't like those names - I'm particularly fond of Lily.) She only had one pair of shoes, but they went with everything, and dammit, she just looked a little kid.

I hadn't thought of Linnea in years, but that all changed yesterday, when I found a Linnea doll in an antique/gift shop. She was perched on the edge of an antique bureau, and I literally jumped for joy when I saw her. She was a little bigger than the one I had, and she wore the dress and apron of the doll on the left, but everything else was the same. I almost bought it out of nostalgia.

Apparently, I'm the only person who has walked into that store and recognized Linnea for the amazing, kickass little gardener she is, and that makes me sad. Linnea was genuine. She was sincere, she was happy, and she had her own almanac.
She was a chatty, enthusiastic little kid utterly lacking in vanity, and the birds just flocked to her. Sure, I had Barbies, and I liked them, but they lived such complicated lives. Some were adopted, one was diabetic, and Ken's foot had been gnawed off by a vindictive rabbit. Linnea was just a nice, sweet girl, and she had no taste for sequins or backless gowns. A rabbit would be too charmed by her to gnaw off her foot - in fact, if I remember correctly, she made friends with the rabbits. If I had a kid, I'd name it Linnea. Even if it was a boy.

So it's probably a good thing I don't want kids.

And that was my shiny happy post.

Never Thought I'd Try This, But...

2008-05-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

On Sunday my mother informed that I am too negative, and pointed out that one day I will be old, and how would I like people mocking me on a blog, and although I do believe she was being facetious, maybe she has a point. On the one hand, I love being negative. I delight in my cynicism, wallow in my sarcasm, and enjoy nothing more than trekking through the torrential rains of my contempt. On the other hand, negativity is all I know. Perhaps if I tried my hand at optimism my mind would be opened to a world outside my bleak, dusty little corner: a world of sunshine and daisies and rainbows that aren't the faded watercolor strips which so disappointed me a child, but huge arcs of poster paint stretching from my apartment building to Egypt.

Perhaps.

What the hell. I'll give it a shot. I'll give it a great big shot of...

The List of Things That Make Me Happy, Or Would If They Were True:

1. My boss is George Carlin. How amazing would this be? I could spend eight hours a day mocking people with George Carlin. Every time someone asked me for books on horticulture and insisted I was spelling it wrong because, duh, it starts with a w, George Carlin would be there to point out that Whorticulture sounds like a porn video that takes place in a flower bed and involves gardening tools in odd places. Not only would George Carlin be there to say all the things I'd like to say but can't, but because he is my boss that can't would become can, and although we would probably frighten away all our customers, at least we would have a good time doing it.

2. The customer with the imprisoned, child-molesting son who, to her mind, wouldn't even be in jail were it not for his lying brat of a daughter has not been in lately. She definitely didn't come in yesterday, have me ship more books out to him, and inform me, as I was packing them up, that his lying brat of a daughter is grounded until he gets out of prison, and hopefully she'll learn to stop running her mouth, that little lying brat. Also, said customer finally found a bra, so that never again will I wonder why her stomach looks deformed, sort of forked, and then realize that I am actually seeing her breasts, swinging back and forth like two opposing pendulums. I thought the whole "she had boobs down to her waist" thing was just a myth, but apparently not.

(And yeah, I know it's cheap and a little tacky to poke fun at someone's appearance, but she had it coming. God, I hate that woman.)

3. This is my boyfriend:

And that's not even a very good picture of him. I tried to find a picture with him in glasses, because no one looks better in square black frames than Rodrigo Santoro, but there were none to be had. Stupid Google Image Search. You'll just have to take my word for it. Man looks gorgeous in glasses - kind of a shy, nerdy, completely-unaware-of-how-heart-stoppingly-gorgeous-he-is look. Which, as everyone knows, is the best look of all.

4. I am writing an episode of Seinfeld. They're not bringing the show back permanently, they're just doing one episode, which is unfortunate, but still: I get to write it. George, Elaine, Jerry, and Kramer are my marionettes, and I'm pulling their strings in whatever directions I fancy.

Really though, it's always been my dream to write for Seinfeld. I don't know what the story would be, but it would be glorious. Elaine would date somebody who was actually attractive, and Jerry would have to settle for a woman who was actually in his league, and George and Kramer would stick to what they're best at - lying and hijinks, respectively. Nothing would please me more than writing an episode of Seinfeld. They wouldn't even have to pay me for it.

And that's the end of the list. All this dissatisfaction with life as I know it masquerading as optimism has left me exhausted.

Hmm. You know, the sun is shining, and quite brightly too. I don't see any poster-paint rainbows though.

Back to being cranky.

Frustrations

2008-04-26T11:53:00.001-07:00

Hello, and welcome to my place of employment. I am very pleased to be of service to you. Truly. Pleased as punch. And what can I do for you today?

Ah. Computer books. Sixty year old women in search of computer books. This should be a kick.

Computers for Dummies? Well, actually, there isn't a book by that title -

Yes, really.

No, I'm not kidding.

No, ma'am, there is no book called Computers for Dummies. There is Buying a Computer for Dummies, there is Laptops for Dummies, and there is Computers for Seniors for Dummies, which, unbelievably long and clunky title notwithstanding, might be right up your alley. I can order it for the low price of $21.99.

But no, there is no Computers for Dummies. It doesn't exist, see. And trust me, PCP for Dummies is not what you need. I'm not saying it wouldn't help, but it isn't necessary. Not for you anyway.

You might be looking for PCs for Dummies, which, I'm sorry, but we don't have that in right - well, yes, I can order it if you'd like. No, it wouldn't be a used copy. You want the copy that was printed in the 90s? Well, the newest edition was just released last year, that's all I can really - oh, you have a new computer? Well, the new edition would probably be best then anyway.

Okay, wait. So you have a new computer, but you want the old book? Do you realize that makes no sense whatsoever?

What was that, ma'am? Um no. No, HTML is not a "style" of computer, and Windows 98 is not a company. Ergo, your computer is not an HTML model from the Windows company, and it was not built in 1998.

Yes, I agree - computers sure are confusing. Especially when you're clueless. I mean, yeah, I know you're old, and I sympathize - I realize all this new-fangled technology is befuddling at best - but, and this is important, you are not senile. Also, I am not an idiot. I can help you, really. I would like to help you. It is my duty.

What was that? You've decided on Microsoft Word for Dummies? That's the book you need?

No, it isn't! Open your mind! Help me help you help you.

...On second thought, forget it. I just can't wrangle up the energy to care.

Thank you ladies, and have a terrific day.

A Post About Nothing

2008-04-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

My birthday was over ten weeks ago, and I just finally finished the cake. Which grosses me out the more I think about it. But refrigerated red velvet cake was all we had at work to eat, and my co-worker and I were hungry, and, well, it seemed like an interesting experiment. I hope I don't die.

Isn't there a Seinfeld episode where Elaine eats a $20,000 piece of antique cake? (That's a rhetorical question, of course. It's in season nine, and she waltzes around her boss's office speaking in a British accent while she does it.) So it's not really so bad. I was just emulating Elaine.

(Actually, that's awful. Never mind.)

Anyway, assuming I don't die, I don't think I'll ever be able to eat red velvet cake again without thinking back to that one fairly-edible-but-repulsive-in-theory slice. Conversations while eating cake should be pleasant and centered on something other than how disgusting the cake is, yes? And if you are going to have a conversation about disgusting cake, it's probably best not to have it when there numerous inquisitive customers in the store. I now fear that I will be immortalized in the minds of said customers as the girl who ate ten-week-old cake and engaged in a running commentary with her co-worker detailing the quality, or lack thereof, of each disgusting bite.

"This icing is crumbling. Like a cracker."
"Hey, did you notice that the color of the cake is -"
"Bleeding into the icing and turning it pink? I know."
"I'm surprised it's not molding, actually."
"Yeah, me too...maybe it is and we just can't see it."
"Can mold camouflage itself?"
"I hope not. Wouldn't that be awful?"
"That's gross."
"That would make me cry."
"Please don't."
[Hacking cough]
"It's a bit dry, isn't it."
"Pieces keep getting lodged in my throat - it's repulsive."
"You want some tap water for your stale cake?"
"Yeah, that'd be - oh, ew."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just, um, that piece was disturbingly moist."

I've got to learn to cook.

Shut Up.

2008-04-18T10:55:00.000-07:00

"I need some books to send to my son in jail. He shouldn't be in jail. They teach them damn kids too much in school - about sex. My son wouldn' let his daughter date - at fourteen - so she went and accused him o'molestin' her. And now he's stuck in that damn jail, and it's all her fault."

I feel ill.

Help Me Justify My Incessant Bitchiness and Win a Place In My Heart

2008-04-03T11:39:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This post contains even more venom than usual - so much venom, in fact, it's literally toxic. It's the blogging equivalent of nuclear waste. Consider yourself warned.

I have decided to give out an award. I shall call it The Dumbest Customer Ever Award. This award will not be a statue or plaque; it will be a small piece of my brain forever devoted to mocking the one lucky customer who wins it. Every time my conscience taps against my skull and suggests I lighten up, cut people a little slack, whatever, I will take shelter in that piece of brain. And I will call it...

The Center to Promote Justification for Contempt.

There will be seven contestants. Seven, because I'm still trying to think of an eighth. Oh, what the hell - seven is fine.

OK.

Now, there are rules to this contest. The first rule is that none of the nominees be mentally retarded. By definition they must be at least somewhat deficient, but I draw the line at retarded. See? I can be nice. The second is that they must be eighteen or older. No minors shall be ridiculed in this contest, not because I'm nice, but because it's too easy. I shan't abide laziness. The third is that English be their first language, as it seems unfair to make fun of people when the problem lies in faulty communication instead of thought (or lack thereof). And the fourth is that rude behavior and weirdness on the part of the nominees not be factors in voting. Voters should base their decisions purely on stupidity.

So, without further ado, here are the nominees:

Contestant #1:

Woman standing at cash register with book in hand: I'd like to check this out.
Me, having misheard her as saying "I'd like to check out": Okay. That'll be $6.36.
Woman: What do you mean?
Me: This book - it costs $6.36.
Woman: But I don't have any late fees.
Me: Late fees? ...This is a bookstore, not a library.
Woman: Really?
Me: Yes...
Woman: It looks like a library.

So many clues revealing the function of this business...so few powers of observation. Did she not notice the price tags? The sign out front advertising "Book Trader: New & Used Books"? What about the signs explaining our credit policy, or the cheery, brightly-colored ones alerting the world that, yes, "WE HAVE GIFT CERTIFICATES!"? I can forgive her for not seeing the cash register, since we ring up transactions on the computer and the cash drawer is hidden below the keyboard, but good Lord, lady, unless you've never shopped before, that's no excuse.

Contestant #2:

Woman holding up two different books: What is the difference between these two books?
Me: Well, um, they're different books...
Woman, condescendingly: Yes, I know that. But what is the difference?
Me: I'm sorry, but I'm not really sure what you're asking me.
Woman: I mean, are the stories different? Are they by different authors?
Me: Well, yeah. They're different books.
Woman: That's not what I asked.

This one baffles me because, while it apparently did occur to this woman that these two books were not the same, she was at a loss as to how this was so. One would think that to move past point A (these books are the same), one would have a reason (because they look nothing alike), which would take her immediately to point B (there is no need to ask such an asinine question). Not this lady. I would love to get inside her head to see in exactly which directions her neurons fire. Something tells me it's a mess in there, like a Christmas tree with too many lights - or my apartment.

Contestant #3:

Woman with preteen daughter: What is fiction?
Me: What is it...?
Woman: Is it true? Or not true?
Me: Oh! It's not true.
Woman: Really?
Me: Yep.
Woman: I thought it was true.
Me: No, that's non-fiction.
Woman: Oh. Huh.

This one isn't as outrageously idiotic as some of the others, but it's idiotic enough, and there is the added horror of the fact that this woman has a child. Who needed a work of fiction. For a book report. You want to know why our nation's children are so stupid? Too many morons never practiced putting the condom on the banana in sex ed. Most people can figure out how to get it on themselves, but let's face it: some people need assistance. Solution? Bring in the bananas. And the condoms. And do away with this abstinence-only crap once and for all.

Contestant #4:

Woman holding up book with sticker reading "signed by the author": Signed by the author? What does that mean?
Me: Um...it means it was autographed by the woman who wrote it.
Woman, blankly: Whatever that means.

How can you not know what an autograph is? That's what I want to know. Or an author? Or a signature? Or...ugh. I don't even know what to say about this one. My wit has failed me. Damn you, wit. Damn you for deserting me when I need you most.

Contestant #5:

(I feel silly posting this again, since all you really need to do to read it is scroll down to the previous entry, but for the sake of completion I will include it a second time.)

Middle-aged woman with husband, reading title of book: Old Money. That's money that's not new. All rich people now are new money. And that's why we had the Titanic, so we could kill off all the old rich people and start over with new rich people.

Quickly followed by...

I told you Condoleeza would run. She'd make such a better president than Hillary - I really hope she wins.

Let me get one thing out of the way right now: conspiracy theorists annoy me. I'm not exactly a history buff, but it seems to me that history is interesting on its own without making up crap about aliens, or poisoned produce, or, I don't know, crashing ships into icebergs so rich people die. As for the second quote, let me first note, in fairness, that she was looking at a copy of this book. That said, when was the last time she watched the news, opened a paper, or crawled out from beneath the rock she apparently lives under? That's right - never.

Contestant #6:

Woman, to friend: It says here this book is $15.95. Is that closer to fifteen dollars, or sixteen?
Friend: I'm not sure. I think it's fifteen.

I almost didn't include this one because it's so stupid. It's the kind of stupid that makes me wonder if including it violates my rule about exempting the mentally challenged. It illustrates the same problem suffered by Contestant #2, but it's so much worse. At least with Contestant #2, getting to point B involved looking at two books and noting the differences. With this, all you have to do is recognize the number nine. So if it turns out that these women are mentally challenged, I apologize. Aside from this exchange, I saw no others signs of it.

Contestant #7:

Obnoxious guy at cash register: Senior discount.
Me: Sorry, we don't have a senior discount.
Guy: Well, maybe you should get one. Say, right now.
Me: I'm sorry. I would, but that's not my decision.
Guy: So I have to pay full price for this?
Me: Well, yes...
Guy: Why can't I have a senior discount?
Me: That's not my decision to make. It's up to my bosses if we have a senior discount or not, and as of now we don't. I'm sorry - I'd give you one if I could.
Guy: [Mumble] must be a republican.
Me: Um, no, they're not republicans.
Guy: No, I said you must be a republican.
Me: No, I'm not.
Guy: Then why can't you give me a senior discount?
Me: Because I'm not authorized to do so. I'm just doing my job.
Guy: Well, I don't like the way you do your job.
Me: That'll be $5.30.
Guy: What would it be with a senior discount?
Me: I don't know.
Guy: I bet it'd be less.
Me: Yes, I'm sure it would.
Guy: This is a ridiculous price for this book.
Me: It's 80% off the cover price, which is more than you'd get at most used bookstores.
Guy: Oh.

At first glance this is more rude than stupid, but then again, a lot of rude people are stupid, and this guy definitely qualifies as such.

There is, for example, his belief that calling me a republican will shame me into handing out a discount, when in fact it just annoys the crap out of me, because I am not a republican, thank you very much, and what does that have to do with senior discounts anyway? Then there is his insistence that $5.00 for a hardback is outrageously expensive, which clearly even he doesn't believe, since he paid it. Most importantly, there is this mindset that since being an asshole is often instrumental to attaining success in the corporate world, it works for everything else. Well, it doesn't. It pisses me off and makes me mock you for the arrogant jerk you are. I was inches away from doubling the price out of spite, and you know what? In retrospect, I kind of wish I had.

So there they are: the seven horsemen of my diminishing capacity to be pleasant and open-minded. Place your votes...every comment helps fund The Center to Promote Justification for Contempt.

Quotes of the Day

2008-03-28T15:43:00.000-07:00

Middle-aged woman with husband, reading title of book: "Old Money. That's money that's not new. All rich people now are new money. And that's why we had the Titanic, so we could kill off all the old rich people and start over with new rich people."
A few minutes later: "I told you Condoleeza would run. She'd make such a better president than Hillary - I really hope she wins."

I actually heard these things. I don't think her husband did, however, if his blank stare was any indication.

How I envy him.

Rachel, we need to move to Ireland/Scotland/wherever. Like, really, really soon.

Awkward

2008-03-26T15:12:00.001-07:00

Woman holding copy of Edible and Medicinal Plants of the West: "I had some friends in high school who went camping and decided to do the natural eating thing, and they all ate the wrong mushrooms and they died. I wish they'd had this book when they went on that trip."

What does one say to a thing like that?

At least she bought the book.

So, As It Happens, I'm a Money-Grubbing, Low-Talking Moron

2008-03-24T14:19:00.000-07:00

I never claimed to be all that intelligent. But surely I am intelligible?

Well, I used to think so. But I guess not.

Every freaking day I have about five dumbasses who misunderstand our policy for accepting used books, and it's always my fault. Always. I didn't explain it clearly, I didn't speak loudly enough, I didn't illustrate each step with huge fucking signs in primary colors and block letters so their attention couldn't wander. Sometimes the problem is that I didn't explain it at all - I glossed over all the important details in an attempt to Rip Them Off. Or maybe I'm not an evil money-grubbing parasite. Maybe I'm just really, really dumb, and they're really, really smart, and I need to understand that they are superior, and maybe take an ESL class, because I clearly am having trouble communicating.

But that's all bullshit, because my neurons fire quite well, thank you, and I can speak English, despite having been born in southern Ohio, and as far as ripping people off goes, I lack the ambition and/or appetite for self-destruction.

Oh, and one other thing - if you really want to prove how smart you are, you should probably make an effort to pronounce the names of your alleged "favorite authors" correctly. Jodi Pi-COLT-ee? Steffin Ambrose? WHY-la CAY-ther?

Dumb dumb dumb.

P.S. Jodi Picoult sucks.

Weird Celebrity Crush My Friends Don't Understand

2008-03-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

So, it's true that my job sucks, and for multiple reasons. But I am getting paid a whole, um, $6.75 an hour to watch The Colbert Report, knit, and drink tea, so, you know...

Anyway, I am officially adding Stephen Colbert to my list of reasons why I will never, ever get plastic surgery. It doesn't matter how wrinkly and unattractive I get - yeah, it'll suck, but I can cope. I will gladly allow my face to shrivel like a raisin on the long road to death in the hope that, one day, it will be as expressive as Stephen Colbert's:

Truly, the man has a face made for satire. Not only that, he has a handsome face made for satire. It almost satirizes attractiveness. The jaw, the eyes, the eyebrows - yeah. And of course it helps that he's hysterical.

The second-happiest day of my life was the day I learned that Stephen Colbert was coming out with his own ice cream. And the happiest? The day I bought that ice cream, and ate Stephen Colbert with a spoon.

So thank you, Stephen Colbert, for being who you are. I have nothing but fangirl-style adoration for you and your freakishly dramatic eyebrows.

A Voice to Be Reckoned With

2008-03-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

URGENT MEMO
To: Sam

Hey, doll. Brain here. Look, sweetie, I know you're a bit stressed, but, I swear, I can help you. All you have to do is listen.

First off, there is a filter between your mouth and me. Just because I say "man, that guy's a real asshole, huh?" doesn't mean those words need to leave your mouth.

And second of all, I was very disappointed in your actions last night. I know you're sick with The Crud, but never again do I want to be dragged along to a night of listening to Jewel and reading The Crucible while you eat cheese and crackers and sip dry red wine. Okay, actually, last night would have been fine were it not for the Jewel. The Crucible is a good play. I like cheese, I dig crackers, and wine is great (in moderation, that is). But Jewel? Well, she has some nice songs, but none of them are on the This Way album.

Seriously, what could have possessed you to listen to songs with lyrics like "we'll be a team/our two will be one/love will be our fortress/when all else comes undone"? Have you no sense of decency? NO. MORE. JEWEL. When you get home tonight I want you to listen to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club while you eat a turkey sandwich, some grapes, and drink a tall glass of orange juice. Then you're going to watch some Seinfeld, and, since you're going through one of those phases where you like to read plays (god knows why, but whatever), you're going to read Death of a Salesman. I promise, it'll be worth it. Remember how Jerry compares George to Biff Loman? You like George, in spite of his personality; I'm sure you'll like Biff.

As for your customers, I know some of them are dumb. Like the lady who was just in:

"Um, I'm looking for a book I had years ago. It was like - it had words in it. It was called...it was called The Word Book. It had, um, lists of words. But it wasn't, you know, like those others."
"Okay, so, it wasn't a dictionary?"
"No, but we used it for um...computers and -and spelling and stuff. It was called The Word Book. It was very helpful. Do you have anything like that?"
"Well, I can't think of anything exactly like that - but anything similar would be over in Reference, which is this section here."
"It wasn't a dictionary. It didn't have, um - what it meant. The words. What the words meant. It just had words."

Or the lady who just argued with you over something she was wrong about, and accused you of being "not very nice," when you were actually quite nice. I understand you don't want to admit to doing something you didn't (or not doing something you did), and I sympathize. But hey, it's part of your job.

And speaking of your job...

Get a new one. Your bosses have had financial problems for awhile now - you know this, because you've been getting the collection calls. And now that one of your uninsured bosses in laid up in a hospital in North Dakota with a broken leg, elbow, several broken ribs, and a minor spine fracture, those problems are only going to escalate. If you don't take care of this soon, you won't have a job to leave.

Lastly, but by no means leastly (yes, I know leastly isn't a word - I'm your damn brain, after all), your bathroom ceiling is revolting, and your landlord's promise to fix it "once the girl upstairs moves out" is unacceptable. Your whole apartment smells like mildew, and aren't you sick of staring up that creeping blue mold every time you take a shower? Face it, sweetie, your ceiling looks like moldy cottage cheese, and that's gross.

What you should do is convince the IRS that you don't owe them $15,000, and then get into low-income housing. The apartments are cheaper, bigger, and significantly nicer. Also, you should get a damn car.

Remember, Sam - you're nothing without me. Listen. Listen and learn.

Love,
Your Neglected Brain

Um, Yes, the World DOES Revolve Around Me

2008-03-07T09:56:00.000-08:00

I wish I was better at hiding my contempt. Actually, I wish I was just less contemptuous, but I don't think that's going to happen any time soon, so for now I'll direct my efforts toward being less obvious about it.

Botox might help. Then I wouldn't be able to move my face. My brow would never furrow; the corners of my mouth would never turn. Or I could come to work drunk. Yes, that would be messed up, but I think it might actually improve my customer service skills.

Or maybe - just maybe - people could stop being worthy of my contempt. Please?

When I worked at Quiznos, well, I was completely goddamned miserable. Who wouldn't be? I came home every night smelling like mayonnaise and sub-par swiss cheese. I worked with a bunch of meth addicts and one sober douche bag who had lost his color vision three years before when he opened an oven full of nitrogen and who was therefore convinced I was a blond. A hot blond, as he informed me on numerous occasions, definitely a hot blond. When I pointed out that I was, in fact, a redhead, he compared me to a stripper he knew in Vegas, which is stupid, because last I checked, strippers are supposed to be well-endowed. But anyway -

I blame my contempt for my Quiznos customers partially on the fact that I loathed my job with the core of my being - enough to make myself nametags with fake names, like Scarlett and Scheherezade, in a desperate attempt to conceal my true identity. (No, I wasn't surprised when it didn't work.) I hated the black visor, the matching apron, and my possibly drug-addicted boss, who bounced around like a fat, balding Tigger, clapping his hands maniacally and encouraging us to "move quick, move quick, gotta get this done." Having people order a sandwich and get all upset when it came with onions, as stated on the fucking menu, was really more than I could cheerfully deal with. The only good thing to come out of that job was that I perfected the Withering Stare From Beneath the Brim of My Visor, quickly followed by the Wide Eyes and Innocent Surprise when faced with a Completely Unwarranted Look of Annoyance From Dumbass Customer.

The thing was, when I quit/got fired, I thought I would never have to use the Withering Stare or Wide Eyes again. I thought, yay! A bookstore! My ultimate dream job! No longer will I feel contempt. I will be content. Which is good, because I find content slightly easier to pronounce.

Until I realized: I am not cut out for customer service.

There are certain customers that I really, really like. And contrary to what the contents of this blog might suggest, my first instinct is to be pleasant. But when someone is rude, dumb, a lousy parent, or speaks in a baby voice despite not being, you know, a baby, I have trouble coping. I don't know if that's because I'm hypersensitive, prematurely curmudgeonly, or just a mean, mean person, but whatever it is, I'm not sure it can be changed.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a writer. I didn't know what I wanted to write; I just had this dream of sitting at home with a bottomless mug of coffee (well, not coffee - maybe kool-aid), surrounded by loose sheets of paper with words scribbled in every margin. I pictured myself writing with pencils whittled down to within an inch of the eraser, wearing a top hat like Winona Ryder in Little Women. (I can't remember if Jo wore a top hat in the book or not. Mental note: check.) But I could never finish anything, and all that I scribbled in the margins were loose phrases that would pop into my head randomly, but which I could never attach to anything.

I know I need to go back to school. People have been telling me that for the last two and a half years, and I've never disagreed. But I feel like I've been coasting on potential my whole life, and I don't know how to change that. To put the potential into action. To write on command. To get a car, move into an apartment where the ceiling isn't being eaten away by mold (god, it's gross), to cook myself an actual meal. Hell, just dating someone who isn't an asshole would be a start.

And I guess the reason I'm so sensitive about how contemptuous I am is that I know I have no reason to be. I haven't really accomplished anything. My supposed superiority stems from all the potential I allegedly possess. "Well, you may have a degree, but I'm naturally smarter." Which may be true, or may not, but as long as I'm making $6.75 an hour whilst attempting to explain to my customers what "signed by the author" means, it really doesn't matter.

And even though this is definitely more appropriate for my personal journal, I'm going to post it anyway, because, well, it's all typed and everything, so why not?

Douchettes of the Week

2008-02-29T13:58:00.000-08:00

Yes, Douchettes. I think I may have made that up.

Anyway, the Douchettes of the Week are two Girls Gone Wild types named Nisreen and Sarah. Here they are:

Apparently, they're 18, although they look pretty used up for 18. It's Lindsay Lohan Syndrome, I guess.

Anyway, Nisreen and Sarah have somehow have gotten it into their heads, and subsequently onto CNN, that they are too pretty to fly. Truly. According to Nisreen, she never received any water during the flight, and either one or both girls (the details are fuzzy) got in an obscenity-soaked argument with a fellow passenger over who was next in line to use the bathroom. And these travesties occurred not because Nisreen and Sarah are two insufferable brats whose parents told them they were special way too many times, but because they were just so damn hot.

Or, to quote Sarah: "There was no one else on the plane who looked like us, except us."

Okay, the obvious first: no shit, Sarah. I've never boarded a plane and just happened to sit down next to my long-lost twin. And, um, I don't mean to be catty - truly I don't - but neither of you girls are hot. I'm sorry, but it's true. I love the part in the video where Nisreen is going on about how she thinks she was treated poorly because of her looks, and the cameraman does a slow pan of her body from her feet up, lingering on her legging-clad saddlebags as if to say, "I don't know about that."

The fact is, chickies, being a "young and decent-looking girl" will not result in a negative flying experience. Being an arrogant airhead with tacky fake pink nails and a penchant for stating both the obvious and the laughably stupid will. If I was a flight attendant and you were bitching about not having any water, and then getting into catfights over the bathroom, of all things, I'd ignore you too. I mean, what if you drank the water too fast and had to pee again? Best to stop these things before they start.

So, Sarah and Nisreen, congratulations. You may not be hot, but you are on YouTube. You even made it onto an assortment of blogs. You even made it on to mine.

Something tells me this is the most either of you will ever accomplish.

Random Opinions On Inconsequential Matters

2008-02-25T09:16:00.000-08:00

So, as usual, I neither 1. watched the Oscars or 2. saw half of the movies that were nominated, since good movies never come out to our shitty little movie theater, and even if they did I turn down 99% of the guys who ask me out, so I never go there anyway.

That said, I do have opinions. I always have opinions.

Opinion 1:

Juno should not have won best screenplay. I don't know what should have won, but I'm positive at least three of the other nominees were better. It was a cute movie, for sure - I loved Ellen Page, and Michael Cera is truly the perfect First Boyfriend (far superior to mine, anyway), but the constant wiscracks and obscure hipster references got really old, really fast. Diablo Cody not only has the absolute dumbest pen name I've ever had the misfortune to hear spoken aloud, but she is so self-conscious and desperate to seem "in" that I actually started to feel sorry for her. "This is one doodle that can't be un-did, home skillet"? Ugh. Diablo, you bitch, don't ever call sweet little Ellen Page a home skillet again, or I will - I don't know - undo your doodle. Whatever that means.

And by the way, your dress was seriously ugly.

Opinion 2:

Sweeney Todd didn't even get a nomination for Achievement In Makeup?

Achievement In Makeup is one of those categories I usually forget about, because, really, who cares? But the makeup in Sweeney Todd was so incredibly perfect in every single scene that even as I watched it I thought, this better win that makeup award thing. Seriously. The makeup is part of what makes the movie.

Look at them. They're grotesque! There's a great scene in the film where Helena Bonham Carter's character is daydreaming about picnicking on the beach with Sweeney, and it shows them relaxing by the ocean with the sun shining down on them, and they look so sick and depraved and out of place - and it's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I didn't see La Vie en Rose; maybe the makeup was better. Maybe it deserved the Oscar. But how could Sweeney not have been nominated?

Opinion 3:

What in God's name was SHE doing there?

For some reason, I just hate Jessica Alba. I really do. And I'm not exactly sure why, since she's really just your average vapid starlet who can't act her way out of a paper bag, but for some reason she represents, for me, everything that is wrong with Hollywood. She's utterly worthless in every film she's in, and only gets the roles she does because of her body. And I find it hard to like a person who constantly makes rude, tacky comments about her ethnicity. (My personal favorite? "Mexican men love to spread their seed. And the women just pop them out.") Plus she just looks like a bitch. Look at those cold eyes and pursed lips. Bitch bitch bitch. Honey, you should get down on your knees and thank God you were let through the door.

Come to think of it, being on your knees is probably what got you there in the first place. (Oh, snap!)

Opinion 4:

Katherine Heigl, I like you. Really I do. And it's out of concern, not nastiness, that I must inform you...

THAT HAIRSTYLE MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A QVC SALESLADY.

But otherwise you look lovely.

Eh, that's enough for now. I have no other Oscar-related bones to pick...at least not until I see the movies.

If You Have to Self-Publish, Maybe You Shouldn't

2008-02-13T14:06:00.000-08:00

I think the most depressing part of working in a bookstore is seeing the complete and utter crap people come out with. I don't mean the mountains of books by Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel, since Roberts and Steel are not people but robots - well-oiled machines churning out exactly one predictable, easily digested mockery of the English language a month. And I don't mean books like The Secret, which, shallow and unsophisticated though they may be, are phenomenally marketable. I mean the self-published books. I mean the books written by poor, deluded souls who have spent countless nights in front of computer screens, coasting on nothing but black coffee and the words of sadly misguided middle-school homeroom teachers encouraging them to Express Themselves.

It's not that I think I'm a brilliant writer; I don't. But were I to write a fantasy, and were I to title it "Sword of Souls," I like to think I could find a better way to describe it than to say, "Sword of Souls launches just after the fall of the Ramadan tribes by the merciless red bearded Tarvas who invade sparing only the women and the young children in their brutal endeavors of destruction."

Seriously, what? Have the merciless red-bearded Tarvas outlawed commas? Were the Ramadan tribes Muslim? Was "endeavors" really the word Douglas Taylor, the self-proclaimed "authoritative and brilliant mastermind of the Chronicles of Caladon series," was looking for? These questions are going to keep me up all night, I just know it.

Look, I don't think all self-published books are crap. But I do think that before you spend $14.95 per book in publishing costs, you should make sure your writing is good enough to warrant it. Otherwise, not only have you wasted an insane amount of money on something nobody is ever going to read, you have also made me sad.

If you enjoy writing, awesome. But enjoying something does not make you a brilliant mastermind. I like playing guitar, and I don't think I suck, but I know I'm not good enough to make a career of it. Accept your limitations. Don't label yourself as something you aren't. I know there are legions of self-help books telling you that You Are Worth It, and maybe you are, but not everything you create is.

I know, I'm mean. I'm not trying to be, I just...am really sick of bad writing. I'm sick of every child being special. I'm sick of this idea that in every person is a creative genius just waiting to be unleashed. I don't think writing poems describing how you feel when you go walking in the rain automatically makes you deep, or that every life deserves a memoir. And I think letting people believe their writing has merit when it doesn't does them a disservice.

Especially if they're paying to self-publish. Seriously, that shit's expensive.

Upgrading...

2008-02-12T09:27:00.001-08:00

Now that I'm 21, it seems time to bid LiveJournal farewell. 7 years of reading recommendations to change my password because it's "too obvious" has been more than enough, and I am finally ready to move on.

The problem is writing this entry. I feel like I need to write something witty, since it's my first entry and all, but at present I am wit-free. So instead of attempting to write something even remotely entertaining, I will post a picture of something beautiful:

And that will have to do.