We Can All Use a Little More Juju

2010-05-09T22:05:00.000-05:00

Well, it's a new month, friends. It has been for several days, but, if you've been keeping track of the insanity that is the Middle Tennessee area, you'll forgive me. Nashville was hit by a flood the likes of which the state has never seen and hopefully never will again. The Cumberland River overflowed, drowning the downtown area, and where I am currently staying, well, was one of the hardest hit regions. Luckily, there was no damage to our house, but a lot of people lost everything.

Some people were forced to evacuate via boat after being stuck on their roofs. My sister's house had 6 feet of water in the basement. 6 FEET. Many of the money making industries, like Opry Mills and Opryland Hotel, were completely inundated with water. A building floated down a major interstate. I'm not even kidding about that.

I was driving down some of the neighborhood streets that I know so well, and it looks like a disaster zone. There is trash everywhere, water-damaged furniture stacked on the side of the road. Some areas, over a week later, are still blocked off due to excess water. An acquaintance of mine lost her job because the theater where she works is not worth rebuilding. They're going to have to tear down and rebuild a lot of things.

But Nashville will get back on its feet. It may take years but for the first time in a while, I am proud to be a Nashvillian. We're good people who jumped at the first chance to help someone. We went back to work on Monday (well, those of us that could get to work) but also looked for opportunities to send money or assistance to those in need. Even TPAC (our local theater production company thingy) set up a relief fund by selling various memorabilia.

Anyway, I better go before I tear up. It's that time of the month and EVERYTHING is making me cry.

show.me.your.teeth

2010-04-16T19:23:00.001-05:00

show.me.your.teeth, originally uploaded by JujuJuniper.

Okay, I'm trying this to see if I can get this damned thing to show up. If it doesn't work, I'm deleting this post.

Move along. :D

Caffeine is my fickle friend.

2010-03-22T11:37:00.000-05:00

I can't decide how I wanna do this whole getting my fiction writing back on track. Do I want to go ahead and restart the "A Million More to Go" blog or do I want to start from scratch and create a website (free because I am poor)? TOO MANY DECISIONS!!

I am creating waaaaaay too much stress for myself right now. But it's going to be worth it because I say so. I've got big, important ideas!

I have gotten back into those delusions of grandeur. You know the ones: someone totally famous and influential will read my stories and contact me about wanting to start a television show! Someone else will want to do a comic! Bungie or Epic Games will send me 100,000,000 emails about coming up with a video game! Movie companies will fight over rights but I'll say, "Hell, no, producers! I am retaining control of my art!" And they'll all say, "Okay, ruler of the literary world! You're bigger than JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer combined!" The Oscars/Tonys/Emmys/Grammys/etc. will be swept by my genius creation!

I may have gotten carried away. Back to work, I suppose.

(Oh, and if you're confused, just click here. Audio, done by yours truly.)

2010-03-22T08:15:00.001-05:00

"Can you go down to the basement to get (insert random thing my parents apparently keep in the basement)?"

This question terrifies me to the core. When I was younger, I had Cocoa, a 110-lb Weimeraner who could scare away anything by just standing there. Now, I have Maggie, the pint-sized Corgi, and Zola, the snorty Bulldog who will just lick you and smell your pants legs. These are not very effective in combating the evil that lurks in the darkness of basements everywhere.

I can't really explain why I have this fear. It's not like my parents' basement has the horrifying heater monster (or whatever that thing was) in "Home Alone," but it's just creepy. My dad has his workshop down there, and Christmas presents are wrapped during the holiday season. A lot of childhood memories have retired there, so it really should NOT be as scary as I make it out to be.

It could go back to the fact that I watched "Unsolved Mysteries" way too much as a kid. People find dead bodies in basements! Anything related with the dark will mean that you will be kidnapped and raped!! And only Robert Stack (RIP, Scary-Voiced Man) and his pleas will have your case be solved. This is why I avoid phone booths. You'd think it's because I have a cell phone, but it's not. It's because some girl was calling her boyfriend in a reenactment on "Unsolved Mysteries" and then she was violently shoved in a green pickup and NEVER HEARD FROM AGAIN. It's also why I always carry a sharp object with me when I have to let the dogs out after it gets dark. The wind bristling through the bushes just has to be a murderer who has staked out my home and now is his perfect opportunity. And it's why I run up the stairs when I turn the lights off to go to bed.

........

Alright, now I'm going to have trouble sleeping tonight. And I'll be using the front door entrance to get to my car for the rest of the week.

I actually LIKE cooking (I just hate cleaning it up).

2010-03-21T10:00:00.000-05:00

I am taking on a new responsibility. I will be cooking an ethnically diverse meal one day a week to expand my parents' culinary horizons.

See, I absolutely adore eating foreign cuisines. Part of it is because I cannot stand the apparent blandness of most "American" food. I'll take Cajun or some Deep South cookin', sure. I don't particularly like German and Irish food, as it seems to be rooted in some sort of carbohydrate hell, but I can appreciate a good potato now and then. My favorites, though, are Indian, Mexican and Japanese.

Anyway, last night, I made a Mediterranean-inspired pasta dish (vine tomatoes, artichoke hearts, asparagus, minced garlic and olive oil) and they actually liked it.

What shall I make next week??? Maybe felafel again? Or maybe something with some curry ... If anybody has any ideas, let me know!!!

Exercise Chronicles, Part III: "Being Sick and Exercising Do Not Mesh Well"

2010-03-20T22:24:00.000-05:00

The title is full of gospel-style truth.

On Tuesday, my body went into a weird vomity place where it stayed for three days. I had to take off an entire day of work that was spent either trying to sleep or staring into a toilet. I couldn't keep anything except Gatorade in my system and, after the first day, I just kind of gave up. But, I was so dedicated (read: stupid) to this marathon training that I got on the treadmill, against my better judgment, and did my training program with nothing to sustain me.

Now, I'm no doctor, but I can safely say that I probably would have gotten better sooner if I had just laid in bed, drinking hot tea, plenty of water and munching on saltine crackers.

I did get one thing out of this experience, though. I have GOT to start paying attention to what my body is trying to tell me. If you can't stand up for more than five minutes without feeling like you're going to throw up, you probably shouldn't be putting on your running shoes to go jog three miles.

Just sayin'.

Anyway, I have successfully defeated the monster that is a stomach virus (at least I think that's what it was). Everyone kept asking me if I was pregnant, which was funny the first time, but once that became the first conclusion people came to when I explained my upchucking extravaganza, I got a little annoyed. I was like, "I go to three, maybe four places: work, gym, park, home. Unless sperm has now become airborne and subsists of really hardy little upstream swimmers or God has decided it's time to start immaculately conceiving children again, there is no way that I am with child. So my symptoms, I believe, were some devious little virus.

And I will officially start my training again, after assessing how my body handles the strain. I feel all grown up now. And kind of like an athlete. Weird. :)

Exercise Chronicles, Part II: "I am officially insane."

2010-02-26T20:29:00.000-06:00

All of yesterday, I wore 2.5 pound weights around each of my ankles, and I'm doing the same thing today. You wouldn't think that small amount of weight would make a difference, but it does. It felt really funny trying to walk, let alone run. It was like trying to wade through thick sludge. Plus, everybody was looking at me strangely because of the weights peeking out from underneath my pant legs.

I can't really explain why I feel this is necessary. For the majority of my young adult life, I've had body issues. I've never been fat, I suppose, but I've always felt subpar. I would work out constantly and got too thin there for a while. While I knew that I didn't weigh enough, I felt good. I felt pretty and fit and I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted. Now I'm at the ultimate low place, at least for me. I have gained weight and I just feel blah.

I just wish I could get to a point where I was comfortable with myself. It's true when someone says that anorexia is an incurable disease; therapy would probably help me but a part of my brain just eeks out when you talk about going to see a therapist. Paying somebody to talk to? Um, I can just talk to my mom, right? She's free and has a ton of emotional support just waiting to be dispensed. Or my dad. He's a pillar. My sister could probably also be an ear. But I almost feel like it's trivial. There are people in Haiti that have lost everything; children are starving; the elderly are being forgotten. Sigh.

Sorry, I've just been going through a rough patch. So I'm going to think of the sunshine coming my way tomorrow. Maybe spring really is just around the corner.

Week in Review

2010-02-21T14:08:00.000-06:00

This past week has been interesting. For one, I hate snow. I hate ice. I hate being cold. And yet, it all managed to happen ALL AT THE SAME TIME. And then, the weather turned friendly, with sunshine and warm(er) temperatures.

I didn't have work on Monday due to President's Day, which I guess was kind of nice, but there's a lot of stuff I needed to get done at work (review applications, call people, go through item d's, submit new budgets, etc.) The middle part of the week was kind of a bust because I was playing catch up.

Which brings me to a whole other set of problems. I may have written about this before, but the guy who had the job I have now basically didn't do anything for the last month he was there. He had a lot of problems, mainly psychological ones, but he also just could not keep up with the work. So he just let it sit there and dodged phone calls from the nursing homes who were rightfully wondering what the hell was going on. So now, I'm calling the nursing homes and letting them know who I am and that I'm working on the mess left for me. They're pretty understanding, although now I'm getting calls, asking how far I am and if they'll be able to get any information. So we're both being patient with each other.

Moving on, I had to spend four hours of my day on Friday, driving to McMinnville, a town I had heard of but thought that maybe it only existed in some farmer's mind. But no, it's there. It's in the middle of nowhere, but it's there. I was able to meet a few other people that are in my field (nursing home case worker for the state), which was nice. I've been emailing these people for weeks now, and now I can put a name to a face. It's kind of strange, since a lot of the people I had assumed looked a lot different than they actually do. I'm also amazed at how the majority of state employees are older people, ones who have been there for a long while. I think I was the youngest person in the room.

Then, for Saturday, my body thought it would be fun to be sick, so all the things I had planned for that day were shot. I had wanted to wash my car, clean my room, set up a Quicken account, go on a hike, write a few chapters/short stories, etc. Instead, I watched "Howl's Flying Castle" and "Sliding Doors," played Lords Online (which is such a waste of time) and signed up for Gilt. I wondered about time zones and how someone (or someones) determined exactly how to divvy them up amongst the world. I even got a lot of plot holes worked out for my story. I read a lot of blogs (I'll fill you guys in on these later), posted on Tumblr and generally got nothing done.

And today (Sunday) seems to be no different. I was supposed to go to lunch with my family and a friend of my sister's who is moving back to Utah. I was going to do some laundry but the washer appears to be broken. Even though it is gorgeous outside, I don't feel it's the best thing to put my body through exercise, just in case it's not completely over this bug I have. I may end up going to the park to walk Zola and Maggie, but that's probably a pipe dream. (I wonder where that phrase comes from ....)

Here's hoping that this week will be much better and more productive than last week. I only have a few more reviews to do and the weather looks wonderful, according to Weather.com, but we all know how weather forecasters can be blowhards.

Now, on to Arbor Day.

2010-02-14T20:22:00.000-06:00

Oh, Valentine's Day, how I have loved and loathed you over the years.

Now, however, it seems our relationship, be it benevolent, malevolent or ambivalent, has somewhat ended. I had completely forgotten about your existence, very similar to how I forgot that I have dated certain guys over the course of my romantic history. Despite the media's influence, I was neither thrilled nor dreadful of your advent, and now, since you will soon pass into yesterday in a mere few hours, I don't think that today has been bad. I was able to get four shirts for under thirty dollars, bought new mouthwash and lotion, and even ordered some very cute tops from the Calvin Klein website but a few minutes ago.

Granted, my hope to go ice skating with the females of my family - my father has a certain animosity towards anything involving skating, as he usually spends most of his time either hugging the wall, falling or complaining that the previous things were occurring, so he would have none of it - was squashed, as the Sports Plex was not willing to be open past 3:30 p.m., so I opted to spend time with the mother-person. I don't even think we really fought today, except when my mom was phantom-break-pedaling because I didn't stop a mile before a stop light.

And I was able to have a Valentine: little Zola, who will love me unconditionally, as romantic entanglements come and go. She woke me up with sloppy puppy kisses, one of the best (and sometimes worst) ways to bring in the morning.

I do have but one regret: Mass Effect 2 was not in stock at Blockbuster. But I ended up renting Miami Vice and Howl's Flying Castle, as well as purchasing Idiocracy for $5.00.

Happy Valentine's Day to all.

2010-02-08T20:18:00.000-06:00

Does anyone else start giggling every time the chorus for "Sexy Bitch" (or "Damn, You's a Sexy Chick," if it's being censored for the kiddies) comes on the radio? Because I do.

Pop music has not been known for its Shakespearean lyricism, unless Ol' Will penned such a masterpiece as, "Baby, have some trustin', trustin', when I come in lustin', lustin', 'cause I bring ya that comfort. I ain't only here 'cause I want ya body; I want your mind, too. Interesting's what I find you*. And I'm interested in the long haul. Come on, girl. Yee haw."

And it infects EVERYTHING. Ke$ha** says, in way too white of a voice, "I'm talking 'bout everybody getting crunk, crunk; boys tryin' to touch my junk, junk ..." ETC ETC ETC. I mean, this is stuff children with dirty minds can think of, and it's selling like hot cakes. Or whatever, you pick your phrase.

But then we have Taylor Swift with her simplistic "bleachers rhymes with speakers!!" mumbo jumbo, and instead of me laughing, I'm now kind of irate. Add Lady Gaga's*** "disco stick" and we have ourselves a veritable cornucopia of blech.

There is a reason I stick with the likes classical music, Fleetwood Mac, Imogen Heap, Placebo and Rufus Wainwright. There is actual thought in their words - unless it's classical and then it's just music, but still.

Now get off my lawn.

* What the craptastic syntax???
** What's wrong with a plain old "S," Miss Sounds-like-I'm-Perpetually-Drunk? I will forever be stumped by this weird trend of spelling things oddly. Like Le-sha (pronounced Ledasha, duh). Whatever happened to Joan?
*** Don't get me wrong. I love me some Gaga, but I get tired of hearing new euphemisms for male genitalia.

Of all the gin joints in the world ......

2010-02-04T12:51:00.000-06:00

I just had lunch with an old friend of mine.

To be more accurate, he is technically an old boyfriend; while the truth is much more complicated, I'll just say we dated for about a month before he basically said, "I'm not ready" by being evasive and ball-less. We were able to get past that once I realized I wasn't interested anymore, but for a while there, we really couldn't work together. Oh, did I not mention that we were both servers at an Olive Garden? Where teamwork supposedly is key? 'Cause we were.

Anyway, we managed to get our friendship somewhat repaired once he apologized for being an insensitive ass, but then I left the restaurant for a job closer into town. We hung out a couple of times after that and talked on the phone intermittently, but eventually, as it almost always happens, we lost touch. I thought about him from time to time, wondering if he was doing alright.

See, this guy was a rather interesting individual. He was a drug addict and heavy drinker in his early life until he became a Christian in his mid-to-late-twenties, which totally turned him around. The kid with no ambition in life wanted to become a prison preacher, and he had started in that direction. A few times, he started drinking again but was always able to get himself back on track. We had exceptionally deep religious conversations compounded with frivolous video game arguments, at which we always laughed at the juxtaposition of the two topics.

I had always thought that he would land on his feet and hoped for the best for him.

Then I saw him in my office today. As many of you know, I work at the Dept. of Human Services, or, as it was formerly called, the welfare office. It was just strange to see him there, sitting among the other people applying for assistance. Not strange because I think he's better than that - if I had known such services were available when I was going through my rough financial patches, sure, I most likely would have done so - but strange on another two levels: 1) I never thought I'd see him again and 2) he's always been able to make do.

He had this sheepish look on his face when he recognized me. Of course, I was just surprised to see him period, but I'm sure the expression I had on my face didn't help his embarrassment. Luckily, I was not assigned his case - conflict of interest and kind of uncomfortable - and he gave his case worker his number to give to me. I was in an interview with another client at the time, so I called him once she left to see if he wanted to go to lunch.

"Sure!" he said.

Then he asked me to pick him up because he was walking. "My car was impounded."

We went to Ruby Tuesday's (their spring roll thingies are really good, surprisingly) and talked for a good hour. It was just nice to see him and be able to tell that, while he's not in such a good spot, he's still okay. He's had his problems over the past year but he's still positive. Again, we discussed faith and Final Fantasy XIII and giggled at the pairing. We compared each other's past year histories and laughed at our relationship follies. He then made sure that I entered his number into my phone and had me drop him back off where I picked him up, saying that he wanted to go down to the movie theater to apply for a job.

After letting him out of the car on the square, I drove off, thinking about how different our lives had turned out. When we met, we were both measley servers at a chain restaurant, forced to wear white button down shirts and garish ties, and now I'm on the employed side of the office, whereas he's in the lobby. I feel bad for him and wish him the best.

And I really hope the theater is hiring.

Tumbling along ....

2010-01-28T23:48:00.000-06:00

Well, I've done the unthinkable and started a tumblr (and for the life of me, I cannot type tumbler correctly at least three times). I haven't decided what exactly I'm going to use it for but I'll keep everybody posted!

Loves!

Jj

Your glands are on the adventure of their LIVES!!!

2010-01-27T11:22:00.001-06:00

In high school, I had a math teacher, Ms. F, who was pretty much pure awesome on a cracker. She was as passionate about math as I was about anime at the time*, and it was almost comical to see her get visibly excited when trying to explain complex higher math theories to a room full of ninth graders, most of whom had no idea that math could get any more difficult than algebra.

Anyway, Ms. F was probably the only teacher who could get away with using teenage jargon** because she was actually only about 5 - 7 years older than we were. The other teachers who tried generally received eye rolls, even when they were trying to be ironic. The only thing worse than that was when they referenced "cool" TV shows, songs, etc., which were usually already outdated by the time the adults heard about them. One of my teachers consistently used MTV as a resource on all things kid-approved and I don't think he ever knew he was mercilessly mocked.

If you are in education, sure, try to make the content relateable to your students. Keep it interesting, but don't try too hard, or else you come out looking like a doofus. And an outdated doofus, at that.

Take the opening to the chapter in my anatomy and physiology textbook on the endocrine system: "You don't have to watch 'CSI' to experience action-packed drama."

... Um ... what? This is a chapter on glands. Glands. The cells in my body aren't going on "dynamic adventures on microscopic levels." It does not make studying more fun by imagining my hormones as tiny Indiana Joneses, boldly crossing invisible neurological bridges to stimulate my pancreas. Granted, I find the endocrine system fascinating in and of itself, anyway, so the extra attempt just comes off as goofy and not particularly inventive. Maybe someone else is drawn in by that intro, but I don't think that anyone entering in the medical field would find the human body boring. Of course, I loathe cytology (the study of cells), but I doubt that an author inserting a reference to "Speed" would make me actually want to read about the Golgi apparatus.

Now, I'm not offering any alternatives to this approach because I don't have a great desire to pen a textbook anytime soon. But when "CSI" is no longer on the air, the authors/publishers are going to have to update this to another "action-packed" show. This just reminds me of when they update period-specific items, like something that was obviously from a certain era and should remain there. Case in point: Babysitter's Club. Apparently, someone is working on updating the series, which just chaps my ass. And "Fame." The scene where the girl pays for an abortion with a credit card was very shocking at the time; now, it's passe, so they have to come up with something equally shocking, and this trend will just continue until someone realizes that, hey, you know, let's let it be.

Blah, this is turning into a rant, and I have to get a few things done before lunch, so tata, friends!

* I never had to actually sign my name on any of my assignments because I used to draw anime-style eyes on them. It got to the point where this was common practice in all of my classes but only she was the one who didn't really care.

** Funny story: for the longest time, Ms. F would say, "My bag" instead of "My bad" whenever she would mess up until someone called her out on it. And she has this crazy northern accent, so it was a very nasally version, which made it all the more entertaining.

Rerouting

2010-01-24T17:57:00.000-06:00

For a while, I wanted to have my writing separate from my personal blog, but it's just way too much of a hassle. If any of you were readers of my "A Million More to Go" blog, I apologize, but I'm not going to be updating it as of right now. I'll just be posting my stories on here.

Eventually I'll go back to it but for right now, one blog is probably enough for this girl.

Hope everybody is having a great weekend!!!

Exercise Chronicles, Part I: "I Have a Good Ass"

2010-01-24T08:00:00.000-06:00

I just received my Yogalosophy by Mandy Ingber DVD in the mail, and I can't remember the last time I was so excited about trying out a new exercise program. Now, I'm not normally interested in anything that a celebrity espouses simply because a name is attached; that is pretty much reserved for a select set of famous people that include Dolly Parton, Sam Elliot, Joss Whedon and, in the case of Yogalosophy, Jennifer Aniston.

My favorite Friend, Aniston introduces the workout in her normal cheerful way, her impeccable physique in the foreground and the California sunshine behind her. It's a short intro and she says "my life" way too many times, but I couldn't help getting thrilled because, well, just look at the woman. She does this workout. And other things, I'm sure, but still.

So I select the first workout (there's 2 on here, plus extra little exercise snippets) with this big grin on my face, as I stand at attention. On comes Mandy Ingber, who has this sort of awkward cheerleader wannabe aura about her, standing firmly at the end of her yoga mat, ready to impart her wisdom.

And then the workout starts. It's not too difficult, I suppose, at the beginning, as it should be, but it quickly proves to me that this is no cakewalk. There's a reason Jennifer Aniston and Mandy Ingber look the way they do. Within the first six minutes, I look at the screen and yell, "You, ma'am, are INSANE!!!"

But she is just so gosh-darned cute. She has a vulnerability that I like, and there are all sorts of imperfections in the video that I really appreciate. I'm a fan of the Firm (I also just bought their new Wave workout program to alternate with Yogalosophy), and all their videos tend to be squeaky clean. Mandy messes up some of her lines, but she's so endearing that you overlook it. She also tells this silly little jokes that could come off as her trying too hard, yet her giggle afterwards just makes you laugh with her. Plus, she has given me my new workout mantra: "I have a good ass, I have a good ass, I have a good ass ..." Lather, rinse, repeat as needed.

I figure, if I do this workout three times a week, alternating with the Firm and the treadmill, I'll be looking good by summer. Not that I'm going anywhere that I would need to bare my body for all to see (you see, I'm poor and my summer vacation is probably going to be me, Zola and a 6 pack of Hoegaarden on my parents' deck), but I'm just sick and tired of feeling blah. It's not even the size that is bothering me; I'm nowhere near overweight, but I don't like the fact that my jeans aren't fitting me as well as they did a year ago and that I just don't have the same energy.

So this is a step in that direction. And I'll probably be writing Ms. Ingber and Ms. Aniston heavily-all-caps laden letters of appreciation.

Good enough for government work ....

2010-01-23T16:39:00.000-06:00

There is a reason why that phrase exists.

It's no secret that I work for the government. I'm a state employee and, for the most part, I enjoy my job, especially since I just transferred into nursing home Medicaid (or TennCare, for those of you who live in Tennessee) which involves one of my favorite demographics of people. I nearly fall in love with ever single old man I've ever come across - there was one 70-something man who proposed because he got a disability check and could take care of me.

Anyway, I can't go into many details because, well, most of the info is protected, but I have not been more frustrated at my job like I was yesterday. I'm updating files for several clients and I run across one that's been mishandled. And instead of admitting that something was done incorrectly, people have basically said, oh, well, just close the case and let them reapply. Um. No. We effed up on our end, so there is no reason to penalize the patient. Ugh.

I understand why most people have negative attitudes about going into a government building. Many times, before I started working for the Man, I'd gone in and the apathetic attitudes exuded by the people behind the desks makes me wish that I could just inject them with some sort of personality so I could at least somewhat enjoy my time there. I even tried to be nice and I was just met with ambivalence. And confusion.

Granted, I can understand the aloof attitudes, to some degree. I see a lot of needy people and if I was to feel remorse for every single person that walked through those doors, I would be depressed all of the time. But you can't completely cut yourself off emotionally. It's a balancing act.

Take a girl I had to call yesterday and explain to her that she wasn't eligible for Medicaid and that her food stamps case had to be closed because she made too much money. She got angry and I had to transition into my detached mode. I know that she's not angry at me but I've learned that, if I don't realize that and take myself out of the situation, I will get mad right back at her. So I shut my emotions down until she gets calm. Then I turn my empathy back on and let her know that I'm very sorry, I offer her different options and wish her the best of luck. At the end of the call, she's still frustrated but she knows (or at least I think she does) that I had done everything I could to help her.

But there's also the fact that people in my profession become jaded. We see truly needy people and then we see people who wish to scam the system. And many times, it's very hard to tell the difference between the two; you think someone is hurting and then you find out they're lying to you. Happens more often than I'd like.

But I made a decision yesterday that I would not sink into the "government worker" mentality. It's going to be very difficult because of the massive caseload that I have, but it's a goal, one that I think it is worth it. I want to be like Little Miss MFA at my office, who, after 32 years working as an eligibility counselor still has tremendous rapport with her clients and has yet to be in a bad mood in the entire 8 months I have known her.

Sigh. I hope I can make it 5 years, let alone over 30. Can I retire now???

2010-01-17T09:00:00.001-06:00

Will I be watching the Golden Globes?

Probably not.

The Emmys?

I think I have something else planned.

Will I be watching the Oscars?

Meh. Maybe the red carpet part where the celebrities strut around in sparkly clothing. The actual awards show? Nah.

I remember a time - probably when Gwen Paltrow wore that bubblegum pink princess dress for whatever movie she won "Best Actress" back in the 90s - when I looked forward to the award show season. I even yearned to go to Sundance and Cannes.

Then again, back then, I watched television on a regular basis and movies were a major part of my life. Friends was still on NBC and the only reality show was the Real World (and already losing its popularity). Pop Up Video was on VH1, and the Disney Channel had actual Disney cartoons on them.

Ah, those were the days.

Now, I wait until TV shows or movies come out on DVD, rent the first disc from Blockbuster and decide if it needs to be part of my DVD/Blu-Ray collection. Lucky for me, my sister has connections at the local cinema, so I can often get into movies for free to see if they are worth my time. So most often, I don't know about a new movie until it is no longer in theaters.

And, as old fogey as this sounds, I don't even know most of the celebrities nowadays. Leighton Meester? Who the hell is she? Lauren Conrad? Why is she famous? Jason Segel? Yeah, I know who he is but I haven't seen any of his movies, so I can't comment on why people find him to be a good actor.

Maybe it's maturity that's set in, but I really don't have any desire to know anything about celebrities. I was listening to the radio yesterday and Ryan Seacrest (remind me again, why the hell is he famous in any way?) left this blind item: "What famous break up is in the news again?" I actually said this out loud: "I don't know. Haiti?" and put in my Halo: ODST soundtrack. I still have not lost sleep over this; nope, I have lost sleep over my new class, work and general unhappiness with my state of fitness.

Now, considering the reputation the Globes have for being less pretentious than the other ceremonies, I may actually tune in if nothing else is going on. I'm pretty sure I could be studying.

Juju's Rules

2010-01-16T21:09:00.000-06:00

I love the USA Network for many reasons; Burn Notice, In Plain Sight and Psych are incredibly fun, well-written shows and they have Law and Order: SVU, Law and Order: CI and NCIS marathons. We're not talking five episodes back to back, like CSI: Miami on A&E (although that is a favorite way of mine to spend a Saturday night); this is a full weekend of police procedural drama.

Not only does this give me a change to stare at Stabler and Gibbs for hours on end, I also get to play solve-the-mystery. This, however, is a little less fun after you've seen probably every episode ever, but the prettiness on the screen never gets old.

Plus, I get little ideas for my own life. Take Jethro Gibb's list of rules for life. I think I will make up one for myself and start posting up in my room and office/cubie (and yes, I spelled it cubie - pronounced "kew-bee") but I only have a few to start:

1) Never watch reality television if it involves alcohol, dating, "love," roses, people trying to be famous for being famous, etc. This is based on review of the first show.
2) Exercise every day; it can help you clear your mind.
3) Write/draw/be artistic as often as possible.
4) Try not to procrastinate.
5) Take breaks from the internet.

It's not a bad compilation so far, but I've got a ways to go. I'm also allowing for amendments because fluidity is important.

Plus, I change my mind a lot, so anything set in stone is kind of daunting for me.

Trepidation sets in .......

2010-01-12T22:17:00.000-06:00

Yeah, so I start my A&P II class in two days. Two mother-effing days.

I'm pretty much terrified that this is all a waste of $640.00. Please, God, help me not fail this class.

Ugh.

Vintage JuJu

2010-01-04T01:21:00.000-06:00

Every once in a while, usually around the beginning or end of the year, I like to look through the old pictures of my family, partially for memory purposes - it's really nice to see my deceased grandmother looking healthy and happy - and also to laugh hysterically at some of the fashion faux pas from the earlier part of my life. Granted, the early parts of my life were in the 80s and early 90s, which were horrible eras for fashion (And why, for the love of GOD, is 80s back in? Did we not learn anything from the decade of big hair and neon????), so I have plenty of fun choices to mock.

Yesterday, I whipped out the old, crumbling tomes of days past. I couldn't help but think, "Oh, I was so cute! What the hell happened?"

But anyway, here are a few of the highlights:

(Now, I would have just posted the pictures here directly, but Blogger was being dumb and wouldn't let me. So you get a video instead. Whee.)

2010-01-02T09:45:00.002-06:00

So apparently my idea of starting the new decade is attempting to metaphorically kill myself.

First of all, if any of you follow me on Twitter or are my Facebook friends, you'll already know that I have signed up for Anatomy and Physiology II at Nashville State Community College (online, thank you JESUS) and that I might be adding probability and statistics to my academic regimen. Because I am insane.

Now, I don't think I was writing this blog when I was taking A&P I, but I'm pretty sure I can do a quick summary right here: it sucked; I made the worst grades I have ever made in my educational career, spent many fruitless hours studying and crying because I didn't want to fail, and somehow (there must have been a very generous curve) ended up with a B. Whew. Needless to say, I was not much fun to be around during those few months but it was a growing experience.

I'm also trying to decide to which nursing schools I'm going to apply. I've narrowed it down to three schools: Belmont (they have an accelerated program), Vanderbilt (I would graduate with an MSN in two years) or MTSU (it's not as expensive as the other schools and I'm already accepted down there). I've almost completely settled on MTSU because, like I stated above, it's the most economical; I already understand the dynamics of that university because I went there before; Belmont has these annoying Bible class requirements; and Vandy is just really, really pricey. It isn't that I have a problem with Christianity-related classes, as I'm a Christian, but it just rubs me the wrong way, for some reason. And I also have issues with having an MSN (Master's of Science in Nursing, just in case) because I feel like you need experience do be able to have this degree. It would be like a third-year medical student, coming right out of his academic classes and heading straight into practice, with no supervision at all. I just don't like that idea.

Not only have I given myself the next four years (before I turn 30) to complete nursing school, I have also started hunkering down on the writing. You wouldn't think that writing for an hour a day would be that difficult, but it is. I have a lot of other things, which I will describe later, that I have to somehow fit into a 24 hour period, and my brain is constantly working on this collection of stories. Plus, it's become this sprawling, epic sort of thing, like all of my stories do. I can't just write a simple one-act play. Nope, it just turns into a George Lucas. Argh.

I'm also beginning my training for the 2011 Music City Half-Marathon. There is no way in hell that I can be ready for this year's run-til-you-drop. I'm starting off slowly, speed walking in my new ShapeUps (they totally WORK, by the way - just one day and you notice the difference) five times a week and weight-lifting four to five times a week. But this is kind of one of those must-do things, mainly to keep my sanity. It's my time for prayer and self-reflection; plus I get to watch "Friends."

Kind of using the spiritual aspect of the last paragraph to segue into this one, my sister and I made the decision to read the Bible the whole way through this year, starting yesterday. I read the first chapter of Genesis and I'm wondering if we're going the chapter-a-day route. I'll have to discuss this with her, since I'm kind of hoping we can read it in chunks. Stef, if you're reading this ... :)

And to top it all off, I'm also starting a new position at my office. A few weeks ago, I accepted the position of nursing home case worker at the Department of Human Services, thinking that it wouldn't really start until the middle of January. Well, as luck would have it, the woman who was going to be training me has resigned, so starting this coming Tuesday, I will be training. In addition to my reviewing my A&P I material, I'm going to have to be learning all of the policy for nursing home Medicaid. I mean, I'm thankful, don't get me wrong. It's my favorite demographic of people, but the policy is a lot to take in. I have to know a lot more about their financial situations, and my usage of acronyms is going to start taking effect. My supervisor has already given me the policy "handbook," which is ridiculously long and not very exciting. It's like reading the whaling information in Moby Dick; you know, the parts you skipped over so you could read about Captain Ahab going nuts? Except there are no parts like this in my handbook.

Sigh. I am going to have no life whatsoever. Looks like it's gonna be me and Zola kissing again at next year's NYE bash.

Yummy yummy tummy - nom nom nom

2010-01-02T03:27:00.001-06:00

I inherited my father's sweet tooth, and I am really okay with that. It is one gene about which I am not constantly griping (i.e. lactose intolerance, near-sightedness, mouth ulcers, etc.). However, I have quite particular taste when it comes to that sort of thing, close to snobbishness. But I also inherited that from my father; he once told me, when I stated I preferred Pepsi over Coca Cola, that I "must not be American and therefore must also hate apple pie." I always thought Pepsi was also an American brand but I believed it would be best if I let my dad have his moment. Plus, he seemed oddly hostile for someone who doesn't even enjoy eating that much.

Anyway, I discovered this awesome website that will definitely be helping me along in my addiction to sweet things: Cupcake Bakeshop by Chocylit.

Next week is going to be the week of cupcakes, starting with Green Tea Cupcakes with lavendar/ginger icing. Again, yummy yummy yummy - nom nom nom.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot ..."

2009-12-31T19:22:00.001-06:00

Foreign Press did a very strange article titled "The Best Years of the Decade."

Well, it wasn't so much of an article as it was a list ... with no explanations whatsoever as to the reasoning behind their choices.

Anyway, I decided to follow suit and come up with a list of my own, based upon my personal experience with the last 10 years. And in case you're wondering, 1 = the best and 10 = the worst.

1. 2002
2. 2001
3. 2000
4. 2009
5. 2004
6. 2005
7. 2003
8. 2006
9. 2007
10. 2008

Okay, so 2002 was a pretty awesome year. I graduated from high school and began my college career. The years 2000 and 2001 marked the years that I finally discovered that I was a pretty cool person, despite not being in the in-crowd (which had included the same set of people since middle school). Sure, there were bad times during this period (9/11, getting my first ticket, etc.), but all in all, it was a pretty positive experience. I got my first job, my first boyfriend (who was an emotionally abusive person but I thankfully had the smarts to get the hell out of that relationship), went on what was probably the most fun prom ever (my friend Jesse and I went together and it was a blast - no sexual tension, since Jesse was gay, and all we did was eat and dance on the General Jackson showboat, my class' idea).

As of yet, 2009 has been one of the better years of the latter half of this decade, at least for me. I, unlike a lot of people, managed to find a job after being unemployed for 7 months. In October, I celebrated my anniversary of moving back with the parents, which has been both a frustrating and a enlightening time. But I'm moving in a direction to where I am a better person.

And now, for the crappy years. 2004 was the year right after I told my parents to get the hell out of my life (because I, like, wanted to be independent, yo), spent all of my savings because I couldn't find a job and I was having to pay for rent and utilities. I bought a dog on credit - love you, Maggie, who was actually named Stoli when I bought her, given my penchant for naming animals after alcoholic beverages. I also got in a wreck with a car I had bought for $600 that I had named Spaz. Spaz was a 1987 Ford Escort hatchback that was kept together by bubble gum, popsicle sticks and happy thoughts and was not able to stop at any point during a driving adventure because the car would die. True story. I got pulled over so many times until the cops realized that I wasn't trying to break the law and just kind of waved as I passed by. Well, I was rear-ended by a semi-truck that completely destroyed the car. That was fun. I spent the rest of this year trying to make up for mistakes I had made with my parents.

2005 is where it is because I can't really remember much of what happened that year except that it was just a bad year; it's kind of like I remember middle school sucking big hairy balls but I've blocked so much of it from my memory that it doesn't really matter that much. I remember that I broke up with my boyfriend of 2 years in July because I realized there was no future. Later on, we got back together for what was the most miserable two months of my life, relationship wise, and then he broke up with me on my birthday over the phone, even though I had stupidly decided to make us work.

Moving on, I brought in 2006 with a glass of champagne and tears in my eyes because I hadn't really gotten over my ass-munching ex-boyfriend. The next four or five months was me being depressed, amazingly graduating from college and trying to find a job. I worked at Borders down on West End in Nashville, under the worst manager I have ever had: Karen. God, I hate that name now; anyone named Karen, I am sorry, but I will automatically despise you and will probably have to start calling you something else to avoid having negative thoughts about you. Anyway, I resigned my job after 3 months because she was a heinous bitch. I'll admit I wasn't the best employee, but she never was able to tell me what exactly I was doing wrong or how I could correct it. Instead, she talked about me behind my back, not only to the other managers, but to the regular employees, as well. The last two weeks of working there, I was called to jury duty, but it was for a federal child pornography case, so I got to watch gay porn with young teenage boys for nearly two weeks straight. But I didn't have to deal with Karen, for which I was thankful. We ended up convicting him of 11 of the 23 counts, sending him to jail for 15 years minimum; I honestly don't know the punishment, as I kind of separated myself after the trial was over. Then I got another job, working for DirectBuy as a shipping specialist and got let go due to poor sales the day my family and I were celebrating my birthday. Plus, I had just made another bad decision and had bought a Harley Davidson Sportster 883 on impulse. Granted, that year, I had met and started dating Kyle, which was for the most part a very positive romantic relationship. We still remain friends, although we don't see each other as much as I would like.

Oh, 2007. What a year you were. First of all, I brought in the year with a bang. The motorcycle I had bought in December was defective and ended up giving me lovely third degree burns on my right leg. When I went to the burn unit at Vanderbilt, I was told I would have to have skin grafts, I had no idea what I was going to do. I had no job and no way to pay for the surgeries, but I had to get them done or else I would never heal. What a great experience. I spent four months in recovery, taking narcotics around the clock and dealing with constant pain. Kyle and I broke up and got back together and then broke up again. Oh, the drama. I started working at Olive Garden in Mount Juliet, where I made a lot of relationship missteps, although nothing too irreparable. I ended up having to work all of the major holidays, although I was told I could have at least one of them off. But nope. I had to deal with holiday assholes. Granted, this was the first year in a while where my birthday hadn't been totally craptastic. Plus, my best friend came back into my life, after I had basically divorced her, for reasons that remain between us. But, as a whole, 2007 was my second worst year.

And then 2008 happened. Sigh. It had started out as such a good year, too. Harley Davidson stepped up and paid for my medical bills and I was able to get out on my own. I was working as a cocktail waitress, making decent money, and I bought my little Zola Pants. Then the summer came. The economy went to pot and so my income went way down, almost to $100/week, so I had to dip into the savings I had to pay for my rent and utilities and other payments. Then the credit card debt went up after that was all gone. And then I moved back in with my parents and I stopped working at the bar. Granted, I was lucky to have my parents when I needed them. They paid my bills when they realized how much trouble I was in and put up with my depressed behavior. So I guess this year, while horrible and arguably my worst financial year, was mixed with little blessings.

So, here ends my little summary of the last ten years of my life. And I am actually kind of excited for 2010 to begin in, well, right now, four and a half hours.

Happy New Year!!!

Sigh, I want pretty things. Wait, scratch that. I want things, preferably pretty.

2009-12-30T09:00:00.000-06:00

I'm in "move the hell out of my parents' house" mode again. Granted, I know that, while monetarily possible at this point in time, it's probably best that I hang around until I pay my debts off. It's not a lot of money, in complete contrast to my previous $33,000 medical bill fiasco from 2007 - 2008, but it's enough to make me uncomfortable.

Plus, I'm going back to nursing school, so there's going to be some issues there. All in all, I am not quite sure what I am going to do. Plenty of people work and get through nursing school without living at home, but I figure if I have the option of not paying rent for the time being, why not take it? Then the little annoying Mature Voice slaps me on the back of the head, telling me to grow up.

Hopefully, my father will win the lottery or some old man/woman will find me so adorable that they have to fund my further education. (That's my "I Will Forever Be 12" persona.)

Whatever I decide to do, I'm still dreaming of what I can use to furnish my apartment/house/basement. Here are some of my ideas (and how inappropriate is this, considering Christmas just effing happened):

1) a princess phone from the 1950s

(There's something about this phone that makes me happy. I think it's the fact that it is one of the rotary dialers.)

2) a framed copy of Van Gogh's "Almond Blossom" painting (isn't it pretty???)

3) a coffee table/ottoman (complete with tons o' storage for my plethora of blankets)

4) old fashioned table settings (with sugar bowl, creamer thingie, mustard jar, etc. - I frequent the Look in the Attic webpage for all sorts of vintage fun) and vintage silverware (preferably plated since it's not as expensive*)

5) one of those TownHaus doggie dens that, yet again, are ridiculously pricey

6) a turntable for my growing collection of LPs (I know, how hipster of me)

7) plenty of sets of 1000 thread count sheets - I am spoiled on these and do not care that people know this. It's like sleeping on top of heaven.

8) a huge armoire like the one my mom has upstairs in what she and I call the junk/sewing room. It's just handy.

At this point, all I'm doing is depressing myself so I should probably stop. Although what I'm probably going to really do is come up with a non-electronic version of this list so I can stay on top of things. That planner I haven't used since I got it last year really is proving to be quite a wonderful tool.

On a side note, oh my GOD, tomorrow is the last day of the year.

* True story - I found a set of gold-plated silverware from 1764 at an antique store in Nashville and that was going for $5000. Not a penny less. You'd better shit the gold back out in bricks for that kind of cash.

"This is my favorite."

2009-12-29T21:58:00.002-06:00

I usually go out of the office for lunch because it gets a little stuffy in there and well, sometimes you just need to escape from people. There's a lovely little park about two minutes away where I go walk on days when it's not excruciatingly cold/rainy/etc. outside, and today was no different. Granted, it was pretty damned cold, but I brought my extra-insulated gloves and scarf, mainly to further my transformation into the little brother from "A Christmas Story." Unfortunately for that aspiration, I never got out of my car.

Instead I found myself entranced by this angry sounding guy being interviewed by Terri Gross on NPR. His voice sounded familiar, but I could not figure out who it was. It was actually pretty infuriating as I racked my brain in the parking lot, and I had originally thought it was a football player or something. He talked about growing up in the ghetto, having a heroin-addicted father and his lack of role models growing up. Finally, Terri Gross said the "Well, if you're just joining us" speech and reintroduced her guest: Tracy Morgan.

At first, I was like, "Ah, yes, Brian Fellows. That's where I've heard him before." But then I actually started to listen to him. When Terri confronted him about his anger issues, he stated that he wasn't that way anymore; he was just passionate. He spoke openly about his father and his unstable childhood. He discussed his experience with SNL (and his love for Lorne Michaels, who told him that he wasn't "here [at SNL] because [he] was black; [he] was there because [he] was funny) and his collaborative relationship with Tina Fey, including their work on "30 Rock."

He also brought up the interesting notion of black comedians, one that I've noted for a while. He said that, many times, black comedians get comfortable with their audience and don't know how to do anything other than ghetto comedy. This puts them in a niche market and greatly limits their potential to grow as entertainers. Coming from a self-described "ghetto boy," I found this enlightening and actually kind of inspirational. I'm not saying (and neither is he, seeing as he embraces his edgier approach with the ghetto influences) that they should forget their pasts and experiences growing up, but to sequester one's self just seems harmful to any type of artistic pursuit.

What amazed me, though, was how vulnerable he was in this interview. He actually had to stop talking for a few moments, fighting back tears, when he said that he never wanted to hurt his mother when he left to live with his father (who had sobered up from his addiction) and eventually came and got his younger brother and sister from her care. It was very touching, especially when he said that he hoped his mother read his book (I Am the New Black) so she could read about how much he loved her and knew that she had done everything she could for him and his siblings.

Now, I probably won't go out and buy Morgan's memoir, but I might check it out at the library. I probably won't watch any of his movies or rewatch one of those SNL "Best of" DVDs because, well, I never really found Tracy to be that incredibly funny. But I do have a special place in my heart for him now. This interview may just have been enough for me to start watching "30 Rock," though. Plus, I miss me some Tina Fey.

PS The quote in the title is from what Tracy Morgan sketch? Highlight the following portion for the answer: his Maya Angelou impression on Weekend Update with Tina Fey

But I made a vow to the moon and the stars that I'd search the honkytonks and bars and kill that man that gave me that awful name.

2009-12-16T18:45:00.000-06:00

I think I am going to follow the lead of a fellow case worker that works in Davidson County and start compiling a list of all the insane names I see on a daily basis. I'm amazed at what people think is appropriate to call their children. The infamous "Nosmo King" sounds practically melodious compared to some of the ones that cross my desk.

Today, I met a perfectly nice girl who has a 6 month old baby girl, cute as a button. And quiet. Thank GOD. Her first name was spelled interestingly enough (I can't give the full name, due to confidentiality) but it wasn't too weird, respectively, to some of the names I'm going to list later, but it was only when I read the birth certificate that I felt truly sorry for what this little girl is going to have to deal with later in life. Her middle names (yes, names - which isn't too abnormal, but still) are Raven Storm. Like a superhero. My soul gently weeps.

This, however, is not the worst, as I noted earlier. Back when I was in training in Davidson County, I ran across a woman who had named her poor daughter Fellatia. As in the feminine form of Fellatio. Oh, what fun puberty will be. Yesterday, I saw a Bimmer (like the car), and back when I first started working full time in Wilson County, I met a man - a big, burly dude, too - named Molivette. One of my coworkers told me about a little boy who was named Precious, as well as another horribly deemed Imagine That (first and middle name).

Whatever happened to Jane? Or George? Or heck, even Sawyer or Ryan? I blame celebrities. Jason Lee named his son Pilot Inspektor. Gwen Paltrow called her daughter Apple (which I admit is kind of cute). Bob Geldof gave his daughter this name: Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa. Whew. It's almost as if they are taking revenge on some evil done to them by torturing their children. I suppose if you think of all the crap your children put you through, maybe going the "boy named Sue" route is the way to go.

But still, let's give the weird, exotic names back to the soap operas and let our children grow up without having to deal with perpetual mockery, m'kay?

The time to begin most things is ten years ago. (Mignon McLaughlin)

2009-12-05T23:11:00.001-06:00

I'm turning 26 this month. I can't really believe it. I mean, I knew that, following the year I became 25, I would undoubtedly get a year older, given that I wouldn't die or be abducted by aliens or whatever, but it's still kind of a shock.

It's not a milestone birthday, of course. It's like turning 19 or 22 (both of which are particular ages for Medicaid and food stamp eligibility, so I guess there's points there - although that knowledge does paint me as a giant work nerd, since my first thoughts concerning those two numbers were related to my job). Nobody really cares when that birthday comes up, unless you're the perpetual "this day is totally about me" or the "birthday month" person.

And as a side note, can I just say that I hate those people? I mean, the world does not stop because your mother pushed you out of her uterus however many years ago. You're not Jesus.

Plus, I kinda have this phobia about this time of the year. For those of you that don't know me, my birthday has negative connotations for several reasons. I have been sick, taken a Latin exam whilst sick, gotten broken up with, had to take care of alcohol-poisoned boyfriend all night, gotten let go from a job all at least within a day of my birthday. I stopped trying to make a big deal out of it after the 2005 debacle (boyfriend/kinda fiance breaking up with me left me sort of depressed for months afterwards) Ever since then, I have this weird dread that sits over me; so I avoid talking about it or mentioning it. I just assume that if I ignore it that the bad juju/karma of the universe will kind of forget it, too. I secretly would love to celebrate it a little more, not to the extent to where I'm mentioning it at any opportunity. About two years ago, I almost came out of my shell but ended up feeling very sick because of a combination of vodka and wine, so last year, I just left it as simple and non-announce-y as I could. And it went by pretty smoothly - no earth shattering events occurred and I got to spend time with my family.

My mom keeps asking me where I want to go for my birthday dinner. I want to go to Sitar, an amazing Indian restaurant down on 21st Avenue, but neither of my parents will have anything to do with Indian cuisine, mainly due to curry. I've explained that all Indian food doesn't have curry, but that doesn't really seem to matter. In any case, I don't particularly care where we go to eat, as long as it isn't McDonald's or something similar, and as long as I can be with my family. It sounds corny, I know, but it's true.

Wherever we go, I'm sure I'll get my share of "only four years 'til you're thirty" or "so, do you feel 26?"
Nope, don't feel 26. I don't know exactly how 26 is supposed to feel, actually. I mean, before calendars and whatnot, did people just have this sixth sense that they were going to be a certain age? Like how animals know instinctively that they are supposed to do things at a specific time or else they die? Because that's a scary notion; there are things I wanted to do before I turned 30: be a published author, get married, have a child, go back to Europe, run at least a half-marathon, get a nursing/teaching degree, become fluent in Spanish and/or Farsi, go sky diving, etc. And now I've got four whole years to accomplish all of that.

I'd better get moving, or else I'll be writing this very same thing around the same time next year. Off to the treadmill! :)

I will rue the day.

2009-11-24T08:00:00.002-06:00

Sunday night was the night my parental abilities showed themselves, and I am already afraid for my future, non-existant (presently) children.

As many of you know, I have a lovely English bulldog named Zola, who is essentially my child. As a matter of fact, when I went to my high school's alumni homecoming game thingie, I brought my dog, while everyone else had their brats in tow. And guess what? Everyone was fawning over little, snorting Zola Bean. Because she is awesome. And much more well-behaved than those little minihumans. I try to keep in mind that she is of a different species, but I falter occasionally. Take Halloween, for example. I REEEAAAALLLLLY wanted to dress her up as a ladybug, but everyone objected so vehemently that I decided against it. (Next year, when I no longer have my parents as roommates, is a totally different story. I may even take myself trick or treating with Zola. I am not ashamed!!!)

Anyway, on Sunday night, I let Zola and Maggie (my parents' Corgi) out for their final take-a-shit/piss run. Thankful for indoor plumbing, I waited by the door in my jammies, letting Maggie in after she took care of business, and tapped my foot impatiently for my little snuggle buddy to come to the door.

Now, Zola has this habit of getting really excited after she's done the deed. Peeing, not so much, but pooping has her tearing back into the house like something literally scared the shit out of her. This bit of information is important.

So I hear Zola running in the dark and I prepare by turning the door handle a bit. There's no need to make myself cold without reason. Then I see Zola leap into the air and WHAM! she runs into the second of three steps leading up to the deck. Without much in the arena of reactions, Zola continues her run to the house, albeit a little more slowly. She enters the house and looks up at me with this sort of stunned look on her face, yet wagging her tail the entire time. I look down on the floor, and there's a little spot of blood that wasn't there before.

I freaked the hell out.

I'm not the kind of person who can't handle body fluids. I once helped a guy who'd split his head open when he was having a seizure; I'm not bothered by vomit; I have no problem when I have to plunge the toilet; etc.

But for some reason, the fact that my little, adorable Zola had a cut on her chin made me flip. I had her quickly follow me into the kitchen, where I applied pressure to the wound (in retrospect, not that big, but the amount of blood it was oozing was a little disconcerting) and called frantically for my mother, who was upstairs at the time. And Zola was looking at me like I was nuts. To be fair, I was. After I few minutes, I calmed down, stopped the bleeding and applied Neosporin, and all was well.

If I get this worked up over my damned DOG getting hurt, how am I going to handle my own flesh and blood? And I'm not just talking about physical injuries. What happens when my child isn't invited to a birthday party? When my daughter breaks up with her first boyfriend? When my son doesn't make the football team??? AUGH!!!

I'm horrified for my progeny. HORRIFIED.

Say Hi to ... Sadness

2009-11-23T09:04:00.000-06:00

The fashion world is mostly a mystery to me. I know what looks good on me and I'm fairly adventurous when it comes to what I wear, but the culture surrounding the industry, I'm about as close to understanding it as I am figuring out the cure to cancer. The standards that it puts on women notwithstanding, it is ridiculously callous to those it calls its own.

I followed the blog of successful runway model, Daul Kim, for the better part of this year and found myself confused and, at the same time, amused by her stream-of-consciousness mode of writing. It was always a joy to go read what nonsense she had typed that day. Sometimes it was a whimsical paragraph about how lost she felt, but the next day, she posted a nearly unbearably peppy music video or a set of oh-so-posh, behind the scenes runway photos with her and her fellow models smiling cheerily. So imagine my surprise when I noticed an article on Jezebel.com that said she had committed suicide last week. She was only 20 years old.

Sadly, her blog is now closed to people who have not been invited to it, mostly as a privacy measure by her family which I totally understand. I was able to access it last week when I found out about her unfortunate passing and the outpouring of people she had touched without her even knowing it was amazing. Other models, friends, people who had just by happenstance managed to come across it ... all of them expressed a certain amount of loss.

I never knew Ms. Kim and I never commented on her blog. Now I wish I had. I don't have some idea that I could have prevented her from doing such a thing but because then maybe she would have known what kind of happiness her words brought to me.

Rest in peace, Daul. I will miss you.

(PS The title of this blog entry, since none of you guys can read her blog, is a homage to Ms. Kim, who always titled her posts with "Say hi to (enter whatever she wanted, even if it had nothing to do with what she was posting)." I really wish you guys could have read some of her stuff. Sad face.)

Oh, Twilight ... The Joke that Keeps on Giving ....

2009-11-22T21:52:00.000-06:00

I have Tuesday evening marked on my calendar as "Make Fun of Twilight." My sister and I are going to watch the first movie at her house (apparently so I won't be confused, but whatever) and then go to the theater to witness the trainwreck that is Stephanie Meyer's idealized (and harmful) version of romance.

I'll admit it: I've never read the books and I don't ever plan on doing so. A friend of mine emailed me little snippets of the first book and I nearly vomited. I'm not claiming to be the world's best writer, but good GOD, I could have written better prose when I was in middle school. If this is what kids are reading these days, I might just try and pawn off my old diary entries with a splash of the supernatural and see how many millions of teenage girls I can lead astray.

Either way, I've been able to convince my sister that this is how her Tuesday should go, as well. However, I plan on bringing some kind of alcohol to this. I believe it's the only way that I will be able to stomach the tripe that will cross the screen. I've already gotten some pretty awesome ideas for drinking games from online buddies, but here's the question: anybody have any other ideas? It might get boring after taking a swig every time Bella looks mopey.

The Truth in Fable

2009-10-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

My Fable 2 avatar Horatio looks like an idiot. As of right now in my saved game, he's blond, has dreadlocks and mutton chops, is wearing a "tart" skirt, a farmer's hat and a "posh" shirt.

Why, you ask? He's trying to open one of those damned demon doors. Each one has requirements before it will disappear and leave a portal. Most are fairly easy; one just grunts, "Meat! You meat? You too big! Need meat! Urg!" You give him a big chunk of mutton, and voila, no more talking bearded head trapped in stone. But now I have to go find a silver cape, as per this stupid, difficult, neurotic door, and suffice to say, my hero appears to be a newbie crossdresser with a flair for the ironic.

And while it's all good fun to see a muscly man traipsing about medieval settings in a deranged whore's outfit with a sparkly katana and crossbow strapped to his back, it got really interesting when he made his way back into civilization. I was fully expecting everyone to either flee in terror or point and laugh at the hero's mental deterioration. This is not to say that this didn't happen; one woman told Horatio that he'd let himself go and that he'd be more attractive to her if he "spruced up a bit," a phrase I have yet to completely understand. (How does one exactly spruce? Can you spruce down? Horizontally? Diagonally? Interdimensionally?) Another man said that he "used to think [Horatio was] great!" Apparently, the transvestites have a long way to go for equality in Bowerstone. However, it was Horatio's wife that surprised me the most. She kept commently lustfully on how she'd love to run her fingers through his hair. Granted, she's a barmaid that's married up in the world, so her standards are lower than most. But he looks HORRIBLE.

This all got me to thinking about how, in this game, you can never really please everybody. Horatio's second wife (who died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men) liked chunky guys; his first (who also died tragically at the hands of Lucien's men - Horatio was a bigamist, although he is now going down the righteous - and boring - path of monogamy) was not a fan of the heroic pose. When Horatio started to get fat to please wife Uno, his reputation went down, and he also kind of bored people with his endless "seduce" expressions for wife Dos. Even when I changed his outfit to more attractive (at least by this game's definition, not necessarily mine) pieces of clothing, others were either apathetic or downright outraged that he would wear such things. It's all very confusing.

As much as I hate comparing the virtual world to real life, I can't help but see a nugget of truth in this idea. There is always someone who won't like what you do and another person might fall over himself to see you perform the very same task. One woman may like a guy with a big ass while her sister may get all hot and bothered by a skinny boy who wears girl jeans. Why? No one's quite sure, but it does make everything much more complex than I would like.

I suppose there is also an element of frustration on my part, as I'm trying to figure out why I am attracted to a certain person. I find myself irritated at me for liking him. He has deep-seated issues, stemming from middle and high school, that he has carried with him like a security blanket. He talks loud, gets defensive whenever I make snarky comments about his work, consistently thinks he's right, etc. And then I turn around and I STILL LIKE HIM. However, get along very well, and I'm one of the only people he doesn't fool with his "I'm the best thing on the planet" attitude he spews everywhere. He also understands me in ways that I think no other person, other than my close friends and family, has. I feel 100% comfortable around him, and I don't have to worry that my brain power is going to freak him out. He's not too bad looking, either, and his arms (my weak spot, totally) are pretty awesome. The thing is, I don't have to be Horatio with this guy. I don't have to go around, trying to please demon doors, as weird as that sounds. I can be me, little Miss JujuJuniper.

(Okay, and now I'm back to being pissed that I still have feelings for this guy.)

2009-10-12T10:08:00.000-05:00

In the Information Age of today, you can be educated on pretty much any topic you might care to ponder with a single click of a mouse. I'm amazed, really. Libraries, schibraries - who needs 'em? The internet is your ultimate research tool. Can't understand the lyrics to that song you heard yesterday? Check. Need to know how to make a pipe bomb? You betcha. Looking for a way to cheat on your spouse? Oh, yeah, you're covered. You don't even have to leave your house! Score!!

Apparently, I'm a little behind the times because I just discovered the only atrocity that is AshleyMadison.com. I mean, I sort of recall seeing some type of news coverage a year ago, but I didn't pay much attention to it. For those of you as clueless as I was until 48 hours ago, AshleyMadison.com is an adulterer's response to Match.com, where unhappy marrieds go to start extramarital experiences with similarly mismatched spouses. The tagline: "Life is short. Have an affair."

Seriously.

I even forced myself to watch an episode of the Tyra Show (that was torture, in and of itself) where the CEO, oddly not female and not named Ashley Madison, is trying to justify the purpose of his site. He rambles on about marriage counseling and choosing to take "the path," which I assume means becoming a cheating asshole, even as he's confronted by a man whose marriage was destroyed by his company's services. He did honestly seem disturbed by the fact that he newly-divorced man (the couple looked like spruced up Jerry Springer guests) was crying, and even Tyra, the perceptive bubblehead that she is, noted this. But it still felt like he was basically saying this: "Hey, I'm sorry that your wife cheated on you and I know I provided her with the means to do it, but I'm not responsible because I didn't tell her to do it and if you were more of a communicator she wouldn't have wanted to bone the other guy." Um. Okay. Thanks, dude.

I look at this as the morally bankrupt cousin to the similarly eeky uncle SugarDaddie and the selfish sister-in-law How to Commit Suicide. It's just deplorable. Sure, if someone's miserable with their wedding vows, they might choose to explore their options (i.e. sleep with their next door neighbor's dog walker) or ask for a divorce. Or hell, they might even choose to make the other person's life so unbearable as payback for it.

Ugh, I'm getting extremely irritated now, so I'm gonna get back to work.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back .....

2009-10-09T16:18:00.000-05:00

Wow, it's been a long time, friends. A long, long time. Not only have I been metaphorically bludgeoned to death with work, but there have been computer problems here. Apparently, my Blogger account had some issues with it (IP address screw up, or something along those lines, and someone changed my password along the way) and Twitter only worked some of the time (FAIL WHALE), but everything is back up and I can start posting again, which, depending on your leanings, can be a good or bad thing. :)

I am very excited! :) And kind of internet-communication starved, too.

PS I was trying to channel "Welcome Back, Kotter," but I'm not sure if my attempt was very affective.

It's been a while .....

2009-09-13T00:40:00.000-05:00

So, these past two weeks have been as close to insanity as I could possibly get. And most of it didn't even really have to do much with me. I've been bombarded with insensitivity, frustration, happiness, frivolity, fear, anger, douchebaggery ... you name it. If there's an emotion, I've either felt it or have been around someone with it. I'll just give you a basic rundown, because there's honestly enough crap going on that I could write an entire novel and still keep you interested... maybe.

First of all, if I haven't mentioned it before, one of my oldest friend's is getting married in about a week or so. I'm not in the wedding (thank God - no offense, friend, to you ... you've been the least bridezilla-y person on the face of the planet and I couldn't be happier for you), but it's literally around the corner and I have yet to buy a present. To be fair, this is my fault, but damn it, I'm poor. And then, a few days ago, another friend of mine announced to the world via Facebook that she's engaged (and getting hitched in about two months) to a guy she's known for, I don't know, six months. And everyone else in my life seems to be poised for proposal or actual vows. Ugh.

Secondly, and kind of humorously juxtaposed with the previous paragraph, many relationships have ended, either extremely well (as with me) or very poorly. For me, it took me exactly two seconds to move on. (Okay, explanation here. This wasn't really a relationship, per se, but a possible one. Then I found out via a slip on his part that, whilst discussing, with a fair amount of detail, I might add, a thing with me, he was still dating his girlfriend of three years or whatever. This constitutes as cheating, folks. I don't care if there was nothing actually done; the thought is what counts.) It was like, "Aw, I kind of liked him. Oh, well." For others, it was devastating. I've been there, so naturally, it's in my blood to console. There's only so much I can do, so I provided a care package: tissues, jewelry, chocolate and a puzzle book.

Then there's work. Oh, holy Jesus, why must it be so hard to deal with morons? Not everyone in my training class is bad. On the contrary, I like most of the people in there. But there's two (well, actually, just one now, although number two, who I've called Douche Turd in the past - we'll stick with that, only he's more Douche Turd Lite now - and I basically got over our differences) that continue to grate on my nerves. Not only are we stuck going over the same shit that we've gone over a million times, but we're not advancing onto the next phase: Medicaid. We'll be here damned near Christmas if we don't pick up on the learning. If I'm still in training by then, there may actually be fist-to-face action. Watch out, Snobby Sue. Watch out.

I'm also behind on my writing and artwork. If you read my writing blog (http://amillionmoretogo.blogspot.com), I had promised I would have part one to my first story up. Well, I didn't do it for reasons I'll explain in that blog, which has just added all sorts of frustration. It's like a whole other freaking job.

And in the same vein, I feel 100%, totally inadequate when it comes to my stuff. I've been reading up on people with similar styles and looking at professional artists, and they present their work with such pizazz, such finesse, that I just want to put down my pen/pencil with a resounding, "Fuck it." I know they've had years of experience, but for the love of God, will I ever be able to make it in such a challenging and competitive field? It's the exact reason I've been so hesitant to publish any of my stuff. Comparatively, I suck. Big time suckie.

Enough of the whining, though. I'm refocusing. I'm gonna watch my Fresh Ink podcast, get a little inspiration and probably go to bed. Actually, probably not. I have a rewrite to do.

And with that completely nonsensical entry, my friends, I bid you, adieu.

My Life, According to a Paparrazo

2009-08-30T17:10:00.000-05:00

Juniper Trela was most recently seen at the recycling drop off approximately 2 miles from her home, dressed like she always is in jeans, a tank top and a pair of well-worn, outdated flip flops. Apparently, she's taking the recycling thing a little too far!

A source very close to Juniper says, "Jun Jun's involvement with recycling things is really just a way to keep her mind off the fact that she's single. She really wants a boyfriend!"

As most of her fans know, her break up last year with an as-'til-then anonymous chef, Luke Meinert, was a public spectacle. Everyone was waiting for her to go on suicide watch, as she was frequently in the same outfit two days in a row and had taken to eating nearly an entire bag of Tostitos with salsa in one sitting.

Another source who has been friends with Juniper since before she became a household name says, "That was a really hard time for her. Even her super successful career couldn't keep her happy. It's like she just stopped having a reason to live, but luckily, she received a lot of help for that and all of us were there for her."

But there might be good news on the horizon for our favorite sci-fi/fantasy writer. Last week, she was spotted chatting it up with an unidentified man in a Nashville convenience store. The two seemed very friendly and might have possibly exchanged numbers. Now, if we can only get her out of that outfit!

Ugh.

2009-08-30T09:30:00.003-05:00

I recently overheard a conversation about boob size. Well, by overheard, I mean read, and by conversation, I mean Facebook status plus its comments.

It basically went like this:

Girl 1: Women get their confidence from their boob size.
Girl 2: I completely agree!!! :)!!!!!
Girl 3: It's because of the men. All men like big breasts.

Um ....... okay.

I, for one, get my confidence from my intelligence and snappy wit. And if I were to rest my opinion of myself on various parts of my body, this would just be sad. I have tiny boobs. My legs are long but nothing to write home about, and my ass is not something I like to flaunt too much. I have nowhere near washboard abs, and my arms have little if any tone to them. The only features I can really be "proud" of are my lips and my eyes; I will not have to worry about Botox later in life, and I have blue cat-like eyes. And yet, I manage to leave my house every day without feeling like I have to boost these physical areas. Sure, I work out and I love running; but it isn't my main focus.

As I've said before, I loathe generalizations. Why? Because more often than not, it doesn't apply in such a grand scale. "All men like big breasts." Ha. If I took a poll of my guy friends, I can almost guarantee you that this will not be the consensus. In fact, most of them would say, "More than a handful (or depending on the couth-ness rating, a "mouthful" might apply here instead) is just a waste." Now, this is not to say that there aren't men out there who get turned on by big breasts. The porn industry would not be where it is today if this were not so. It's like saying that all men want a woman who looks like Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie (*gasp* They are in the same sentence!!! Certainly there will be a brawl!). Sure, both are beautiful women, and most men will attest to this. But I know of some guys that are kind of meh towards both.

It's starting to look like all the phobias women have with their bodies are perpetuated by themselves. This isn't a novel idea, of course, but it's becoming very apparent to me, as of late. We have all of this media coverage, various beauty products, the latest styles, fad diets, etc., that just manage to keep us thinking that we're somewhere below par. That is the main reason I changed my major from marketing. The more I studied the concepts, the more I disagreed with basically convincing people that their lives weren't what they could be without such-and-such product. Blech. And while they don't just focus on women, it does seem that many companies do target them.

But then it gets this idea in our heads that we need to get the newest look from the runways (which, to me, always look horrendous - if you can muster the strength, just look at an Elle magazine fashion spread. Can I just say, "YUCK.") or try the anti-aging cream at age 28.

And from what I have heard, which is not to say it's entirely representative, many guys just sit there, scratching their heads. "You looked fine before this. What did you do this for? Me? I liked you the way you were." It's why I hate those commercials about the woman using this cream that shed 10 years off or whatever, and her husband said that he was more attracted to her now. Thanks, advertising assholes.

So here's an idea. How about getting your confidence from something other than your boobs? Your eyes? Your hair? If you died, do you want somebody to say, "She had really amazingly large breasts" or "She had an amazingly large heart?"

I'll take the latter, thanks.

"My accent is ALWAYS on value."

2009-08-28T12:00:00.003-05:00

Genesis Diamonds commercials seem to come up every time there's a run of ads, at least when you're listening to the radio (see my previous post on this). They aren't nearly as annoying as the Shane Company ones that basically make it sound like the purchase of jewelry is the most important thing EVAR. But they do paint themselves as the mavericks of the jewelry business.

For those of you who don't live in Nashville, Genesis Diamonds prides itself on being the official jewelry store of the Tennessee Titans. Now, I'm not sure exactly how this came to be, as the Titans are a football team, but maybe all the players buy little sparkly gifts for their wives after they have an affair or get drunk and do something stupid. Or maybe they make rings for them. I honestly haven't wasted too much brain power on this because, well, I don't care.

Right now, they have this manager whose name fails me narrating the commercials. He makes a point that he used to manage a chain jewelry store but he felt guilty trying to convince people to buy stuff. And he says that Genesis Diamonds is, like, totally awesome because they sell totally high-quality pieces at totally low prices! "The other stores price this blah-blah-blah-E2-clarity-blah-blah diamond ring at $5200, but we have it listed for $3000!" Whatever, it's still more than free, which is what I'm all about.

I guess the kicker is when the owner of Genesis Diamonds, Boaz Ramone, says the title of this post. "My accent is always on value." Don't you see, guys? He's playing on the fact that he's foreign! And that no one understands him because of his crazy, foreign person accent! But don't focus on that! Focus on the pricing! And the value! Blech.

I'm sure the economy has caused jewelry stores quite a downturn. But I just don't have much sympathy for them. They're just pandering to the people who think buying shinies for their significant others will completely take out the need to actually say, "I love you," or do anything that requires thought. Hell, if you're going to buy me a freaking tennis bracelet, costing about $1000, just give me the cash and I'll do something better with it ... like paying of my student loan. Nothing says I love you like no debt.

Anyway, I'll leave you with this from last year's Christmas season because Sarah Haskins is composed of pure awesome:

They Shoot Overly-Critical Grammarians, Don't They?

2009-08-28T09:52:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows me even in a moderate sense knows that I am a grammar Nazi. Some of my professors at college would actually have me read papers to catch any mistakes they might have missed. I hate it when someone says, "Where're you at?" because prepositions don't go at the end of sentences. (I can be guilty of this, but I usually catch and correct myself.)

But my tyrant-like behavior in this respect doesn't just apply to the construction of sentences. Oh, no. It carries over into pretty much every part of language.

First, there is a way to pronounce things. It's spelled a certain way. I mean, sure, if you want to say toh-mah-toh instead of toh-may-toh, that's fine.

There are the tried and true "nuclear" (not nucular) and larynx (not larnyx). Those get me every time. Then there's "ask." I'm not going to axe one, because a question isn't a log or a job position. No r's exist in wash or question, and "r" is pronounced "are," not "arrah."

I know, I know. It's cultural. My trainer at work is from West Tennessee, where Memphis is called "Meh-phis," and she frequently asked querstions. I overlooked that because she was awesome (and actually found her mispronunciation of basic words rather endearing), but if anyone else had spoken that way, I would have wanted to commit some grammatically-induced homicide. Luckily for Douche Turd (from a previous post), he speaks correctly ... well, at least when he's not mumble-rambling.

Another irritation for me is when someone uses a phrase like "desert island." Now, I understand that this person is talking about a location that is isolated and uninhabited, so I suppose the actual communication isn't disrupted. But it's a deserted island. Because there's nobody else on it, unless you're a cast member of "Lost." And then you're just screwed, at least as far as I know because I've never actually watched the show.

This kind of thing gets me in trouble because, one, most people don't like to be corrected, and two, it distracts me from concentrating on the conversation because I'm focusing on the infraction. It's like Dane Cook's disgust with girls who exaggerate too much.

"... When you tell me a story, I really listen. I listen, and I don't just listen, I listen ... See, my brain is so fantastical that when you start to exaggerate, I don't follow the story. I follow the exaggeration. And it gets me frustrated, because she would be like ... 'I got off from here, I took a hundred hour nap.' No, you did not. You'd be very sick if you were taking hundred hour naps. That's a coma."

And that's basically how I am, only with grammar and pronunciation. I wouldn't say my brain is fantastical or anything because that would be rather pretentious. And we have enough of that already, and I think the majority of them live in the Hillsboro Village area of Nashville.

Crappiness and stupidity killed the radio stars.

2009-08-26T13:22:00.000-05:00

When you drive to and from work for nearly two hours a day, you can only talk to yourself for so long before you start questioning your sanity. For those lucky people out there with iPod inputs, readily available CDs or commercial-free radio, congrats, but I don't have any of those. (PS I hate being poor.) I'm fairly sure it's illegal to wear headphones blasting in your ears while driving, and it would be an epic event to even try to locate my CDs since most of my stuff is still in storage and hour and a half away. And where they are? Yeah, I have no idea. I also don't make enough to afford satellite radio, so I'm at the mercy of the public radio gods.

Unfortunately, they suck, no matter what the "Radio is awesome!" ads I hear 47 times a day say. I'll occasionally tune in to Free Beer and Hot Wings on 102.9 The Buzz in the mornnig, mainly for the "What Hot Wings Thinks" segment (he basically chooses a topic and goes on a tirade), although NPR is usually my default station, so I can stay somewhat on top of things. My main problem is with the morning/afternoon/evening shows and their little DJs. They are all horrible. It's like all the rejected (and maybe even some accepted) comedians from SNL write all the material, and since there aren't any faces associated with the broadcast, they rest easy in their one-bedroom apartments covered in Cheetos (Cheetohs? Cheetoz? I have not a clue as to the spelling.) and beer cans.

Nothing of interest was on NPR this morning because they were going on about how Ted Kennedy died, so I was forced to go to the pop channels. Free Beer and Hot Wings just wasn't appealing, so I ended up having to listen to "Gender Wars" on 107.5 The River. First of all, the contestants were dumb. Or they lived under a rock, I'm not quite sure. The guy, who I'm assuming was around my age or younger, won by default and he was awarded with ... drumroll please ... Thomas the Train tickets.

I wonder if anyone has ever declined a prize on one of those radio game shows. If not, this was probably the first one.

And then the sketches. Oh, the sketches. Following that root canal of a game, they documented a video that proved Michael Jackson faked his own death. How they managed to stretch this over five minutes should have been a feat in and of itself - "Everything on the internet is true because they check everythig. So Michael Jackson is still alive, living with Elvis and all the other famous people who died when they were at the top of their popularity. You have to believe it because it's on the internet, and everything on the internet is true because they ....." - but I guess what's sad is that Woody, Jim and the other people in the studio were acting like they thought it was just hilarious. Maybe they were just working on an Oscar nomination. Sure. We'll go with that.

Luckily, I arrived at work before they started on something else, but it got me wondering about the slow decay of radio quality. It's like newspapers and reality TV; it just keeps getting worse. I wouldn't be surprised if they brought on Andrew Clay (you know, the only comedian that has been banned by MTV, although that's not really so much of a punishment nowadays) to boost some ratings. Blech, no, thank you.

I've decided that I'm going to ride in silence from now on. Or maybe just break the law and listen to my iPod. What can I say? I like to live dangerously.

Honestly, Pure Randomness ...

2009-08-25T19:54:00.000-05:00

I have just been klutzerrific for the past two days. I hit my head twice on one of my car doors, and one left my ears ringing for a good two hours afterward. Now, I have a nice knot on the top of my left temple. Nearly everything that has come into my hands has been dropped, including a glass which shattered in a nearly poetic manner on the black and white checkered floor of the breakroom in the Davidson county DHS office (Human Services, not Homeland Security, FYI). I tripped over my dog this morning, which to be fair, was as much her fault as it was mine ... only she didn't fall flat on her face. Not that it could get much flatter, anyway.

I blame it on hormones.

Which brings me to yet ANOTHER complaint. My body hears vacation, and it automatically thinks, "PERIOD TIME!!!" I'm not even going anywhere. But friends of mine are, and they talk about it constantly. So naturally, the premenstrual cramps start up.

And then I get cranky. And clumsy. And bloated. All around, I'm a pretty unhappy person for about a week. Stupid womanhood.

In other news, it is bad when your tire is separating and it shows the metal interior. It is doubly bad when two of your tires are in this condition. It's thrice crappy when an additional tire is bald. Even though you try ridiculously hard to explain to the mechanic/tire putter-onner that you are NOT a complete imbecile and that you do know at least enough about cars to get you by, he stares at you with this, "Ha, typical girl, I wonder if she lets her oil run dry, too" expression on his face, while he's smiling and being polite. Ass.

Also, I want to play Gears of War. Or hell, something with a little violence. At least then I can pretend I'm a man that knows about vehicles, doesn't fall down because there's a virtual barrier, doesn't have a period and can get away with being cranky.

Ugh. I want a plum. Or maybe some grape tomatoes. Yum, that sounds good.

January 20, 2009

2009-08-21T16:28:00.001-05:00

By popular demand, the retelling of the worst date in history. Enjoy.

Okay, seriously, I went on what was most likely the worst date ever last night ... well, two nights ago now.

It started out fairly entertaining with witty banter and Mexican dishes, although mine should not have contained cheese. I was dumb and forgot to ask the waitress to drown my spinach enchiladas in some salsa or tomato sauce instead of the typical queso. But I didn't, and by the time they arrived, I ate the dairy-covered wraps, knowing that if I reordered them, it would only stretch this date into dreaded eternity. (Now, remember this fact because it will come into play later.)

How did I get from fun to eye-roll inducing? Well, it began with the "L.L. Bean Guy" monologue. "I want to be L.L. Bean Guy, with my XTerra, boots and tall socks and shorts" or "I can do that because I'm L.L. Bean Guy" kept creeping into our conversation, usually at the most awkward of moments. Maybe awkward isn't the correct term; I'll go with "never fitting the situation." I mean, I'm all for recalling a funny moment that can add on to the humor of a current one (I've done it before and the technique's worked well), but to randomly insert it into conversation is confusing and quite frankly one of the most annoying things ever, especially when it happens about four or five times and when it wasn't funny to begin with.

Unfortunately, his humor didn't improve. It was like I was sitting across the table from a meld of Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, Luke and Owen Wilson, and Vince Vaughn (feel free to add any frat boy movie actor in at any time). He kept repeating things in this high-pitched whisper and then laughing hysterically. Forced laughs from me were abound like rabbits in springtime, let me tell you.

Then, he was rude to the waitress. I have been a waitress for over a year, and so this was exceptionally telling to me. Apparently, she had nothing better to do than wait on us. It took me a while to decide what I wanted because it all had cheese and nothing looked good to me. I finally decided on the spinach enchiladas, with plans to ask her to hold the cheese on top. As she walked by to go greet another table, he grabbed her (literally) and said, "We're ready. I'll have the" whatever he ordered. I just glared at him and apologized to the waitress, although I think both she and he thought I was saying sorry for my delayed order. Okay, so I'm not a complete traditionalist, but in every other date I've been on, the guy let me order first. That's the way my dad is and so I expect it. But that was the minor thing. He just rudely stopped the waitress, obviously throwing her off. And it wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't done it again later when we ordered dessert. At that point, she was exasperated so she told him that he would have to wait a few minutes before she put in the order.

So while we were waiting, we chatted a bit and it was very informative. I apparently am a moron because I don't like Cheesitz. Or Cheesits. Or however the hell you're supposed to spell it. I don't care, because I don't like them. I don't like them because I can't eat them; they make me sick. Literally. Then, I am also weird for liking celery, which, according to my date, is just a plant filled with water and is not a food. Um. Well, most vegetables are just plants filled with water, as is, actually most food. Water is the most abundant nutrient is, as far as I know, all foods. And celery is a food. And it's a good snack. Not nutritious, as it requires more energy to break it down than it offers, but it's healthy, especially with peanut butter spread on top for the protein. I had debates on both of these topics. And I'm sorry, the way to getting a girl to like you is not to mock her eating choices, especially since most of mine are due to the fact that I'm allergic to dairy. Good work, buddy.

During the times he wasn't referencing his love for the L.L. Bean lifestyle, laughing at my diet choices and making the waitress working harder than she needed to, there was pretty much silence. For those of you who know me well know that I can talk to anyone and anything with little effort. Just ask the right questions and you will always get a response. Plus, when we had talked on the phone, we literally chatted on for about four or five hours. Two days in a row. With never a dull moment or a retarded joke.

By the time our desserts arrived, my stomach was starting the churn. That stupid cheese. Or I guess it could have been my savior, had I heeded it's rumblings. I ate my sopapilla sans ice cream and whipped cream (He called it my honey-covered cracker, to which I sarcastically smiled. Thanks, I know my dessert sucks. If I could, I would be eating fried ice cream like you, ass). And finally, when she laid down the check, I tried to reach for the bill to see what my half was, but he grabbed it. Okay, he got a cool point there. (And oh, my GOODNESS, he kept awarding himself cool points throughout the meal. Growl.) We waited for the waitress to bring back the black book and he tried to make me slap the ice cream with a spoon. Yes. You read that correctly. And he was offended that I didn't know it somehow was a reference to "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," a movie I never plan to see. And he was offended that there were other movies topping my to-see list. Okay, whatever, dude.

By then, I had forgotten that this was only half of our date. Yay, now we get to go to a movie. I could have and should have left at this point, and my excuse could have been my stomach. It wouldn't have been a lie and he would have saved about thirty dollars. But I followed him in my car to the theater and begrudgingly got out of my car. My only criteria for what we watched: it had to be short. We picked "Underworld: Rise of the Lycans." Honestly, not that bad of a movie. No award winner, to be sure, but it was entertaining enough. And it left me strangely attracted to Michael Sheen. Why did Kate Beckinsale leave him? Anyway, while we were waiting for the previews to start, he figured this would be a perfect opportunity to throw in some jokes. Only this time, they were downright making fun of me: "Oh, my name's Jenn and I am lactose-intolerant and I ate cheese. My stomach hurts!" Those were his exact words that he repeated about fifteen times, in the same breathy, annoying voice I described earlier. Then he tried to convince me, "That's funny! Come on, it's funny!" No, seriously, it's really not. And it just got worse.

For those of you who know me, I hate being talked to during movies; some movies are more cerebral than others and if you miss one thing, you are lost later on in the movie. Granted, "U:RotL" was not one of these movies, but the visuals were stimulating. But he felt that it was time for the high five game. I don't know exactly what the hell he was doing, but every couple of things he said, he'd put up his hand in celebration. I regret doing it once (I needed help opening up my bottled water and I gave in, although he wanted a kiss on the cheek instead. Yeah, right) because it only egged him on. He finally told me that I was stingy in my handing out of high fives and I was just said, "Okay." Then, he put his hand right next to my face, saying that he wasn't going to move it until I gave him a high five. I was so irritated at this point that I just let him put it there. How old are you, four?? And if that wasn't bad enough, he started pushing my face. Yes, friends. He actually took his hand and pushed my face, saying, "You're giving me a face high five." You have no idea how mad I was growing. I was considering punching him right in the jaw and leaving, but violence is not the answer. Instead I shot him a dirty look, and thank GOD, he left me alone for the remainder of the movie.

However, the final nail in the coffin was when he left his Sour Skittles wrapper in the floor. When I asked him if he was going to throw it away, he told me that everyone else left their trash. I wryly grinned and held up my empty box of Junior Mints, which I promptly threw into the trash can. We pretty much walked in silence out to the parking lot. The good-bye was understandably awkward with no eye contact and a false "I had fun." I almost sprinted to my car, saying aloud, "Won't be hearing from him again." Oh, and I forgot to mention that I called both my mother and my friend during the drive to the movie to tell them how horrible this date was. My friend found it amusing as all get out, my mother wanted to know how much longer I would be out, and both couldn't figure out why I didn't just end the date. I really wish I had. But I wouldn't have this fun story to tell.

At this point, I'm thinking Hell will include freezing temperatures and annoying man-children that only tell Will Ferrell-inspired "jokes." At least Will Ferrell is humorous most of the time, "Semi-Pro" not included. My God, I may never date again.

Office Politics, or: How I Survived Training Without Killing Someone ... Yet

2009-08-20T20:15:00.003-05:00

My tolerance for people this week has been frighteningly low. I have cussed at drivers who really hadn't done anything wrong; I've gotten angry at people that weren't trying to slight me. I've just been rather pissy. Granted, it doesn't help that, for 6 hours a day, I'm in a small conference room with eight people I don't know, two of whom are excruciatingly annoying human beings that manage to drive me to the end of my rope on a daily basis. At times, it gets so irritating that I can barely control my ire-ridden laughter.

Take Mr. Talks Too Much and Inappropriately Has Outbursts, alternately and forthwith known as Douche Turd. DT and I already have a history, since we both interviewed for a job at the Tennessee Human Services state office in Nashville a few months ago. For a while, I had Judy (I can't remember her name, so we'll go with this one) to talk to about the economy and whatever chitchatty crap I could come up with. But when she had to go make a phone call, DT attempted to hit on me and then went on this ramble about wearing a top hat and doing a dance routine for the interviewers. I was very thankful when I was called in for my turn. And when he showed up at the training, the only word that I could say: "Motherfucker."

Well, his sheer lack of charisma wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so determined to prove that he DID have it. During the first week of training, our trainer posed a question, and his way of answering it was to ramble on about how he didn't know their backgrounds, where they went to school, what type of house they lived in, whatever whatever whatever. I just glared at him, while the trainer just interrupted him abruptly after about two minutes. And he's like that with EVERYTHING. He tries SO hard to be funny and witty, and it just comes across as awkward and forceful.

Then there's Ms. I Know All and Whoever Disagrees with Me is Just Wrong, or Snobby Sue, as I'll be referring to her. The name kind of says it all. She is condescending to everyone, even though she is brand new to this stuff, as well. I didn't mind her at first because she seemed genuinely nice, but I think that's before she realized that I don't agree with her politically and then started treating me like I was some sort of cretin.

Judging from the remarks from her mouth, I would have to say that she is probably not going to last very long as a case worker. She has a very negative opinion of people who come in to file for government assistance. Every one of her questions revolves around how to catch people not reporting stuff. Or trying to make someone look stupid, which I'll cover later. And by my luck, I get to sit right next to her.

Anyway, for the past several days, we've had a substitute trainer, who we'll call Cee. She is very different from our actual trainer and the previous substitute trainer, Sid the I-Don't-Wanna-Actually-Work Guy. (Our formal trainer is going through some training herself for the month of August.) Cee is very by-the-book and goes through things fairly slowly, which would bug me if it wasn't stuff that needed to be carefully explained. This is government benefits, after all. However, other people seem to feel like it's not fun and entertaining, like Sid. I, for one, learned absolutely jack shit last week. Sure, Sid was nice, but he didn't teach us anything. It was basically review. And seriously, the manuals and policy guides are not meant for light, beach side reading. It's like Leviticus in the Bible - quite frankly tedious but worth it at the end.

Needless to say, at least three of the class (including Snobby Sue and DT - the third guy, Quiet Kurt, just avoids talking because he feels like Cee is attacking people when she's really just trying to keep her train of thought) is acting like a high schooler would in a boring class, something that I didn't expect for people over the age of 30. Apparently, immaturity does not correlate with age. Out of class, they have nothing but bad things to say about Cee, and in class, they treat her with no respect. DT has decided that he will just start yelling and talk over Cee. "I just don't understand this. Where are you getting those numbers? Are you picking them arbitrarily?" And just today, in the middle of reading a short bit on food stamp policy, he just burst out with, "Apparently, I just don't get anything! I don't know what's going on!" etc. Of course, Cee tried to figure out what was going on, but he never really explained. He just got quiet again.

With Snobby Sue, she actually has tried to make the trainer look like an idiot. Today, she tried to whip out the policy manual to show Cee how the information on the board was incorrect (which it wasn't). Understandably, Cee said, "I've been doing this for 25 years. I think I know the policy." When we were doing calculations on food stamp allotment, SS got a different answer from everyone. She actually had the audacity to say, "Well, there's no way I'm wrong. Everyone else must have just done it incorrectly."

To be completely honest, I can handle DT. Sure, he gets dirty looks from me and I could probably strangle him without feeling too much remorse, but I think ultimately that he is harmless. But SS? Not only does she treat the trainer like crap, but she also looks down at the other trainees. Yesterday, same situation of calculating allotment, and I needed to know when the last leap year was, because benefits are different in leap year February, what with the extra day and all. I couldn't remember if it was 2006 or 2008, so I asked the class. SS turned to me and said, "Leap Year is when February has 29 days."

Yeah, okay. Not my question. I wouldn't have snapped if her tone would have been different. But it was that "God, what an idiot" ring to it that made me want to grab a pen and stab her through the eye. Immediately, another classmate jumped in with the right answer (2008, by the way), which is good for SS.

Then today while we were on a break, I was talking with another girl in my class that I actually like, Tia, about politics. Nothing heated, just updating each other on the current health care debate. Well, as soon as I started on my opinions, SS (who had been observing but not participating in the conversation) sighed and turned in her chair, shaking her head. I raised my eyebrows at Tia, who had to stifle a giggle - her level of dislike for SS is almost bordering on hatred - but continued discussing the topic. For the rest of class, any time I would say something, SS would just shake her head back and forth, getting to the point where I just asked her what her problem was. She didn't say anything; she just stared at her computer screen. And this woman is well into her 40s.

Maybe it will be better next week. Well, considering Cee is going to be here for another week, I'm not so sure about that. It's not that I don't like her. I do. She is much better than Sid was, although her voice is kind of a soft-spoken monotone. But she is also incredibly nice, if only judging by the fact that she hasn't kicked DT or SS out of her class yet.

But I can guarantee you this: I will be drinking tequila this weekend.

Take These Pink Ribbons Off My Eyes

2009-08-19T09:48:00.004-05:00

You know, it's bad enough when a man automatically assumes you can or can't do something based upon your ownership of ovary real estate, but I think it just might be worse when that attitude comes from a woman.

I pride myself in being able to take care of most things when it comes to cars. I can change my own oil (but don't because I don't want to); I know how to change a tire in 95 degree weather and a dress; and I keep a little pouch of emergency items, like jumper cables, in the trunk. I'm no mechanic, but I can tell the difference between a battery and an alternator. I know when to go for help, and I usually call my dad or my friends who are mechanics or work on cars as a hobby.

Anyway, yesterday, a friend of mine left her lights on all day, thus rendering her battery dead when we were dismissed from training at 3:30. I told her I had jumper cables with me and that I would help her, but when I arrived with my Aveo, lo and behold, she had an older gentleman with her. Which, you know, is fine, except that I already had my hood up with the cables connected to my battery. So me = all ready to go.

Well, dude pops his hood and asks for my cables. Blinks galore from me. But I unclip them and hand the cord to the guy, all the while staring at her incredulously.

"I'm just terrified of the sparks," she said.

Okay ....... I mean, I guess I could have damaged her confidence in me by having to text my friend, asking if it mattered which colored end was clamped first (which is doesn't), but it's not like I'm incompetent. I have two arms and two hands, I know what a battery is, and I can differentiate between black and red.

To make a long story short, I was fairly annoyed for a minute but got over it once I realized that I wasn't having to do any physical labor, as simple as it was, in the heat. So, yay for me. But the concept still burned in my brain for the next few hours.

Have we, as women, completely been brainwashed into thinking that a man can solve our problems? I mean, look at the lady mags that I personally loathe. Nearly every situation or quiz eventually about how to find/keep a boyfriend/husband/whatever, implying that, without such an accessory, our lives are somehow left wanting. After we manage to snag a member of the opposite sex, it's all sunshine and kittens, according to the Elle/Cosmo/Marie Claire/etc. Powers That Be.

The sheer idea that we cannot function separate from a male partner really gets me riled. I can balance my own checkbook, do my own taxes, take care of my own car, mow the lawn (and maintain the mower), play Miss Fix-It in my own residence ... This list could continue for pages, and I'm assuming that a great number of other women can do the same thing. I guess this goes back to an earlier post, where I posed the scenario of a woman feeling accomplished because she did something period or having that same emotion because we did it without help from the menz. I'm always amazed and slightly irritated when a man patronizingly congratulates me when I tell him that I've done something that is usually male dominated.

Example:

Me: Remember that rattling in my car I was telling you about? I figured out that when I was checking my oil I didn't completely secure the little prop up thing.
Guy: Really? Good for you. I'll bet that was hard for you, you know, as a girl.

If I were a guy, I don't think the congratulations would have been offered, seeing as I would have been preternaturally given knowledge of all things with an engine at birth due to my penis. But it was the last sentence that really made me go off on this friend of mine. "Yeah, it was really hard to lift the hood and see it dangling there." He made a hasty retreat into the excuses of, "Well, most girls just go ask for help if something's wrong" and "They don't try to figure it out on their own, especially if they have the information readily available." This portion of our conversation was quickly terminated, once he saw that I was about ready to strangle him. I think we then talked about the new "Gears of War" comic. Oh, and he also thinks it's hot that I'm into that sort of thing, which just confuses me. I don't get all turned on when a guy friend of mine likes stereotypically female interests. I just don't understand, and really don't think I ever will. Until then, I'll refuse to ride side saddle, I'll eat big steaks and I'll enjoy blowing up things on my xbox.

And in closing, I leave you with this:

Gwen Stefani - NO DOUBT - Just A Girl
Uploaded by rafiko69. - Music videos, artist interviews, concerts and more.

Me vs. Green Veggie

2009-08-18T22:29:00.002-05:00

Okay, so true story.

Today, I decided to venture out of my usual skipping lunch and scribbling ineffectually away in my notebook and went to eat with my friend Cari. She suggested that we go to this Thai restaurant over on Woodland Street, and after thinking to myself that I hadn't had anything other than preprocessed, heat lamp cuisine over the past couple of weeks, I agreed.

It's this little rundown shack of a place that I've driven by a million times and yet never realized was a restaurant. And, come to think of it, I'm wondering how it passes health inspection codes. There is plywood for walls, one of them spray painted in a black and white polka dot fashion and a giant outline of what I thought was someone's representation of a window, but we all know that all artists are misunderstood. Through an actual window from the patio where we ate, you can peer into the kitchen, which looks clean enough, but you kind of have to overlook the 85 different appliances plugged into one ancient-looking outlet next to the stove. I mean, this is just a blaze waiting to happen.

The meal went normally enough, with a very friendly waiter and quick service. The spring rolls were awesome, and my sweet and sour stir fry dish (it had a name, but I'm not about to try and remember the spelling of pronunciation) had the perfect mix of fruit, chicken and veggies. I've never really liked pineapple until this afternoon, if that says anything. I even got to try Cari's drunken noodles, which I will be ordering next time I go there. I finished off my rice and then started picking at the remaining bits of my lunch.

I came across what appeared to be a green bean; I thought, that's strange, and then proceeded to bite down. And I'm not even speaking in hyperbole here, within milliseconds, my mouth erupted, and I frantically searched for anything that might calm my poor tastebuds. I had no more rice, I had drank all of my water, and the only thing left on my plate were a few bits of chicken, which does nothing at all for an extremely hot pepper in your mouth. I started sucking on ice cubes, but not even that helped. The poor waiter couldn't really do anything except bring me more iced tea, so I suffered for about 15 minutes with this weird limbo between numbness and extreme pain in my mouth. Cari was laughing with me, especially after I had to tell myself not to wave over the firefighters driving by. Our waiter gave me a to-go cup of water and a little bit of rice to take off some of the edge of that damned pepper.

So, even nearly twelve hours later, the roof of my mouth feels like it was burned with scalding coffee.

There's no moral here, except maybe not everything that looks like a green bean is a green bean. But, the more you know ......

I am not a pretty girl .....

2009-08-16T16:15:00.003-05:00

Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl

Back in high school, I discovered the greatness that is Ani Difranco. At that age, I was just looking for something different from Britney Spears and the other cookie cutter "artists" flooding the music scene, so it was refreshing to hear someone like Ani.

I am not a pretty girl. That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress, and I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk; maybe you'd prefer a maiden fair.
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?

It was the biting remarks that I appreciated at the time. They were a not so subtle "screw you" to pretty much anyone who misunderstood me, especially the boys. Oh, those silly boys. Thankfully, I have gotten past that.

I am not an angry girl, but it seems like I've got everyone fooled.
Every time I say something they find hard to hear,
They chalk it up to my anger and never to their own fear.
And imagine you're a girl, just trying to finally come clean,
Knowing full well they'd prefer you were dirty and smiling.

The one thing I hated about being in high school was that I had been in school with the same people since I was in the 4th grade. That kind of consistency does not allow for evolution of personality and character. Instead, even as I grew and changed, mostly for the better, I was stuck in this weird limbo of geeky girl who never spoke much more than necessary. And then apparently, I became what the above lyrics described. It even lingers somewhat to this day, at least to the people who didn't get to know me much past a "hi" in the hallway.

And I am sorry I am not a maiden fair,
And I am not a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere.

Who would have thought that nearly 8 years has gone past and I am still moved by what she has to say? The same lyrics come through the speakers, but suddenly, it all has new meaning. This interpretation is much more universal, rather than specifically geared towards my peers. It speaks towards my position as a woman; I'm expected to be something I'm not. I'm not a quiet bystander and I will call you out. And I'm not looking for someone to take care of me. There's a certain amount of accomplishment from making it on your own.

And what if there are no damsels in distress?
What if I knew that and I called your bluff?
Don't you think every kitten figures out how to get down,
Whether or not you ever show up?

For me, the question is this: should I feel more accomplished because I am a woman and I did something all by my onesies? I'm not asking this out of malice, believe me. It is just very frustrating to be a woman and have all of these expectations of me. I am more than my appearance. I am more than the words the come from my mouth and from my hands. But I'm not viewed that way. (And by no means am I claiming that men have it easy. That is a whole other set of issues that I cannot even come close to accurately describing, seeing as I don't have to deal with it.)

Anyway, I will close with Ani's final stanza ...

I am not a pretty girl.
I don't want to be a pretty girl.
No, I wanna be more than a pretty girl.

Please, The River, Teach Young Girls to Give It Up to Musicians

2009-08-14T20:04:00.003-05:00

I was listening to 107.5 The River. Why? I'm not really that sure. I probably was focusing on the asshole who cut in front of me or something of that nature. But there I was, with my radio dial turned to one of two major Nashville pop stations. By the time I had started paying attention, it was on a commercial break, and something about the JoBro came on. At first, I couldn't tell you what the hell a JoBro was, but I guess that shows you how big a rock I've been under. I thought it was an ad for a new brand of fashionable boxers or whatever. It became abundantly clear within a few seconds that is was actually an advert for the Jonas Brothers.

First of all, let me clarify. I only know a few scant details about this new tween craze. I know that they are boys, that they are a "band," that a lot of people think they suck, one of them dated and may still be dating Miley Cyrus and/or Taylor Swift, and that one of them danced and lip synced to Beyonce's "All the Single Ladies."

But other than that, I'm totally out of the loop. But this absurd apparent dedication of preteen and early teen girls irritates me, akin to the rabid fixation that I've read and heard about in terms of Robert Pattison (or whatever his name is) and the whole Twilight silliness. When I was growing up, I followed the trends of picking a Backstreet Boy or N*Sync member to fawn over, but it was mainly because all of my friends were involved with this. If it were up to me, I would have been harboring my severe crush on Fyodor Dostoevsky or Johnny Depp in the open, but alas, I had not developed a backbone at that point in my life.

Anyway, back to The River. As this commercial continued, it sounded harmless. Girls were instructed how to respond if they ran into a "JoBro," repeating, "I love you" ad nauseum. Which, you know, teen girls use the word "love" in regards to their favorite leggings, so I wasn't really concerned here. But unfortunately for me, I listened to the very end of this, mainly out of curiosity. Well, the final recitation from the girls at this "How to Speak to Famous Boys" academy was, "Yes, I will go back to your hotel room with you."

I turned off my radio and sat in silence for a minute. Seriously???? It's bad enough if you are an adult woman to do this, because you don't know how many other women and diseases they've slept with out of opportunity, but to encourage that behavior to a member of the demographic that listens to the Jonas Brothers? Irresponsible. I got angrier and angrier as my drive continued.

Working in DHS as I do now, I understand that girls are having sex (and getting pregnant) at very young ages, so the idea that someone as young as 13 would offer herself is not really that shocking. Well, on a personal level, it is, because at 13, I was like, ew, penises are gross, but statistically, it isn't that uncommon. I suppose what is so disturbing is that it was a sort of subliminal message that they just tagged on at the end. In marketing terms, brilliant mode, but what exactly are they marketing? Was it really necessary?

Okay, before I go on a diatribe, because I'm still seriously angry about this, I'm going to go hop on the treadmill to work out some angst.

Imagination Station

2009-08-02T23:55:00.003-05:00

Don't worry, kiddies, I am not suffering from writer's block. Well, that's good news to me, anyway, but I think that's just the weird artist in me. Either way, I've just been super busy and super exhausted for the past two weeks.

I knew it was going to be metaphorical murder on my body as soon as I found out I would be starting work again. The fact that my sleeping schedule was all out of wacky sorts was only one part of it. You'd think that nearly 11 hours a day of sitting would be easy, but it's really not. I wake up between 5:30 and 6 am every morning, drive between 45 minutes to an hour to work, sit at my desk until 4:30 pm, then drive home, which usually takes a little over an hour, depending on afternoon traffic. When I get home, I have to fight to stay awake past 8 pm. I have started this "stay healthy" regimen, where I exercise when I get back to the house, but it's getting harder to stick with it.

Now, this is not to say that I dislike being employed. Au contrair, mon ami. I didn't realize how much I missed having to get out of the house. Plus, my entire office is full of incredibly nice people with whom I have a lot in common. And of course, there's the benefits. Thank God for Uncle Sam and his state employee health care.

Anyway, with my above stated sleepiness comes overactive imagination during sleep. I had a very strange dream the other night involving a particularly sexy Viking in a lush fur coat. Okay, I have to describe it as I saw it, and I'll just go ahead and warn you now: it's like a really weird, indecipherable arthouse film. So, I'm in the ocean next to this wooden boat, and the water is up to my shoulders. I'm basically looking like a mermaid, only I'm wearing clothes. Whatever. Moving on. I look up and the sail has started to smolder, even though I haven't seen any lightning and it's only drizzling. My gaze then moves towards a Viking (who looks oddly familiar, like a character actor that you always recognize but can't place where you saw them last) who is staring down at me with this serence expression on his face, and I ask him, "It's going to burn, isn't it?" He smiles and says, "Of course." Suddenly, the water starts to rise from beneath me, and I'm nearly to the deck level of the boat. The Viking extends his hand to me and helps me aboard his doomed ship, saying something along these lines: "Before I die ... I love you." Then he starts to cry, and he kisses me, briefly stopping in between smooches to say, "I love you" and cry some more. And then I was woken up by the sound of my cell phone ringing. (I'm determined to use this in some way in one of my stories, but I'm unsure as to how I'm going to do that. But I will do it.) My dreams have been weirder than that, but that's the most recent one that I can recall.

Well, I'm going to have to cut this short, seeing as I have to get up in a few short hours to hop on the treadmill and then go to my first day of training. Wish me luck!

She Works Hard for the Money, So Hard for It, Honey

2009-07-17T16:25:00.002-05:00

Well, today is the last weekday in which I am an unemployed woman. It kind of makes me tingly and nauseous at the same time. I'm not quite sure what to expect for this first week of eligibility counselor-dom, but I'm looking forward to it. Getting up early, not so much, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the sake of buying dog food for Zola. Oh, and for getting out of debt. That's going to be nice.

I've put myself on a budget plan, which, for me, is a brand new scary delving into organization. I'm not good with money, and this is something I've known since, well, I got my first job at Sam Goody/Suncoast (RIP Bellevue Mall) and blew all of my money on DVDs. It's up in the air as to whether or not I can learn this apparently vital skill, as I'm worried that it may be a personality flaw. But the debt I've accrued has motivated me to at least give it the old college try. Because, damn, having creditors call you ... not fun in the slightest.

Here's the new me: annoyingly frugal. Reusing plastic bags, drinking box wine, planting gardens for my own produce, yard-saling ... yep, I'm turning into my grandmother. Well, except for the wine part, as she has never had a drop of alcohol in her 80-year lifetime. And the fact that, while I'm living through an economically stagnant time, I did not live through THE Depression.

Like I've said in previous posts, it's time I grew up and accepted this thing called adulthood. Even though I've worked before, I never had a career, even though I didn't really want one. I was the quintessential writer/artiste, but as time trudged along, I realized that I wasn't giving up on my dream to be a published and hopefully famous writer if I got a career. I could write all I wanted, but it's a lot easier to do when you don't live in under a bridge and have to beg for tampons.

So now I have two jobs: one that is paying and one that is not. In one, I'll be helping others, meeting people and welcoming responsibility into my life, and in the other, I will further my artistic endeavors, market myself and continue to follow my dream. It's just starting to get interesting. :)

(PS I will so be listening to Donna Summer on the way to work on Monday.)

I've Never Met You in Person, but I HATE YOU!!!

2009-07-12T21:06:00.003-05:00

Do you want to know why people think that people who play video games are losers? Because sometimes, they are. Big, whiny baby losers who seem to forget that there is life outside of the virtual. I mean, whether or not a tree makes a sound when it falls in a forest devoid of humans is a more important issue than successfully completing a self-imposed mission or perfectly executing a triple jump with a midair twist while throwing a grenade and shooting another player right between the eyes at the same time (although that would be pretty cool).

Now, I'm going to make a confession here. I was sucked into Vampire Wars (pun only slightly intended) by my dad, who has, since joining Facebook (which was strange enough), joined about 5 games. I am now a level 18 modern vampire, working on the third tier of missions (adept level) and buying as many minions as I can. I spend way too much time on it, but it's that kind of game that you sort of have to. My deadline is July 20th because, well, I'll have a job and they'll probably frown upon my insistence that I must battle the other online vampires for superiority (and blood). That, and I ran into Velkyn, the type of gamer that makes the rest of us look really bad.

I honestly didn't even remember who the hell he was until I looked back through my history. Apparently, I attacked his vampire avatar and ended up killing him, so he sent me this message: (sic) "oh, you attacked me without cause that's not very nice is there an explanation or shall I just allow hell to descend upon you for this vile transgression?" That question mark at the end of the sentence is mine because he has no idea how to use them. Maybe proper punctuation is like garlic or crosses for this useless human being. Either way, he keeps bothering me because I won't respond, telling me that I'm not playing the game properly. I guess I didn't realize that threatening to send hell in my direction warranted my giving him a reason as to why I fought him once on the combat board. I've been clobbered more than once by the same person and I just laughed it off, but this guy I'm assuming has waged little online wars since he could type "you're a poophead" onto a message board.

Still, I suppose I could be overreacting to his childish ways. It could be wrong of me to expect people to behave like adults, but then again, people have a hard time proving this to me in the real world, so I'm kind of screwed in this department.

I think this is why I love the legend that is Leeeeeeroy Jenkins.

I giggle and occasionally guffaw each time I see this video because it just reinforces my above-stated belief that some gamers are just crybabies that take things like World of Warcraft way too seriously. Yes, video games are fun. I lalalove them and have wasted many a day on upping my stats and trying to get the little achievement bleep bloops. Right now, I'm actually trying to work on leveling up my characters to 100 on my replay of Final Fantasy XII, but I seem to be able to differentiate between the game and oh, I don't know, finding a job, having relationships with face-to-face people ... the list goes on.

But, like I said, I'll be deleting Vampire Wars because of all of this silliness. I may keep Farmville and Farm Town, though. Need to get that damned silo!!!

Back to Life, Back to Reality

2009-07-11T00:45:00.002-05:00

It's been a strange 7 months. To be completely honest, I feel like they've flown by, even when I did feel like I was slowly losing my grip. I've been stir-crazy, enough to jump at any chance even to make a trip to the grocery store, and now, I have an honest to God job and it's a little frightening.

Take away the fact that I have to drive almost an hour to get to the office. I once managed to sit through 4 hours of standstill traffic (because a semi driver forgot that houses don't exactly fit underneath bridges) and not snap, but that was because I made the best of it. I talked to the other stranded motorists and even helped a guy whose car had died in the middle of the fun-filled, 95-degree day. Dare I say it, I even had a little bit of fun. Granted, I was riding on the high of an excellent interview (from which I got the aforementioned job), so I'm not sure how much credit to give myself. So I know I can handle the commute, at least in terms of actually driving it.

Now, the waking up at the ass crack of dawn may be a little more daunting. I'm not really too much of a morning person, but once I'm up, I'm up. I may be quietly, secretly-planning-my-revenge-on-the-bastard-that-made-me-get-up-this-early awake, but I'm functioning. What really chaps my ass, though, is that I can't stay up until 2 a.m. Well, I suppose I could, but that would mean all sorts of craziness. I tend to get loopy when I don't have enough sleep. Oh, and everything is funny to me at that point, and I don't think that laughing in someone's face at my desk in very professional, considering he or she is probably there to request some type of monetary benefits.

Forget that I have to live in Cookeville, TN, for 2 - 3 months for training. It's like summer camp, only the state will pay for my room charges. And I'm not required to go to big bonfires, although that does sound like a big heap of fun right now.

If you can overlook all of that, you'd think my trepidation of reentering the workforce is unwarranted. But let me remind you: I've essentially been a hermit since December. (Even if you have the time to socialize and attend events, you're kind of limited when you don't have steady income, especially when you require some type of fuel to get from point a to point b. Plus, you start to feel like a mooch when people offer to pay for you. Yes, I appreciate the thought, but it's kind of embarrassing.) I don't believe I've lost my interpersonal skills, as shown by my ability to talk to people I met about 15 years ago at my paternal family reunion last weekend. And I am excited. Cheerleader excited, actually. I did a little dance in the elevator when I found out that I had gotten the job, and I even got a little old man to join in on the fun. But I'm also a little nervous about how everything is going to go.

As my first day gets closer and closer, the knot kind of tightens. I mean, it's not there all the time, ready to pounce like an over-eager panic attack, but when I think about actually getting out "there" again, it makes its presence known in a big way.

It's all about "the fear." There's a sort of repugnance about losing the lack of responsibility of youth, and a certain reluctance to become an adult always rears its ugly head. We equate adult with boring. People sometimes marvel at those who manage to never grow up; I know I do. Then again, they annoy me most of the time because they usually give no consideration to the consequences of their actions, on themselves or on others. But there is a fascination that I won't deny. The 58 year old man who just quits his job and moves Africa; the 49 year old woman who still lives in her parents' house, complete with her old high school room and its dated decorations; the 83 year old man with a twinkle in his eye and a slap on the ass for his young nurse; the 25 year old mother of two who still parties like she did in college. Do they just not give a damn? Afraid to get old, perhaps?

I have spent the last few years basically bouncing around. I'm a notorious anti-planner, with flights of fancy (ex. buying a motorcycle on a whim - seriously??) and a lack of organization.* My mom calls me a free spirit, and while it does describe me fairly well, I'm thinking she's just being nice, since she is the queen of FILE IT NOW! I kept on going back to school because that was where I was comfortable, where I had some sense of control. And I finally realized that a few weeks ago. So here I am, poised atop this ledge, and all I can think is, "When can I grow up?" Not in the sense of losing my playfulness and love of life and new experiences. But to be totally self-sufficient. To be strong and capable.

And that's what I think I am nervous about. This job is a first step, and they say that is the hardest one, whoever "they" are. It would be easier to rely on my parents, sure, but it's not really that fulfilling. And they're not going to be here forever, so I'd have to pick up the mantle eventually. But now, it's my decision to move on.

And with that, I leave you with the remix:

* And this is where it's weird. At work, I'm an anal retentive bitch. I use stickie notes like nobody's business, and I immediately file things. When I'm writing my stories, I have little folders for each character, location, etc., full of pictures and ideas. And yet, everywhere else, I'm an organizational screw up.

MY NAME IS KANYE WEST, AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE!!!!*

2009-07-01T21:09:00.007-05:00

I've found that most artists are pretentious. Ranging from Johnny Depp's refusal to see his own movies (because then it becomes about money *cough* "Pirates of the Caribbean" *cough*) to my Drawing I teacher kicking a girl out of his class permanently because she used "purple" instead of "violet." And then there's the ubiquitous Kanye West (now a fashion designer of really ugly shoes with tassels) who constantly uses capital letters because what he says is so important that he has to use the internet equivalent of SCREAMING (although I have this weird admiration for someone who thinks he is the Jesus Christ of the pop music/rap/fashion/political/artistic/everything else world).

I'm not exactly sure from where this sense of entitlement comes. It's like they have access to some unreachable plane of existence that normal humans just can't comprehend, so they come off looking and sounding like Lady Gaga, sometimes just for the sake of being weird. "It's all about the art." Sure. Whatever.

As an artist, I actually feel rather shunned by the artistic community. My paintings are mediocre, at best, and my photography is akin to a child getting a hold of his mother's camera and taking pictures haphazardly because he's not quite sure what this contraption actually does. When I go to a painting exhibit, it's usually, "Ooooh, I like the color scheme" rather than, "Oh, I can totally see the pain he was going through in this blade of grass because of the harshness of the brush strokes. How deep." I listen to pop music and do not spend my days searching for obscure bands just so I can say I found them first and that they are bad now that they are mainstream. And I don't watch various plays and dances that I consider weird and carry on for hours about the brilliance of the performers. For example, I still don't understand modern dance. I understand it takes skill, but when you're just throwing yourself about in what looks like an epileptic seizure, I'm not going to inundate you with praise. I'm not saying it's not art, because it is. However, I'm not just going to gush about it and ask for an encore because it's supposedly my responsibility as a fellow artist.

Take John Cage's 4'33". He says it was his most important work. Well, it's just silence. The sheet music just instructs the musicians not to play anything for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. Sure, I understand that the ambient noise is supposed to be the music, but come on. That's 4:33 that I will never get back, and the money I might have spent on that concert could have been used for a picnic in the park, where I could listen to silence for free.

But I love my art. I am passionate about my sketches, character designs and, in some cases, my attempts at using acrylic and oil paints. I spend countless hours researching for my stories and articles, and I treat them like they are more valuable than children (because they are). I keep scraps of paper with story ideas or quotes in case I can use them again, which means that I have umpteens of notebooks and boxes of loose leaf notebook paper with random scribblings, most of which are not related in any way possible. I'm sure there is some manner in which I could organize them, but I just haven't the time or the energy.

Still, I find that I'm usually sort of offput by artists. I don't find myself better than they are, but I feel like they expect me to be a certain way. I have more in common with tattoo and graffiti artists than I do with most writers, painters or what have you.

Gah, they just don't understand me.

* I'm actually not sure if Kanye does approve of this, but just so he can't come after me with his terrifying 5'7" self, I'm posting this disclaimer: Kanye West does not have anything to do with this blog, and in no way are his opinions expressed in this entry. By the way, Kanye, if you are reading this, I heart you and think we could be great friends.

Wuv, Twooo Wuv .....

2009-06-30T13:28:00.004-05:00

Apparently, 2009 is the year of the weddings. I went to one this past weekend, have another two weddings coming up in the next three months, and I know of at least 30 other weddings of people that I marginally know. And then my sister has gotten on the bandwagon, already looking at dresses, asking me to be her maid of honor (which I'll happily be) and to plan her wedding (I agreed to this only after ensuring that she would not be flighty and have other people make the final decision on things), and letting me know that it would probably be happening in September or October of 2011, you know, the year before the world ends. Allegedly.

Still, all of the matrimonial talk kind of sent me into a tizzy. Marriage just freaks me out for some reason, and I don't dream of the day I finally put that ring on my finger. I used to, and I probably will again at some point, but right now, it's about as far up on my list as getting a colonoscopy.

Plus, the whole idea of planning a wedding seems exhausting with a capital E, especially since you and your fiance are the main event. And, of course, since it's your special day or whatever, you'll want everything to be perfect, blah blah blah. But seriously, I will like the people I invite to my wedding; why would I want them to sit in uncomfortable chairs for 30 minutes while I say my nuptials? Nope. I'm coming down the aisle to something a la AC/DC, and we're gonna do the "Spaceballs" version of the wedding vows. Quick, painless, there's a ceremony for those who oppose the court house (and the lack of maid of honordom) - and I say then we party. Barbecue style. With plenty of alcohol, although dancing will definitely be monitored based on consumption.

Even with the simplicity of that plan, the idea of actually spending the rest of my life with someone seems daunting. I mean, wicked scary. Most of my friends know that I need my personal space after a few days of hanging out with them, but this is seeing this person from that day on, every single one.

Considering my aversion to getting married, it's only natural that I avoid going to them. Not because I don't like the people and that I am not happy for their soon-to-be wedded bliss, but because I, the single girl in her mid-twenties, is surrounded by matchmakers. At this last wedding, a woman whose name escapes me asked me, "Why aren't you married yet?" My response was rather caustic but appropriate given the question: "Because I'm actually toying with lesbianism." She blinked a lot and sort of wandered away, pretending to see someone she knew. I have politely explained to people in the past that I just haven't met someone with whom I want to be for the rest of my days. Maybe a few weeks or months, but certainly not until I die.

God, I just hope this doesn't continue to happen when I get into my thirties, which it undoubtedly is, especially because "Sex and the City" says it's so. And it will probably be worse because my biological clock is ticking once I get to 35, and everyone knows that women lose all worth once they hit 40. Unless they're cougars, then you can just make fun of them.

And I'm in even more trouble when I explain what I want my wedding to be like. "Oh, you'll change your mind when you get there." Oh, really? So you can predict what my future self will want? Please, tell me your secret. It's kind of like the idea of telling someone that they'll eventually want kids, despite their statements to the contrary. Yes, they might want children someday, and yes, I might want a different kind of wedding when and if I actually make it to that point. I wanted a big wedding a couple of years ago, even joining The Knot (GAH!!!), but that I believe was naivete.

Plus, with the economy and all ... (my personal go-to phrase)

Alright, off to discuss color combinations with my sister. Fun for me.

Entry # 4

2009-06-27T14:09:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I wish I hadn't stopped smoking. Apart from the health problems and the all-too-familiar smoker smell, I actually enjoyed the process. It passed the time on long commutes and traffic, and it provided a community in which I could take part. Some of the most interesting conversations I've had have been during the seven or so minutes it takes to inhale my daily dose of cancer. It gifted me with thinking time, either when I needed inspiration for an article or story or when I just needed a break from studying. Plus, can I say stress reliever? And for the past couple of months, I have been in need of such a thing.

On July 3, I will have been unemployed for exactly seven months. Granted, it was my choice to leave at that inopportune time, but to this day, I know it was the best thing for me. I was nearly choking there, forgetting myself and just kind of floating by. It totally screwed up my sleeping schedule (something I'm still struggling with now), and I was introduced to some of the worst sides of humanity. I had lost my ability to write, and for me, that is a signal that something is wrong. Writing is my means of creative expression, a part of me that is almost as necessary as breathing. Even if I don't draw or paint for a while, I'm fine, but as soon as words fail me, I know that I have to step back and look at my life.

Now, this is not to say that I don't miss the people. The other cocktails were wonderful girls, and I frequently go visit Lindsay and Kelly to get my fill of interoffice gossip and hear about their lives; Kevin was an awesome boss, and I still consider him a friend (congrats on the new baby girl, Kev!!). But I wasn't really doing anything with my life, so I quit.

It was difficult not to go back, especially after business picked up after the holidays, but I just couldn't. I remember how tired I was and how uninspired I felt on a constant basis and knew that I had to stay away, at least in a professional way. I'd still drop by for a complimentary Hoegaarden, but I would only stay for thirty minutes at the most (and usually only drank about half of the ale, but meh, it was free). I'd catch up, dodging offers of cigarettes, and then go home to Zola. This seemed to be the best way of handling the inevitable question of, "When are you coming back?"

I didn't have the heart to tell them that I had outgrown that life. Most of them are older than me and still manage to behave in ways that no longer interest me. I've never smoked pot and don't plan to do so; I don't like getting drunk on a regular basis; if I'm going to stay up until 5 a.m., I at least want to be in my bed with a good book, video game or empty spiral notepad, not in a bar, wondering how I'm going to get home. Perhaps the word "outgrown" is misused. None of the above-mentioned activities ever really had my rapt attention; I have always wanted to attend Bonnaroo, but I don't because of the drugs. I didn't go to parties in college because I didn't want to be surrounded by drunk people, which is funny considering I worked in a bar for nearly a year before realizing that, yep, I still can't stand drunk people, even when they are paying me. I'm not judging my former co-workers at all, because most of them are incredible, hard working people that are making ends meet the best they can. But that atmosphere is not conducive to me being productive. So, I dropped the job and the smoking; they both kind of went hand in hand.

And now, I'm poised for the rest of my life. Yesterday, amidst the cacophony of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett, I received a call from the Wilson County Human Services department and was offered a job. I was in the elevator at my dad's office and did a little "squee" dance and yelled, "Yes!" I frightened my fellow passengers, but after explaining the situation, they joined in on my happy booty-shaking, and I think I made some old lady's day.

I don't think there's a moral to this story. I haven't reached the end, and I'm not even sure if a moral can be applied. And I probably should have said that last week, I wished I hadn't quit smoking. Because today, being nicotene-free feels kind of good.

It's WAR!!! Well, kind of.

2009-06-27T12:39:00.002-05:00

Oh, I love it when magazines fight with each other. It sometimes makes us forget that they are crappy, especially when it's Cosmo and AskMen.

So apparently, AskMen.com posted a story about the stalker-esque behaviors of women on Facebook (I'll sum it up for you: we set up fake profiles so we can watch the menz that have wronged us; we're passive-aggressive with private photos and our statuses; AND we lie about our relationship status - get that?? All women are the absolute same, us crazy, manipulative bitches.) and Cosmo responded in turn with, "Well, men do annoying stuff, too!!" (Again, summation: they don't tell us if they're in a relationship; they block their photos; they ask us out via our profiles; they detag themselves from photos; they act like frat boys, all of them!! Because they are all cut from the same cookie mold ... or whatever.)

I've said it before and I'll say it again: not all women are the same, and not all men are the same. Well, I guess the women who read Cosmo (and take it seriously) are the ones that the AskMen article is referring to in their little whine-fest, and vice versa. Because that's the only explanation I can come up with. I cannot recall a time when I have ever made a fake Facebook account; I rarely post photos of myself, let alone of friends and possible dating partners; if I'm mad at someone, I tell them with a phone call or a quick jab to the groin, not a status update; and I've been single both in life and on Facebook for the past couple of months because *shock* I am single. On the flip side, most guys I know don't do any of the shit in the Cosmo article, except maybe the frat boy quotage. But even that is usually tongue-in-cheek.

But still, one can only hope, for entertainment purposes at least, that this little article war will continue. What will the topic be next time?

Huh. I'm still kind of stunned.

2009-06-19T14:13:00.003-05:00

You know, I love being surprised. Not in a horror movie, piss-in-you-pants way, but in that pleasant manner in which you cock your head and think, "Huh."

I've been receiving "Elle" for about four months now, and I'm not sure why. I've racked my brain, trying to figure out who can hate me so much as to subject me to the monthly doses of body loathing and expendable-income envy. Being a journalist, though, I do the courteous thing and give the lady mag an obligatory read-through, but inevitably, I'm irritated by the frivolous content, violated by the eye-raping layout design (it reminds me of photo collages I created in middle school), and am thus moved to throw the entire thing into a giant bonfire of vanities.

When I saw the new issue on my counter, I had half a mind just to toss it into the recycling bin, but I convinced myself to at least give it a fighting chance. I nearly stopped at the beginning, as I was accosted by horrendous fashion spreads, sporting the fugliest outfits inspired by bikers and metal bands, and stupid-huge bills attached to pieces (I mean, seriously, nearly $5000 for what is essentially a sparkly tube dress?!) Amazingly, I trudged through the drivel and found myself blinking in astonishment at what lay beyond. Huh.

I was treated to some insightful reviews and now have a list of movies that I simply need to see, including "Away We Go" and "The Apple," books that are must-reads, and TV shows that I will avoid like the leprosy. Ell also reminded me of my quest for the perfect red lipstick and gave me a little history lesson, as well. Did you know that the first wax-based tube lipstick came out in 1870? And that Elizabeth Arden gave out red lipstick for women participating in the suffrage marches of the 1910s?

But most of all, I was impressed with the quality of the interviews. Karen Schoener's coverage of Atlantic Records' Julie Greenwald perfectly summed up the attitude required to save the flailing music industry, and I love the imagery of a powerful, yet nurturing woman (who has pics of her kids on her walls, instead of celebs) who has guys like P. Diddy calling her the "coolest white Jewish chick in history." Oh, you stay classy, Diddy.

The article on street-lit author Miasha was eye-opening and shows that there is a weird segregation between business and African Americans. It's almost like the bigwigs forget that the black community exists until something sells well, like when the popular Zane came onto the scene. And then the cultural critics jump over themselves, blaming the literary outlet as a reason for an entire race's "situation." Now, the glamorization of drug and gang culture is another topic entirely - one that I'm not going to tackle right now because it would make this waaaay too long - but I will admit that reading Miasha's perspective on this makes me appreciate (not like, mind you) "ghetto fiction."

I'm not too ridiculously into Gwen Stefani, this issue's cover girl, but the story on her had me liking the down-to-earth vibe she was giving off. The fact that someone so beautiful couldn't believe a guy was into her is very reassuring, even if she did steal Gavin Rossdale from what could have been wedded bliss with me. I've moved on, of course, and I have forgiven.

Now, the women-in-music section got me a little annoyed, but that's only becase the editors included Taylor Swift and Lady Gaga*, but not Beth Ditto, who I've come to adore, or Chrissy Hynde. To their credit, though, they did have Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Joan Jett and Kid Sister. But my ultimate girl-crush, Jennifer Hudson, had me saying, "Squeeee!" I am just in awe of her faith and could literally stare at the featured photo shoot for hours. Gorgeous woman, inside and out, and her interview just made me love her all the more.

I skipped the last ten pages or so of oddly posed models and a Q&A with Bret Michaels (um, no, thanks), but the whole experience left me scratching my head. WTF just happened? Was I really just intellectually stimulated by "Elle?" Huh.

Now, is it too much to expect a similar follow-up? A sequel of quality, if you will? Yeah, I'm not banking on it.

* The part where she says that American Idol was "all about the art" when setting up for her recent appearance, I nearly screamed. I just don't get the fascination with this woman, and I really wish people would just stop giving her a platform. Ick.

The Fish That Won't Die

2009-06-19T01:06:00.007-05:00

My dad has this 30 gallon fish tank in his office that sat idle and waterless for about a year before he finally threw down the gauntlet and filled it with all sorts of swimmy friends. He decked it all out with petrified wood and lots of green plants before tossing in the fishies, ranging from bottom feeding plecostomus to shiny, zippy tetras. Then there is Claude, or at least that's what I've named him (I name everything and I mean everything), the cockroach of the watery world my father created.

He has his purpose, of course. He's a whiskered algae eater, so the tank stays cleaner than it would without him, but Claude has not really been fulfilling his position as of late since he has been spending his time belly up. But he's not dead. Oh, no. He just floats and then flits away when you touch him or approach him with the Net of Toilet Flushing Death. According to my dad, he has a faulty bladder, which made me cringe at first, my layperson knowledge thinking that he had the non-tetrapod chordate version of kidney failure, but apparently, the fish bladder has a function similar to the inner ear or the occipital lobe. It keeps the fish upright and gives it a sense of where it is. The more you know, right?

Still, he's been like this for over two weeks. Two fucking weeks. Each day, it's the same ritual. "Looks like he isn't moving. Touch him and see." "Nope, little bastard's still chuggin' along." My dad and I are basically sitting there waiting for him to croak, and we just don't have the heart to send him to an early septic system grave.

I'm fairly sure he isn't giving himself a pep talk every morning, but I do wonder if there is something to his perseverance, whether it's intentional or simply his nature not to roll over and die. He does have his next feeding to look forward to, for goodness' sake. For the longest time, I had a sort of defeatist attitude regarding my current situation: unemployed, basically penniless, not really any direction. That was my fish bladder. It made me basically kind of ride the fabricated ripples/waves of my own little fish tank (aka sleeping waaaay too much, not trying to find a job, etc.), until I basically said, "Okay, time to get off this little pity party I'm hosting."

I'm still in the floating stage and I DO give myself a pep talk every morning. I watch movies like "Diary of a Mad Black Woman," apply to any and every job I can, and exercise every day. I'm still jobless, but I have a roof over my head, wonderful parents that let me stay with them (rent free, yay!!), supportive friends and most of all, my faith. I'm still kind of broken, but pretty soon, my bladder will be functional again. Those words just sound strange. Meh, oh, well.