This morning I forgot to put on a slip.
I forgot to curl my eyelashes.
I left my cell phone at home.
I forgot to bring something for lunch.
Today is not starting off so well. Perhaps I should walk home and go back to bed.
This morning I forgot to put on a slip.
I forgot to curl my eyelashes.
I left my cell phone at home.
I forgot to bring something for lunch.
Today is not starting off so well. Perhaps I should walk home and go back to bed.
I'm pretty tolerant. I like most everybody. I've been practicing being kinder than necessary. But, gosh, there are some people that get on my nerves and I'm using this space to get this off my chest. Here they are, in no particular order (and these don't apply to anyone in particular, at least no one who reads this blog, so please don't take offense!):
Let me introduce you to the Facebook Snipe. For starters, this is a person that you have no idea why the two of you are friends--or maybe you are friends because you have to be friends for some reason. In any event, this person never congratulates you on good news. No thumbs up for graduating college or getting married or finding the home of your dreams or getting a new job. When it comes to good news, the Snipe doesn't even care that you exist. But as soon as you post anything remotely controversial with which the Snipe does not agree, the Snipe will engage in a full on hostile debate on your Facebook status update. They get vitriolic and belligerent and write lengthy dissents as if it were possible to sway your opinion via a Facebook comment. You can't have an opinion in peace with a Snipe around. I'm all for healthy debate (please, I'm a lawyer after all), but don't only come around to be disagreeable. Snipes: didn't your momma teach you any manners? Sometimes it's best to just mind your business.
Dudes, a coffee shop is a business. Which means that a person is supposed to buy a coffee when they go there. And, also, if the person stays much longer than the time it takes to drink the coffee, they should buy a refill. It is not proper to set up camp for eight hours in a coffee shop without making numerous purchases. It is not proper to spread thousands of pieces of paper over a table meant for a foursome. It is not proper to set out a lunch brought from home, pulling out various Tupperware containers of leftover green curry with rice. It is especially not proper to bring in a beverage from home. If you don't want to spend $2 an hour or so for the privilege of using the Wi-Fi at a private business, there's a place for you: it's called the public library.
There are some people in the world who have something to say on every topic. They'll provide you with facts, plenty of them. Sometimes they even take issue with something you say, disagreeing on some petty detail or providing you with unsolicited advice. These people know everything. Everything! Except, the fact is, they know nothing at all. They are full of bad facts, erroneous details, backwards information. You would think that the proliferation of the iPhone and similar devices, which make facts verifiable from nearly anywhere in the world, would have curbed know-it-nothings from mouthing off about things they don't actually know anything about. And yet, totally not the case. Maybe it's because nobody challenges the know-it-nothings or maybe it's because we're just too polite to call them out on their bullshit. Know-it-Nothings, just know: I Google all the crazy things they say.
I feel so much better now, y'all. Thanks for letting me vent.
Hey, see a problem with this picture?
Four hours in to building our new Ikea dresser, it came to our attention that the piece of wood comprising the front of drawer #4 had not been drilled. Which means we couldn't put it together (do we look like the kind of people that own a drill and could accurately drill 17 holes in a piece of wood? It takes both of us 45 minutes and two levels to hang a picture for Pete's sake). I'm hoping Ikea will pop a properly drilled piece of wood in the mail since we live three hours away from the nearest store.
Honestly, I'm kind of impressed that there was only one defective piece, considering that there were about 25 THOUSAND parts in the two boxes we brought home. I know Ikea is cheap and blah blah blah, but if time is money, as they say, our new dresser is worth about $4000. Even without the drawer.
I'm depressed. Girl Scout cookie time is nearly over and I haven't had a single box of Thin Mints. I bought ONE box of Samoas, but it was the last box the Girl Scouts had available on the single day I saw them at the market and, then, against my better judgement, I shared the box with Will, 50/50, thinking there would surely be more available soon.
I'd so help the Girl Scouts change the world with a cookie and blah blah blah if I could only find a girl with some boxes to sell.
Isn't there a Girl Scout trying to earn a cookie badge anywhere in this town?
For those of you who don't have a Facebook account, one of the many things you can do on the site is become a "fan" of something. So, for example, a band or company or sports team or author makes a Facebook page and then you can become a fan of that band or company or sports team or author. As a fan, you get updates, tour dates, coupons, news stories, and so on. Makes sense, right?
(I'm a fan of Mireille Guiliano, the Oakland A's, Curly Girl Design, and the San Francisco Ballet.)
(Doesn't that make you want to go out and get a Facebook page right away?)
Anyway, I have a Facebook pet peeve (no, you don't say) and it is this: people keep becoming fans of things that aren't really fan-worthy type things. Like, for instance, pineapples. The fruit. You may like pineapples. You may love pineapples. You may want to make out with pineapples behind the bleachers. But becoming a fan of pineapples is just, well, kind of weird. Pineapples don't have updates to make to you, they don't have news to report or tour dates to share. Pineapples have nothing to say to you.
(And, notice: a pineapple did not get online and make the pineapple fan club. Pineapples don't go online. A weird person with too much time and too much love for pineapples made the site.)
But here's the thing: when people become fans of stupid, generic things and I get the update, I sometimes sort of want to join the club because hey! I also like pineapples! I like them at least as much as you do!
But I don't join, because then I would be a fan of a bazillion ridiculous generic things. I am above that. But I like things and I am not above telling you all the things I like.
Genuine lead crystal angels with 22K gold accents! Tacky for only $49.99!
Only $225.00 for this terrible beauty who "moves swiftly through the rain forest, drawn on by the scent of prey drinking at the river’s edge." Claaasssy.
I'm sorry, but friends don't let friends buy tacky collectibles.
You know what is just awesome in the most awesome of awesomeist ways?
When your computer breaks on THE VERY DAY that your Apple Care Warranty Bullshit expires.
Did I mention the awesome?
Update: Crashed hard drive. Dead. Croaked. Awwweeesssooooome. Looks like I'll be working 'round the clock for the next few days to catch up on lost work. Right after I go purchase myself an external hard drive. Too little, too late.
Update: The nice people at Apple are extending my warranty for an additional day. They are awesome--and this time I really mean it. Totally, not-sarcastically awesome.
Update: It was SO this:
A few months ago, our Barnes & Noble membership account was automatically renewed, costing us $25 even though we do not have a Barnes & Noble in our town. What a shame it would be to let that membership go to waste with not a single mocha latte or hardcover bestseller purchased.
All I am saying is this: if you go to Barnes & Noble and you happen to be related to my husband (William Wallace) and you happen to have our old telephone number memorized (661-729-9321), you would be able to take advantage of the spectacular 10% (or more!) discount on your purchases, lattes included.
Somebody has to benefit. Might as well be you.
Y'all probably know this, but just in case.
So, you know when you buy a jacket and the slit in the back is tacked together with a big, long piece of thread? Or when you buy a skirt and the pleats are loosely sewn together? Or when a pocket is roughly tacked closed?
Those stitches are temporary, people; you are supposed to pull out that big thread X in the back of your jacket before you head on out to an interview.
Do y'all get Martha Stewart Living magazine? Do y'all have this issue with the heart on the cover?
If so, I'd like you to go get your issue and turn to page 129. I'll wait.
Okay, you there?
See that there picture of those two mugs of cocoa with the title "Warmth?" Looks cozy, yes?
Now explain to me this: what does that title page (it is a title page, right?) have to do with the article following on supermarket flowers in unusual arrangements, which do not look warm at all?
This is keeping me awake at night. I need answers.
I've heard people admit that they are afraid to have another baby because their first born is such an angel--sleeps through the night, hardly cries, is just the perfect child--and surely that kind of good fortune only comes around once in a lifetime. The second child, they are convinced, will be the complete opposite--a difficult creature that will wreak havoc on their lives.
I don't have any children, but if children are anything like cats, I am here to tell you that those theories are TRUE. THEY ARE TRUE. If one is a lovely, uncomplicated piece of cake, the second will be a complete disaster.
We picked up Olive on Friday. I didn't want to blog about Olive because I could tell right away that things were not quite right. Plus, you know, blogs about cats are so awesome. I'd suggest that if you know something about cats or really love cats, read on. I need your advice, crazy cat people of the Internet. I am counting on you.
If you could care less about cats, I TOTALLY HEAR YOU. Totally. I don't want to read a crazy cat post either. Please, come back tomorrow for some non-cat content.
Now, the three of us who are still here, let's talk about Olive. She's utterly adorable, really cute, chases a string like a pro.
For starters, I seem to have developed an allergic reaction to cats. We have a cat already, Millie, and I have always been mildly allergic to her, a sniffle here or there, but the allergies have been magnified since Olive moved in. Have I entered the permanent hell of itchiness or can you, uh, become immune to cat dander?
Second, and more importantly, she is kind of smelly. And that's putting it nicely. Really? She stinks. Specifically, she has a stinky butt. She poots all the time (we don't use the term fart here at this respectable website) but also her butt just stinks. We took her to the vet and they suggest that she will probably outgrow the stinkiness. No guarantees. Is probably good enough? And what does one mean by outgrow? Weeks? Months? Years? Because I'm thinking I can take about, oh, FOUR MORE HOURS.
The Internet provides all sorts of non-scientific sites dedicated to stinky cats and they suggest the following: change her food (we did), take to vet for assorted tests (we did), and various techniques involving lots of touching of cat butt (no, thank you, sorry).
We have two weeks to return the cat. What would you do, Internet, with this little face looking at you?
Don't look at me like that.
So, awesome, let's get a conversation going on here about cat butts.
(What is happening to this website? Should I just cancel my Typepad subscription now, redecorate in country clutter, and start knitting little kitty booties? On second thought, don't answer that. Stick to the assignment: should she stay or should she go?)
Recently, we purchased a bag of Dove Chocolate Miniatures. Each piece of candy came wrapped in foil with a "promise" printed inside. I mostly just threw away the wrappers with their silly little promises, but this one merited a photo.
Maybe it is because I don't watch television, but I just don't get it. They replay your memories of what? Sitting in front of the television? And aren't you, technically, replaying the memories of Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha?
Through most of college I regularly watched Friends with my various roommates, but never do I look back and think about how I miss sitting around the television with them. I miss riding bikes and going downtown and mixing margaritas and gossiping late into the night and traveling to new cities and dancing at ratty old bars with them. I miss going to baseball games and getting happy hour steaks and dressing up for Halloween with them. Plenty of things throughout the day conjure up a memory of an old roommate--a photo of Boston, the mention of a great restaurant, a specific item of clothing--but never once have I watched a rerun of Friends and thought, gee, I remember the time that Stacey and I watched this episode in our DC apartment, good times.
No, reruns never replay any of my old memories, except, I guess, memories of me sitting in front of the TV. And, as far as my life has gone, those aren't the times worth much remembering.
As I was walking to my apartment last night, a young guy, probably about my age, stepped out onto his patio.
"Do you go to LBC?" he asked me.
I was confused. "LDC?"
"Not following here."
At this point, the guy explained that LBC were the initials of a local church in town--a church which I happen to know is the most fanatical religious experience within 50 miles. They require women to always wear skirts and allow them to earn a college degree in "Clerical and Secretarial Studies" at their unaccredited, fundamentalist college campus.
This is where I get even more confused.
"Nope. Definitely not a member."
The guy keeps looking at me like he maybe has something more to say. So I continue.
"Why do you ask? Do you recognize me from somewhere? Did you see me at your church?'
"Um, no," the guy replies. "You just look like you would be a member of the LBC."
Um. Dude. Is this supposed to be a pick up line? Are you trying to engage me in a friendly conversation? Trying to get me to come be a member of the LBC? Because baby, even if I weren't married, which I happily am, I would need a dozen more gin and tonics before those lines start working.
What do you think? Do I look like the type of person that would forgo law school to take some courses in word processing at a school that answers to God, not the government? Maybe I need to get some reading glasses or a math shirt so that my appearance approximates my smarts.
Today I received a comment from a certain Barquan Johnson. Barquan (Brian) is one of my students and is the kind of person who will end up being a millionaire or else end up in jail. It could go either way.
Brian is guest posting today, something that required him to take over my computer and write thoughtfully for 25 minutes. He had a million posting ideas, but I suggested that he start with something simple about blogs. All the grammar, spelling, and thoughts are his. If you have never spent time with high schoolers, this will be an opportunity to see what I deal with everyday. Every. Single. Day.
What i know about blogs...by Barquan
As i have found out from my friend "Kevin" blogs are stupid and pointless; where nobody will actually go to your page and read about your boing life that you try to hype up and make interesting (in which my friend sliceofpink.com is not one of those). But he doesnt realize that someone is always interested in going to blogs, whether it be for NUDITY or to hear about experiences in hotel rooms. Blogs can also be about FRIED CHICKEN!
As i have noticed is the past 45 minutes, i have absolutly nothing to say.....BLOG ARE FREAKING HARD! So, to help other brotha and sista out, i have decided that i am going to talk about things you can blog about.
+ Writting blogs
+ Other peoples blogs
+ How people comment about blogs
+ How many hits people get in a day
+ How much you spend in a month
+ How much a domain costs and how confusing it is to do
+ How your fone "drops a call" when you really dont want to talk to the person
+ Passing off BAD chineese food
+ How chineese food is different between mandarin gate and great wall manderin food
+ How "I" comes after "S" in safari
+ How nerdy students go crazy over a photo contest only to POSSIBLY win a computer
+ (how barquan is running out of topics)
+ How jeans make you butt look big
+ Why vegetarians dont eat meat, but then eat tortillas (which is made with lard, by the way) which is defended by "lard is fat not meat" but you have to still KILL the animal to get the fat.......retorted with "what if the pig got liposuction?"....WUT DA FOOZIE, what kind of argument is that? This is the part where i need your help...SliceofPink.com decided that i am not welcome back unless i get 20 comments. you can post ideas for blogs, or even just how sexy i look with my microphone. I have recently been told that i am a sexy beast, but they might just be saying that....i need your thoughts. Please and thank you.
There it is. If Brian gets 20 comments, I will let him write another post for your enjoyment. He also just asked me, seriously, "what goes good with a leather jacket?" Maybe you have a good answer for that.
It's my 27th birthday on Saturday and the first birthday in the history of my life that has not been met with eager excitement. In the past, I have started talking about my birthday weeks in advance, dropping hints about gifts, and anticipating all the birthday fun. I have had a pink party and a wine party and a party in a casino and a dessert party at a fondue restaurant. Every birthday has been properly observed and celebrated.
But this year, I am too tired. I am too tired to talk about my birthday. I am too tired to devise a birthday plan. I am too tired to think of anything I want for my birthday, other than a good night's sleep. I am flat out exhausted. Yesterday I brought home a bag of items from the grocery store, set the bag on the floor, and went to bed. I was too tired to move the perishable items--cottage cheese and Kozy Shack Banana Foster Pudding-- into the fridge. That's how tired I am. (And, yet, I am not too tired to complain at length about how tired I am!)
And I never feel not tired lately. I don't know if it is the long school hours, the recovery from a sinus infection, the endless chatter that seems to accompany me 15 hours a day every day, the knowledge that my current job is now just a means to an end, or what, but everything seems to be rather overwhelming and utterly annoying.
Remember in January when I posted the 31 Things to do in January? That list turned into 83 items, which does not include the items that are unaccounted for because they were written on post-its or in the Moleskine or on my hand when the computer list was not accessible. Of course I did not finish all the items because I also have an in-box at school and one at robotics and neither of those activities seem to care if I have a real life. Here's The List with all the successes and all the failures. Thank God I didn't make New Year's Resolutions because that could be totally depressing right about now.
I started a new list: 28 in February which carries over some of the old and adds some new. Hopefully before my 27th year starts in two days, I'll snap back into my old, younger self, if you know what I mean. In the meantime, I kinda feel like Holly who is also turning 27 and has this to say about her impending birthday:
Whatever it is, I’m looking forward to February 8th the way I’d be looking forward to a dance-off with Kevin Federline. No, wait, scratch that, a dance-off with Kevin Federline might actually be kind of fun. I’m looking forward to February 8th the way I’d be looking forward to a date with Kevin Federline. Which is to say: not much.
Today I got the most adorable thank you note in the mail--a little white card with pink flowers and a sweet note saying thanks! for some Christmas gifts. In the corner was an itty bitty apology for the note being so delayed. I love this tiny detail because delayed? Delayed? A note within a month seems wonderfully timely to me. There are presents I gave in June that did not elicit a repspone. In fact, there are presents I gave in 1997 that did not provoke a quick note of thanks.
I've been keeping track. And I'm gonna save a lot of money when I am a broke-ass law student by not buying presents for the people who don't send thank you notes. Time's up, suckers.
It is one o'clock in the morning and the first time in 24 hours that my access to the Internet has worked. This morning when I got up, I went online to see the movie times, only to get the dreaded You Are Not Connected message. I'm not sure if you realize how hard it is to get movie times if you do not have an Internet connection. I almost had to go buy a newspaper in paper form. Instead I called 1-800-FANDANGO and spoke to a voice recording who clearly could not understand my accent because she kept asking me in her robotic tone to repeat what I had just clearly and directly said into the receiver.
At about 11pm tonight I broke down and walked over to my friend Zanon's apartment to use his connection. He is visiting family out of state, so I sat on his front porch in my sweater and jacket and beanie and slippers and scarf in order to take care of a few things. It was probably about 35 degrees outside which was not cold enough to stop me from checking my email, but which was cold enough to keep me from writing a blog or actually responding to anything in my mail.
This afternoon, when I called Verizon to complain about my service, I spent 30 minutes walking through all of the steps that would indicate that the problem was on my end--restarting, unplugging, reconnecting--despite the fact that I had calmly and numerously explained to the man that all things on my end were just fine and dandy, that this had happened on my end before and I had resolved it alone, and that I had done all the things he was suggesting I try before I even called him. After I exasperatedly suggested once again that the problem was on his end because I am a Mac User for Pete's Sake and I Get It, he tried the connection. Sure enough, the problem was on his end and he agreed to send somebody out tomorrow before noon.
Despite knowing that the Internet would not be fixed until tomorrow when somebody showed up to fix the line, I hourly checked for a connection. Just in case. Waiting. Hoping. It is a sick addiction. I think I might have to join Internet Anonymous. See y'all there?
Last night, around 10:30pm, there was a loud bang and then the power went out. Will got out two flashlights--flashlights I would not have been able to locate if I had been home alone--and we went out to investigate the problem. Will always likes to investigate problems like a detective and we walked all around the complex looking for something that might have caused the power to go out. He checked out all the power poles and had conversations with all the neighbors, but found nothing noteworthy.
This morning when we woke up, the power was still out. I couldn't take a shower because the water heaters are electric and I got dressed in the dark. I showed up to school in a cute lime green dress, black sweater, and black tights. Good, except the big stocking run down my inner thigh.
My big concern all day, however, was not the hole in my tights but the fact that I had ten people coming over for a meeting at 6pm. I couldn't leave work until 5:30, so I called up my apartment complex to find out if the power was back on. If so, great. If not, I could call my guests to reschedule or relocate.
The transcript of my phone call to the apartment complex, which I called before the 5pm closing time:
Guy: Racquet Club Answering Service.
Me: Hi! I was just wondering if the power is back on?
Guy: I don't know.
Me: Has the power been on at all today?
Guy: I haven't heard.
Me: You do know the power was out all night, right?
Guy: No. Actually I am not on-site. I'm just an answering service.
Me: Is the office open?
Me: Okay, how can I talk to them?
Guy: You have to walk over to the office to talk to someone in person.
Me: Um, that's kinda inconvienent SINCE I AM CALLING BECAUSE I AM NOT ON-SITE.
Guy: Yeah. Sorry.
I arrived home to power! My people came over. I baked some snickerdoodles. And halfway through our meeting, the power went out again. If it goes out tonight, I'm calling in sick. No way I'll go two days without a shower.
Last night I logged into MySpace, something I do once a month or so, just to see if I had any new comments or invites or old friends trying to track me down and show me photos of their new babies. I suck at MySpace. I don't write people back, I don't blog there, I've had the same pictures up since the day I created an account, and I never seek out people to be friends with. My page does have a cute pink polka-dot background which is the only reason I stick around.
Last night I discovered a feature on MySpace which allows me to search for people based on the schools they attended. I typed in my high school and an amazing 300-plus pages of alumni appeared. I further refined my search to allow only for people who graduated in my class, 1998, and 172 of my classmates showed up.
It was then that I realized that I need to cancel my MySpace account.
People in my age group, which is not the 13-18 age group, had things like this posted on their MySpace sites:
P.h.A.t GiRl If U @iNt Kn0W Wh@t It Me@nZ StEp B@cK!!!
"Remember your perfect... God makes NO mistakes!"
"Everybody poops in the potty...(only a two year old would understand)"
"~My LoVe FoR yOu Is LiKe ThE gRaInS oF sAnD oN tHe BeAcH eNdLeSs~"
Are they serious? I mean, seriously?
There were two people who had photos of themselves with snakes, three dozen people who had photos of themselves either pregnant or with their kid, and another few dozen photos of people wearing outfits only appropriate for jobs that involve being paid for sex or dancing on poles. Some people combine the hooker shot and baby shot in a photo that more or less adequately describes the cause and the effect in a single shot.
And the blinkies! Ohmygod, the blinkies! Glittering blinkies that let you know that they are PREGNANT! CRAZY IN LOVE! LMAO! YOU SO CRAZY! NAUGHTY!
It's like high school all over again: breaking the dress code, no clue about grammar basics, your degree of coolness defined by your number of friends. Except now we are 26.
No thank you.
I am wearing my last clean pair of underwear.
The laundry machines in our complex went from a quarter system to some plastic card system, which nobody informed up about, which we found out about when we took four gigantic stacks of laundry and a handful of quarters over to the room, which, um, is kind of inconvenient to say the least.
What is up with people who call your house, get the answering machine, and leave an illusive, mysterious message with no pertinent information?
For example: "Hi Janet. This is so-and-so. I have a favor to ask of you, so call me back when you get a chance."
So, um, what's the favor? GIVE ME SOME DETAILS ABOUT THIS MYSTERY "FAVOR" OF YOURS. One line would be sufficient: Can I borrow your red sweater? Can you give me the name of your hairdresser? Can I live with you for six weeks while my house in being fumigated? But you're giving me nothing to work with and, honestly, I'm a little scared to call back.
This type of message is usually left by someone who is going to ask you to help them move furniture or wants you to pick them up from the airport, which I would be totally okay with if they would just say so in the message. Otherwise, I feel like I am being tricked. I am pretty sure that the person wants to get me on the phone so I won't have time to make up a legitimate excuse for why I cannot, in fact, bail them out of jail.
I think this type of caller believes that the mystery in the message will intrigue me so much that I'll pick up the phone right away to find out about the favor! They think I'll be excited about the details of the favor! And then? I'll be trapped! I won't have time to make plans to be out of the country or at least washing my hair.
But the truth is, I am not intrigued. I am scared. So I do the opposite: I just don't call back.
I don't return faux calls.
When you have your wisdom teeth out, you will be prescribed a variety of pills: penicillin to fight infection, ibuprofen for the pain, and hydrocodone bitartrate (Vicodin) if the ibuprofen is not strong enough. This results in the taking of 10 pills per day for several days following the procedure. You can complete this task one of two ways:
1. You can swallow the pills like a normal human being.
2. You can go through a complex process to take each pill because you are a big baby and cannot swallow anything larger than an Advil. On a good day.
I go with option 2.
Open pill bottle (1) and remove pill. Using pill cutter (2), cut the pill into small fragments and place small fragments into garlic press (3). Crush pills with garlic press into small dish (4). The pill should now be a fine powder. If not, reinsert large pill shards into press and re-crush. Two spoons (5) are required for the following portion of the task. Spoon a small amount of pudding (6) with larger spoon. Create a small mashed-potato-style well into the pudding. Use the smaller spoon to sprinkle powdered drug into well on spoonful of pudding. Add more pudding on top of the powdered drug, thus sandwiching drug between two layers of pudding snack. Swallow. Repeat until all drug is consumed. Clean up mess--this will cause a mess--with a paper towel (7).
I just now completed an online form to register a warranty I got with a camera. I filled in all the fields, leaving the "cell phone" field blank because I do not have a cell phone and, therefore, do not have a number to type in that field.
When I hit the submit button, the site refused my form and a red message popped up that said:
Cell Phone Required
So, when did cell phones become required?
I think I might have missed the memo.
I sprained my ankle this morning while engaging in the harrowing and dangerous mission of walking up my stairs in a pair of flip-flops. Although I can still walk by stepping on the outer side of my foot, it is moderately painful and I have been using ice and elevation all day to control the swelling and, hopefully, shorten the healing time. I don’t know how or why that works but my doctor, Dr. Internet, told me so.
I try to look at the glass as half full and told Will that the sprain might be a blessing in disguise since it would force me to stay home today and study for the LSAT. That was at noon. Instead, I watched 9 episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm and ate a whole pizza while elevating my ankle on two pillows and alternating between a bag of frozen corn and a bag of frozen mixed berries as a compress. It is hard to complete logic puzzle while on the sofa with your leg in the air and a bag of frozen fruit wedged beneath your ankle. Larry David, on the other hand, is pretty easy to follow, although sometimes more painful.
About two hours ago, the frozen corn, now turned to slush, leaked out of its bag onto my leg, the leather couch, and one of the lovely, decorative pillows that I was using for elevation.
The glass? It is not looking so full now. But if I could make it to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a bowl of Lucky Charms, things would certainly look up.
It seems that there has been an up rise in the general stupidity of people in my life. On a daily basis these last couple weeks, I have had the urge to slam my palm into my forehead and let out an astonished groan at the idiocy that is surrounding me. On several occasions in the past week, I actually have slammed my right palm into my forehead while I raised my left hand to the sky in the universal gesture for “what the fuck were you thinking?”
Some of the more idiotic moments have occurred at school with my students, which should not come as a total shocker, them being teenagers and all, but the moments have been especially ludicrous in the last several weeks.
Let’s consider the following situations:
1.) Mrs. Wallace’s student, John, has six absences. After five absences John will not get credit for Mrs. Wallace’s class. John wants credit so he informs Mrs. Wallace that a substitute teacher incorrectly marked him absent. The reason, John explains, is that the sub did not call out names verbally but took attendance using the seating chart. John says he was sitting in the wrong seat that day. Because he was in the wrong seat and because the sub took roll using the seating chart, it follows that John was incorrectly marked absent. Right? EXCEPT MRS. WALLACE HAS NO SEATING CHART, YO. (Slams head repeatedly on desk.)
2.) Mrs. Wallace’s student steals a data projector. Half of the student body knows about stolen projector. Mrs. Wallace devises plan in which students sit silently and read advanced, college-level texts on tone control techniques, which will be followed by equally advanced, college-level examinations worth large percentages of their grades. Mrs. Wallace spreads word about impending plan. Before plan even takes effect, other students snitch. Data projector is returned. Thief student wants to if everything’s cool since the projector arrived back. (Slam, slam, slam.)
Oh! And it’s not just the kids. It’s adults, too:
3.) On my drive home today I was listening to the radio when the DJ announced the next song as “the soon-to-be most requested wedding song ever, You’re Beautiful by James Blunt.” Damn it, that’s totally what I wanted at MY wedding: a song about unrequited love that ends with the line “I will never be with you” because the woman in the song IS WITH ANOTHER MAN. If only that song were out in 2003 and I were a total moron. (Slams head into steering wheel.)
4.) Have I mentioned the lady at CSUB, who still did not find my transcripts, exasperatedly decided that fine, I would be enrolled in 30 minutes? Without transcripts. Which, alrighty then, why couldn't THAT have happened three weeks ago?
Somebody get me some Excedrin.
One of the main differences between my family and Will’s family is directly related to the planning of family functions.
My family plans all family functions three weeks in advance. The big holidays require at least two months of arrangement time. There are weekend trips that have been planned for a year, including the hotel and restaurant reservations. We have Labor Day weekend booked in Santa Barbara through 2015. We necessitate this much time for important decisions to be made: dates, times, locations, who is responsible for bringing the dip, who is responsible for buying the margarita mix. There are emails and phone calls and, sometimes, functions to plan functions. The downside to this fanatical planning is that there’s really no getting out of a party that has been planned for two millennia.
Will’s family, on the other hand, plans most family functions on two hours notice. They will call you at 11am for a family barbeque that will be taking place at 1pm that very same day. Spontaneity is a fabulous thing, but for a girl who comes from a family where spontaneous means a last minute decision to bring apple martinis rather than the cosmopolitans you signed up for in the organizational email, spontaneity tends to be a difficult creature.
Will has many good qualities for which I will certainly keep him, but, I swear, he could not get six people to the same restaurant on the same day at the same time, even if his life depended on it. It’s a good thing his life does not depend on it. We are still in formal training phase of Planning 101.
In no way do I mean to disparage a family’s organizational processes and, in fact, it is sometimes superior to embrace a lackadaisical approach to life, but had better planning been executed, I would be at a party right now.
Yep. Instead, I am at home. Listening to Journey.
(Never mind that I just watched a movie, drank a watermelon martini and watched a friend blow $880 on blackjack. That’s not nearly as depressing, which is totally what I am going for here.)
The good news is that you get an overdue post, albeit a needy and disappointing one. I have all the time in the world because I am not at a party! Look! I am at home! Lucky you!
So, here’s a dilemma. One of my students has a clothing company. He designs and silk-screens t-shirts and tank tops and whatnot. The kids all over campus are wearing this kid’s stuff and I bought two tops to support his business. Twice last week I went to put on one of the tops (a rare pink edition shirt!) and decided against wearing it to school. Why, you ask? The brand is “Dirty Pony” which is emblazoned right across my chest. The student swears it does not mean anything bad, it’s just a logo he came up with and he is in the top 3% of the Senior class, but I don’t know. Dirty Pony. Doesn’t it just sound, um, dirty?
While we’re chatting (or, technically, while I am rambling and you are listening patiently—what a good friend you are), does anyone else get a horrible pain in their ear while flying? I have a super high sensitivity to elevation change and I can’t even go to the bottom of a 4-foot pool without my ears feeling like they are going to pop from all the pressure. I’m flying on Tuesday and need some advice, if anyone has any. I’ve tried chewing gum; I’ve tried EarPlanes; I yawn repeatedly. Nothing seems to control the feeling that a knife is stabbing through my ear into my brain which sure makes flying a lovely experience. Suggestions?
Also, how fabulous is Sarah Jessica Parker?
Of the nearly two-thousand songs in our iTunes database, about 75 percent of them suck, big time. These songs are either extremely whiny or are songs in which I cannot understand the lyrics because of all the screaming. I have no idea what they are even doing on our computer. For every song that I enjoy, I have to advance through fourteen songs that make me want to dump the entire library and start all over. The problem is, whenever I go to "purchase" some new music, my mind goes blank and I cannot, for the life of me, think of a single song or band I like.
My birthday is in 12 days on February 3. Going against everything I ever learned in etiquette class, and only in case you've been racking your brain trying to figure out what to get me anyway, I could really use a burned MP3 CD of your favorite songs. Just think: you can wish me a happy birthday and save my sanity.
I do send thank you notes.
Today I bought some toothpaste and I just want to take a moment and share with you the Crest mint flavor variations:
Minty Fresh Striped
(I wrote these all down on the back of my shopping list and verified at the Crest webpage. I am NOT, I repeat, NOT making this up.)
So, if you want Dual Action Whitening, you can get it in Fresh Mint or Cool Mint. Multicare Whitening comes only in Fresh Mint, although Tarter Protection Whitening comes in Cool Mint, Fresh Mint, or Fresh Mint with baking soda. If you want the Herbal Mint, you must go with Whitening Expessions although you can choose the paste or the gel. And on and on. And on.
I repeat, What?
I am not even going to talk about how my brand new pair of pointy toe heels got caught in the darkroom revolving door, which caused an inch-long rip in the leather on the toe of my left shoe. We are not discussing the death of the beautiful black leather with the very snazzy hot pink lining.
At the beginning of the school year I came up with the genius idea of having a book exchange with some other teachers. The idea is, we all go out to dinner and everybody brings a book, tells a little about the book, and then we all go home with a new book to read. Genius, right? Except I have been so busy that I haven’t read a new book all month and tomorrow I am supposed to show up with something to share. Genius.
I just ate some roasted red pepper soup and, I’m not sure, but I think it tastes bad. The expiration date says it is okay for a couple months but it has been in the cupboard for a few months so I dumped it out and am going the frozen burrito route instead. Here’s something kind of annoying: the instructions on the burrito wrapper are “Heat Until Hot and Soft.” That’s it. How about an estimate people? 1 minute? 8 minutes? I need a little guidance.
The shoes were exquisite.
I can’t read and mourn.
The burrito took 2 minutes.
In the past 5 years, Walmart has given or pledged 650 million dollars to charity. Whoohoo for Walmart. This sure sounds like a mighty chunk of change for which we should all hoot and hollah. But, there shall be no hooting here.
Walmart’s lifetime giving to charity accounts for less than 1% of their total net worth. The richest family in the world, the most gross sales worldwide, the most wealthy corporation, and the cheapest bastards on the face of mother earth.
Let’s put this in perspective. Bill Gates has given 58% of his net worth to charity. Oprah has given 13% of her net worth. Tom Monaghan of Domino’s Pizza: 90% of his net worth. Ruth Lilly: 250% of her net worth.
I, personally, have given more of my net worth to charity than those stingy creeps at Walmart.
Walmart has 96 billion dollars in the bank, which they are apparently saving for a rainy day, because they sure as hell aren’t helping anybody out except themselves. Gates, Monaghan, Lilly, and Oprah all have far less in the bank than the Waltons; but unlike the Waltons, they all have wealth in their hearts.
I hate Walmart for a mountain of reasons, but this is the summit. Greed is just never in style.
Click here for the list, but do not be fooled. Walmart is far, far less than generous.
With a name like that, I should have known it was going to be high maintenence.
I was planning on telling y'all about the past few days, about the Governor's Women's Conference, and about my great Halloween costume, complete with many photos, but I just spent the last 30 minutes in a huge battle with my printer. My printer refuses to print, well, anything. It refuses to print on cardstock, letterhead, or any other type of paper. It continually tells me that I need to load paper when I can see with my very own two eyes that there is, indeed, paper sitting RIGHT THERE IN THE TRAY! Everyday, people. Everyday I fight with this poor excuse for a printer.
I should have known when it wouldn't talk to the Airport Express. But I gave it another chance. I should have known when it went all squeaky after three weeks. But I gave it another chance. NO MORE CHANCES. We are finished, my printer and I. Done. Tomorrow it goes back to Costco and I will get back 30 minutes a day, which I will dedicate to telling you all about my latest adventures in fishnets.
I spent a majority of my working life in politics, a lifestyle that basically amounts to being on call 24 hours a day, eating inordinate amounts of rubber chicken, and always having to be picture perfect in case you have to meet the mayor or get interviewed by the newspaper. I have been around about a million press conferences and I totally have got the newspaper interviewing shindig down.
So, when the newspaper asked for my name on Friday night at the Harry Potter Party, I absolutely knew what to do and said, “Janet Wallace. J-A-N-E-T W-A-L-L-A-C-E” all spelled out like that because reporters are prone to totally screwing everything up.
All spelled out. W-A-L-L-A-C-E. Wallace. And the reporter wrote it down. I saw her write it down. Not in shorthand, not in some cryptic message, just straight spelled out, W-A-L-L-A-C-E.
And, no surprise, they screwed everything up anyway. Now, we are the Walkers. Will and Janet Walker in Potter regalia. The Walkers, who ever they are, they sure love that Harry Potter.
Moving right along because for god’s sake how long are we going to talk about Harry Effing Potter (P-O-T-T-E-R), here is another little gem from Sunday’s paper in which Bucky cat (from my all time favorite comic strip Get Fuzzy) is wearing a lampshade collar. I hate to push my comic preferences on you because comics are never really that funny unless you’ve been following them, however, if you read about Millie’s surgery last week then the comic will be at least mildly amusing, if for no other reason than the flawless timing.
Update: Millie has had the pus drain removed, but still has to wear the satellite dish until the stitches come out next week. Today she peed in Will’s car on the way to the vet. She’s back to her old self.
While I was in the car with my mom yesterday, she informed me that if I wasn’t going to be working over the summer I was going to have to be a housewife. My mother told me that I should have the house clean, the laundry done, and dinner on the table every night. This, of course, caused me to double over with laughter to the extent that I might have fallen right out of my seat if I hadn’t been seat-belted in (I, by the way, always wear my seatbelt thus saving us $97 in tickets, just another reason why I don’t need to work this summer).
As it turns out, Will put on his last pair of clean underwear this morning and I figured I’d listen to my mother just this once and do some freakin’ laundry. At the end of this post it will be shockingly clear why it was necessary for me to go to college.
9:00am: Wake up. Think about laundry. Sort whites into a hamper. Set hamper in middle of room. Check blogs. Take shower.
11:00: Go to hair appointment. Have cucumber water and croissant.
12:00: Hang out at Perk Place. Have an Italian Soda. Share a salad with the owner, who is also my good friend. Have espresso shots.
1:00pm: Call friends and husband. Meet me at Perk Place! Fall prey to the coffee cake.
3:00: Oh crap! The laundry! Go home. Put laundry in washer.
4:30: Oh crap! The laundry! Go to laundry room to find wet laundry has been moved to top of dryer because some people apparently can’t wait all day for me. Put laundry in dryer. Hey! Cool! Dryer has time left on it from previous user! Maybe I can dry for FREE!
4:31: Devise plan: will start with previous user’s leftover time. Will check back in 20 minutes to see if time ran out or if dryer is still running. Figure time is probably almost out, but you never know! I'm saving us money! No need to work!
4:34: Watch three episodes of Newlyweds on DVD.
6:00: Go to the pet store with Kathryn regarding a kitty. Give Kathryn’s almost-three-year-old son gum, which he promptly swallows. She said it was okay.
9:00: Come home. Read blogs.
9:55 (5 minutes before laundry room closes): Husband asks about laundry. Crap! The laundry! Run to laundry room, barefoot. Open dryer. Clothes still wet. Evidently forgot to check back on that free drying plan. Crap! Crap!
9:57: Restart dryer.
10:00: Laundry room closes.
10:01: Husband goes commando.
10:02: Consider summer employment possibilities.
This post is for you, Jose.
Today, a person at my job who shall remain nameless, but who we have reason to believe is a pants-on-fire-liar, was carrying a cup of coffee from Starbucks. This in itself is not unusual since this nameless individual is always carrying around a Starbucks cup of coffee. But today, because I am so observant, I noticed that the cup was not actually from Starbucks, but was from the pseudo-Starbucks in Barnes and Noble. Alas, the cup said “Starbucks” but it ALSO had the “Barnes & Noble” logo printed on it.
So, I said, “Do you go to Starbucks every morning?”
And he said, “Oh, yes. Until they get a Coffee Anonymous Program, I have to start my day with Starbucks.”
At this point you are probably wondering what the hell I am talking about. What do I care if the dude gets his coffee from Barnes and Noble? Can’t people get their Lattes in peace?
Well, no they can’t. Not if they are lying. Here are the facts:
• The cup was from Barnes and Noble (as stated on cup)
• Barnes and Noble opens at 9am
• This conversation took place at 7am
It is therefore concluded that the guy did not (repeat: DID NOT) purchase the coffee that morning, as he stated. He saved the paper cup. And the little plastic lid. And the little cardboard hand protector. He straight reused paper goods and then lied about it.
Starbucks is trendy. Trendy people drink Starbucks. However, drinking Starbucks does not make you trendy. That’s called a fallacy.
I should so go to law school, y’all.
Today, I went to the Post Office to mail a package and buy some stamps. Everything went just swell with the mailing of the package, but when it came time for the buying of the stamps, we ran into a bit of a snag.
Postal Lady: Would you like to purchase some stamps today, ma’am?
Me: Yes, please. What do you have?
Postal Lady: Flags or flowers.
Me: Flags or flowers? That’s it? You don’t have any, say, The Art of Disney stamps or American Choreographers Commemorative stamps?
Postal Lady: Nope.
Me: You don’t have any Isamu Noguchi stamps or Henry Mancini stamps?
Postal Lady: (obviously annoyed) No. There is not always a variety of stamps available.
Me: If I go to the other Post Office will I have more choices?
Postal Lady: There is not currently a variety of stamps available.
But there IS a variety of stamps available. Don’t think I am not on the internet all day at my job and don’t think that I am not AWARE of the actually very wide variety of stamps available. And if you don't believe me, please go straight away to The United States Postal Service Website to see the SIX PAGES of stamping options, including the lovely American Choreographers which, for some reason, the postal lady has no idea even exists.
So I just said: Oh, nevermind. Can I just buy two stamps for this letter I have to send?
And that LIAR straight pulled out a full page of Ronald Reagan stamps and pulled two off for me, before I even had the chance to yell, GOOD GOD, NO RONALD REAGAN!
One: I thought there were only flags and flowers.
Two: Ronald Reagan? Really?
I think that our state needs to implement a new test in order to obtain a driver's license. It will be called the Rudeness Test.
Please answer Yes or No to the following questions:
1. Will you be the type of driver to make eye contact with one of your co-workers and then, because your life is so important, proceed to cut them off on your way out of the parking lot?
2. Will you be so obsessed with your car that you will feel the need to take up two spots in the Getty parking lot, thereby making parking all the more difficult in an already difficult situation for the rest of us who are just trying to admire some fine art?
3. Will you honk your horn at the people in front of you, even though you are stopped at a red light and there is absolutely nowhere for the people in front of you to go?
4. Will you throw your Taco Bell bag out of the window, because, by god, you are not having no trashy ass car, yo?
If you answered yes to anyone of these questions, your application to drive will be invalidated and you will have to walk. And no one will feel sorry for you. And the world will be better for us polite drivers. And all you Rudeness Test flunkeys can KISS MY TAILPIPE. Ahem.