Recipe for Temporary Depression

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

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

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?

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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.

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

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

My Power, Unleashed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.)