So I read this article this morning about how piles of money are shockingly not greatly improving the lives of lottery winners. Why ever might that be? Could it be that people who pay a dollar a week for a one in a billion chance at unearned riches are not amazing money managers?
The lottery is the only system of welfare paid for exclusively by the people who can least afford it. The lottery is wrong. Your lotto ticket buying grannies are subsidizing under-funded programs that should be paid for by funded state mandate. Supporting the lotto is encouraging our government to tax the poor for social programs designed to benefit the poor (while the rich buy yachts and pinch bottoms in St. Barts.) Furthermore, allowing the poor to elect one person to be rich obviously doesn’t benefit the community and also doesn’t benefit the newly moneyed individual. Most folks who have the capacity to earn reasonable wealth are doing so and are not spending money on the lotto.
Winning the lottery is kicking Darwin in the nuts. It’s setting up a survival of the least fit situation. I can give my dog a flux capacitor, but he’ll just piss on it; it takes a Doc Brown to stick it in a DeLorean and err… popularize rock and roll. Can we please stop giving these dogs flux capacitors? Can we please leave Darwin’s nuts alone?
Another example: warning labels. You mean I shouldn’t tip a soda machine onto myself? I shouldn’t drink Drain-o? Au contraire, I say. If I have the God given American right to be an asshole, I think I should have the right to accidentally kill myself, should I be a complete idiot. Think of the babies people say. What of it? When was that last time you saw a baby trying to jiggle a Snickers out of a candy machine. When was the last time you saw a baby reading Dostoevsky? How about a Goodnight Moon? No? Well then what are the stickers for? Adults. Stupid adults. Mr. Yuck stickers are for kids. ‘Don’t jump into lion’s enclosure’ signs are for their moron parents.
Let idiots be idiots; how about instead of granting million dollar settlements to people who spill coffee on themselves, and allowing legalized gambling to fund our schools, we ask everyone (including corporations) to contribute towards better schools and hospitals. This way we don't have to give any old idiot a million dollars to put up his nose for ten years before he's back in the government cheese line, just to partially fund full day kindergarten for a year.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Baby Beluga
After my sudden realization of the finite nature of life and my wasting of said life I came to the conclusion that I need to do more. Instead of laying about the house reading this weekend, I needed to do something. It seemed to me that the hole in my life could easily be filled with polar bears. I LOVE polar bears; they’re my favorite animal which could easily tear off my arm. (Favorite animal that won’t tear of my arm: the tapir.) After only a small amount of arm twisting even my tough guy 11 year old cousin will admit that they are the “cutie-est.”
I decided to take said cousin to the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium in Tacoma to witness cutie-est-ness in action. Neither of us had ever been, and soon we’d persuaded my aunt and uncle to join us. It was a nice winter day- by Seattle standards- crisp, grey, and cool. Bundled in mittens and hats we traveled from area to area, giving each animal its own cartoon voice. Mostly, it seems that the animals are bored, and would also like to eat us- even the tapirs.
I’d been worried that because it is winter, there might not be much to see. It turns out there is a lot to see at this time of the year. A LOT. A lot of penises to see. Everywhere we went all the animals were going at it, like uhm… animals. “Oh look red wolves…” I would say. “Oh my,” I would say shortly thereafter.
The worst (and by that I mean the worst thing I have EVER seen in my entire life) were the beluga whales. It started out innocently enough with the two whales playing with a floating hoop. They played keep-away and swiftly swam around dragging the hoop and swimming through it halfway like bloated, albino, ballerinas. Cute, happy, bloated, albino, ballerinas. It was like he was smiling. I bet he was smiling, the pervert. After a while I decided to go into the observation room below the water level and there is was. The scariest thing I’ve ever seen. A beluga whale penis. It was terrifying in ways I refuse to describe. Let me just say that if I was a lady whale I’d beach myself.
Unbelievably, my cousin didn’t even notice the 2 foot long erect whale penis. This is the same kid who at like 5 was watching Friends and turned to me and said, “What’s a condom?” I sat there for a second and then said, “I think those are for married people.” “What, so you don’t know,” he said giving me the look that said ‘you naïve, provincial thing.’ “Well, I’m not married yet. I think they’re for boys….” I said smugly going back to my reading.
I decided to take said cousin to the Point Defiance Zoo and Aquarium in Tacoma to witness cutie-est-ness in action. Neither of us had ever been, and soon we’d persuaded my aunt and uncle to join us. It was a nice winter day- by Seattle standards- crisp, grey, and cool. Bundled in mittens and hats we traveled from area to area, giving each animal its own cartoon voice. Mostly, it seems that the animals are bored, and would also like to eat us- even the tapirs.
I’d been worried that because it is winter, there might not be much to see. It turns out there is a lot to see at this time of the year. A LOT. A lot of penises to see. Everywhere we went all the animals were going at it, like uhm… animals. “Oh look red wolves…” I would say. “Oh my,” I would say shortly thereafter.
The worst (and by that I mean the worst thing I have EVER seen in my entire life) were the beluga whales. It started out innocently enough with the two whales playing with a floating hoop. They played keep-away and swiftly swam around dragging the hoop and swimming through it halfway like bloated, albino, ballerinas. Cute, happy, bloated, albino, ballerinas. It was like he was smiling. I bet he was smiling, the pervert. After a while I decided to go into the observation room below the water level and there is was. The scariest thing I’ve ever seen. A beluga whale penis. It was terrifying in ways I refuse to describe. Let me just say that if I was a lady whale I’d beach myself.
Unbelievably, my cousin didn’t even notice the 2 foot long erect whale penis. This is the same kid who at like 5 was watching Friends and turned to me and said, “What’s a condom?” I sat there for a second and then said, “I think those are for married people.” “What, so you don’t know,” he said giving me the look that said ‘you naïve, provincial thing.’ “Well, I’m not married yet. I think they’re for boys….” I said smugly going back to my reading.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Fajita sleeves
Yesterday I was eating lunch at my desk. Happily eating a fajita in one hand and clacking away with the other. Suddenly I catch motion out of the corner of my left eye. A huge chunk of fajita was sliding down my arm. Stunned I watched it fall into my sleeve. I have little to no feeling in my left arm (due to the removal of a nerve tumor a few years back) so apparently a tiny fajita juice lake had been pooling in the elbow of my sweater.
Now if that isn’t sexy I don’t know what is.
Now if that isn’t sexy I don’t know what is.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
You May Be Right, I May Be Crazy...
"Self-respect is the fruit of discipline."
Abraham Heschel
I've always been obsessed with this concept. It's as though I really believe that if I am disciplined and work hard, and do everything right, I can be perfect and safe. But where is this taking me?
A while ago I tried to make a list of 101 things that I wanted to accomplish in the next 1001 days; the list was infested with things like "look into further retirement preparation," "re-prioritize investments," "build additional savings," "organize recipes," "organize holiday materials," "pay off student loan." Shouldn't I have first thought, "paint pottery," "learn how to crochet," "go to France," "skydive."
"Build additional savings?" For what? Plastic bins for my Easter shit?! Furthermore, I could only come up with 16 things. How terrible is it that the majority of my goals involved alphabetization or Consumer Reports? This is what I want in my published list of personal goals, "research and purchase a dining room table?" For the love of God, I'm researching furniture. I think I am finally losing it!
And of course my journal this year lists "New Years Resolution: Lead a more disciplined life."
Can you get more disciplined than having a will at 25? I even have a Porn Buddy. A designated friend with keys to my apartment, so that in the event of my death she will remove a bag with items I would prefer my grandmother not think I possess. I have a file labeled "In the event of Quiana's death," inside it is my will, a sheet of paper with all my account numbers and companies that need to be dealt with (insurance, bank accounts, etc.), and a list of music not to be played under any circumstances at my funeral (mostly angel related music).
Shouldn't I be scrapbooking shit? Or arranging flowers, or something? Instead of making earthquake kits and lecturing my parents on the value of renter's insurance??
Is it possible to be too prepared or is being neurotic and morbid simply my idea of fun? Is it ok to enjoy preparing for the worst that life has to offer?
You tell me.
Abraham Heschel
I've always been obsessed with this concept. It's as though I really believe that if I am disciplined and work hard, and do everything right, I can be perfect and safe. But where is this taking me?
A while ago I tried to make a list of 101 things that I wanted to accomplish in the next 1001 days; the list was infested with things like "look into further retirement preparation," "re-prioritize investments," "build additional savings," "organize recipes," "organize holiday materials," "pay off student loan." Shouldn't I have first thought, "paint pottery," "learn how to crochet," "go to France," "skydive."
"Build additional savings?" For what? Plastic bins for my Easter shit?! Furthermore, I could only come up with 16 things. How terrible is it that the majority of my goals involved alphabetization or Consumer Reports? This is what I want in my published list of personal goals, "research and purchase a dining room table?" For the love of God, I'm researching furniture. I think I am finally losing it!
And of course my journal this year lists "New Years Resolution: Lead a more disciplined life."
Can you get more disciplined than having a will at 25? I even have a Porn Buddy. A designated friend with keys to my apartment, so that in the event of my death she will remove a bag with items I would prefer my grandmother not think I possess. I have a file labeled "In the event of Quiana's death," inside it is my will, a sheet of paper with all my account numbers and companies that need to be dealt with (insurance, bank accounts, etc.), and a list of music not to be played under any circumstances at my funeral (mostly angel related music).
Shouldn't I be scrapbooking shit? Or arranging flowers, or something? Instead of making earthquake kits and lecturing my parents on the value of renter's insurance??
Is it possible to be too prepared or is being neurotic and morbid simply my idea of fun? Is it ok to enjoy preparing for the worst that life has to offer?
You tell me.
Friday, February 10, 2006
The Horse Whimperer
This morning I was on the phone with Steve and I asked what his girlfriend and he had planned for the weekend. It turns out that his girlfriend has horseback riding lessons this Saturday. "Oh, riding lessons, cool. Is she learning western style or dressage?" I asked excitedly.
"Uhm... I don't know, I hate horses."
"How could you possibly hate horses?"
"Horses are vicious animals that will kill you on accident." said Steve.
"Hell Steve, I could kill you on accident."
"Well, you're not as big."
"But I bet I could still trample you to death."
"Probably not on accident."
Well, Steve I think that's the jury's job to decide.
"Uhm... I don't know, I hate horses."
"How could you possibly hate horses?"
"Horses are vicious animals that will kill you on accident." said Steve.
"Hell Steve, I could kill you on accident."
"Well, you're not as big."
"But I bet I could still trample you to death."
"Probably not on accident."
Well, Steve I think that's the jury's job to decide.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Why should I change? He’s the one that sucks!
Today I attended a training entitled “Working with Difficult Behaviors (Including Your Own).” Yes kids, sensitivity training. Nice.
While I can’t fathom why I would like to learn to aid and abet assholes by tacitly agreeing that I don’t deserve to be treated with respect or professional behavior, I was quite curious as to what would be said about dealing with one’s own assholic attitudes. Also, the training was required.
I knew there would be trouble when I entered to find that the very very ethnic-y sounding named lady that would be leading the course was in fact one of those white people who’ve forgotten that every culture (including the various pale ones) have interesting aspects and provocative histories, thus have adopted whichever (though possibly a jumble of several) “Eastern” culture is readily available. She had a gong (hey onomatopoeia) and a Chinese printed Nehru jacket.
BONG! It begins.
Of course in the obligatory opening remarks we got down to the business of making shit up about feelings. We were told to always use “I Statements.”
Example of an “I Statement:” I feel bad when crazy-ass bitches yell at me over the phone because they failed to correctly complete and return their paperwork, despite numerous messages and emails before the deadline, which they’ve known about for literally 5 years.
Here’s an even better “I Statement:” I have a hard time taking my presenters seriously after they use the phrase “don’t let your life-fire die.” May I mention that the only thing burning inside me is the desire for Joaquin Phoenix and some Reflux Disorder symptoms.
Speaking of throwing up in my mouth…
First exercise of the day: write down the advantages to learning to more skillfully work with difficult behaviors. A good translation: how will taking it in the ass and learning to pretend that you like it improve your life at work?
Which leads me to this thought: the ENTIRE purpose of the meeting was to forcibly remove any expectation of personal or professional accountability from our peers.
Ok, I know you’ve all heard this a million times from me, but where the hell did accountability go?
Example of lack of accountability when negatively enforced:
I left my apartment a few weeks ago and as I walked to my car (parked on a quite narrow one-way street) I overheard two gentlemen talking. Gentleman #1 was saying to his friend, “I can’t believe some asshole hit my truck! They didn’t even leave a note with insurance information or anything!” Gentlemen #2, “What the hell is wrong with people these days?” I should mention that the man’s huge truck was a good 3.5-4 feet from the curb. Of course it did not occur to either gentleman that perhaps his truck got hit because it was parked in the middle of the fucking road! Why should someone stop to pay for damage that was caused to a vehicle illegally parked in the damn road? I might also mention that this road is the main access to the old folks home, tap studio, and architect studio on my street. I suppose the fact that customers, deliveries, and, oh say, emergency vehicles may need to, oh say, drive right there never occurred to this guy. While he was completely clueless as to the fact that his truck was likely hit due to his own stupidity, perhaps next time he will park closer to the curb.
Example of lack of accountability when positively enforced:
My cousin works for a very large luxury retail boutique corporation. She works the complaint line. (Her life must rock.) Anyway, one day she gets a call from some guy who parked at one of the locations and when he returned to his brand new Jaguar (HELLLLLLLOOOOOOO you just paid 50 grand for a FORD) someone has backed into it causing a rather steep garage bill and he “wants to know what VLLRBC is going to do about it?” He actually expected them to pay for damage that his car sustained from a non-employee while parked in their parking lot. Well, she tells him to go to hell, as nicely as possible. Well later this guy calls back, gets her boss on the line and VLLRBC agrees to pay for his car repairs and sends him a $150 gift card. What does this tell him? I yell, you pay.
Ah, the American Way.
Why should I positively reinforce abusive behavior, by being conciliatory and perky towards people who casually trample societal mores, office rules, and the law? Screw that, when people call me and start abusing, I have no compunction in interrupting to demand an email cc’d to both of our supervisors. Shaming people into appropriate behavior was your mama’s job, but if she couldn’t manage it I’m always happy to help.
While I can’t fathom why I would like to learn to aid and abet assholes by tacitly agreeing that I don’t deserve to be treated with respect or professional behavior, I was quite curious as to what would be said about dealing with one’s own assholic attitudes. Also, the training was required.
I knew there would be trouble when I entered to find that the very very ethnic-y sounding named lady that would be leading the course was in fact one of those white people who’ve forgotten that every culture (including the various pale ones) have interesting aspects and provocative histories, thus have adopted whichever (though possibly a jumble of several) “Eastern” culture is readily available. She had a gong (hey onomatopoeia) and a Chinese printed Nehru jacket.
BONG! It begins.
Of course in the obligatory opening remarks we got down to the business of making shit up about feelings. We were told to always use “I Statements.”
Example of an “I Statement:” I feel bad when crazy-ass bitches yell at me over the phone because they failed to correctly complete and return their paperwork, despite numerous messages and emails before the deadline, which they’ve known about for literally 5 years.
Here’s an even better “I Statement:” I have a hard time taking my presenters seriously after they use the phrase “don’t let your life-fire die.” May I mention that the only thing burning inside me is the desire for Joaquin Phoenix and some Reflux Disorder symptoms.
Speaking of throwing up in my mouth…
First exercise of the day: write down the advantages to learning to more skillfully work with difficult behaviors. A good translation: how will taking it in the ass and learning to pretend that you like it improve your life at work?
Which leads me to this thought: the ENTIRE purpose of the meeting was to forcibly remove any expectation of personal or professional accountability from our peers.
Ok, I know you’ve all heard this a million times from me, but where the hell did accountability go?
Example of lack of accountability when negatively enforced:
I left my apartment a few weeks ago and as I walked to my car (parked on a quite narrow one-way street) I overheard two gentlemen talking. Gentleman #1 was saying to his friend, “I can’t believe some asshole hit my truck! They didn’t even leave a note with insurance information or anything!” Gentlemen #2, “What the hell is wrong with people these days?” I should mention that the man’s huge truck was a good 3.5-4 feet from the curb. Of course it did not occur to either gentleman that perhaps his truck got hit because it was parked in the middle of the fucking road! Why should someone stop to pay for damage that was caused to a vehicle illegally parked in the damn road? I might also mention that this road is the main access to the old folks home, tap studio, and architect studio on my street. I suppose the fact that customers, deliveries, and, oh say, emergency vehicles may need to, oh say, drive right there never occurred to this guy. While he was completely clueless as to the fact that his truck was likely hit due to his own stupidity, perhaps next time he will park closer to the curb.
Example of lack of accountability when positively enforced:
My cousin works for a very large luxury retail boutique corporation. She works the complaint line. (Her life must rock.) Anyway, one day she gets a call from some guy who parked at one of the locations and when he returned to his brand new Jaguar (HELLLLLLLOOOOOOO you just paid 50 grand for a FORD) someone has backed into it causing a rather steep garage bill and he “wants to know what VLLRBC is going to do about it?” He actually expected them to pay for damage that his car sustained from a non-employee while parked in their parking lot. Well, she tells him to go to hell, as nicely as possible. Well later this guy calls back, gets her boss on the line and VLLRBC agrees to pay for his car repairs and sends him a $150 gift card. What does this tell him? I yell, you pay.
Ah, the American Way.
Why should I positively reinforce abusive behavior, by being conciliatory and perky towards people who casually trample societal mores, office rules, and the law? Screw that, when people call me and start abusing, I have no compunction in interrupting to demand an email cc’d to both of our supervisors. Shaming people into appropriate behavior was your mama’s job, but if she couldn’t manage it I’m always happy to help.
What Would Tyler Durden Do?
Check out this website, it's my newest favorite.
Actual quote:
[Britney,] what the hell does it take for you to snap, to get angry and stun KFed in the side of the head with a cider jug and then strangle him with your rope belt. I promise you, no one is gonna care. Cops hate wiggers like dogs hate cats.
Actual quote:
[Britney,] what the hell does it take for you to snap, to get angry and stun KFed in the side of the head with a cider jug and then strangle him with your rope belt. I promise you, no one is gonna care. Cops hate wiggers like dogs hate cats.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Insult + Injury
Last week I was very sternly instructed to stay home Friday and stay off my stupid foot all weekend. So I stayed home Friday; but I was in my apartment from Thursday at 6 until Saturday morning and I felt that if I sat in my apartment for even one more moment I would actually die.
Pajama clad, on crutches, in pig-tales and a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy hoodie, I began my two block pilgrimage. I made it all the way to my beloved Albertsons (which was closing it's doors for good that very day) and I gazed upon it's beautiful convenience. Sighing, I turned towards the street, and put my hands in my hoodie pouch to get my netflix returns and letter to Charles. There in front of me was a completely empty patch of dirt. Let me clarify. In highschool, there was a mailbox there; in college, also a mailbox; last Wednesday, a mailbox; Saturday, a patch of dirt. Was my mailbox stolen? Did high school kids show up and throw it the back of their truck? Were they, at that very moment, watching people's netflix and reading their birthday cards? Did the Post Office show up and just remove it because Albertsons was moving? Surely mailbox locations are not contingent to Albertsons locations.
I was standing there staring at the ground when a beautiful young fellow came jogging past. Slowing to a stop he said, "Are you ok?" I said, "Yes, but my fucking mailbox is completely gone." As opposed to partially gone. Good job Q! "Oh, well I guess you can mail it at home." Here I am in Underdog jammy pants and a hoodie, on CRUTCHES, what does he think I'm on my morning constitutional?
Pajama clad, on crutches, in pig-tales and a Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy hoodie, I began my two block pilgrimage. I made it all the way to my beloved Albertsons (which was closing it's doors for good that very day) and I gazed upon it's beautiful convenience. Sighing, I turned towards the street, and put my hands in my hoodie pouch to get my netflix returns and letter to Charles. There in front of me was a completely empty patch of dirt. Let me clarify. In highschool, there was a mailbox there; in college, also a mailbox; last Wednesday, a mailbox; Saturday, a patch of dirt. Was my mailbox stolen? Did high school kids show up and throw it the back of their truck? Were they, at that very moment, watching people's netflix and reading their birthday cards? Did the Post Office show up and just remove it because Albertsons was moving? Surely mailbox locations are not contingent to Albertsons locations.
I was standing there staring at the ground when a beautiful young fellow came jogging past. Slowing to a stop he said, "Are you ok?" I said, "Yes, but my fucking mailbox is completely gone." As opposed to partially gone. Good job Q! "Oh, well I guess you can mail it at home." Here I am in Underdog jammy pants and a hoodie, on CRUTCHES, what does he think I'm on my morning constitutional?
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Stephen Colbert Thinks I’m Hateful.
Oh yea Colbert? Well I think you’re… hot.
Damn it.
In the most recent issue of The Onion Stephen Colbert (or Cuddle Buns as I prefer to call him) asserted that:
Jon [“Love Muffin,” Stewart] couldn't say on camera that he thinks Rosa Parks was overrated, because that's a hateful thing to say. But this character [Stephen Colbert’s character on the Colbert Report] can get away with it, because the audience on some level knows [he doesn't] mean it.
What?! Stop judging me!
Ok, so I may have said that I think that Rosa Parks is over-rated. But I did this huge research project on the Bus Boycott and it was a planned event. Yes, Rosa Parks was a good woman, brave and willing to face up to many dangers. But it wasn’t as though one day she was just not gonna move. She’d previously refused to move and had no negative repercussions. The Civil Rights movement didn’t just fall into place because people decided to randomly make changes. The Movement was carefully orchestrated by very intentional people who needed a figure like Rosa Parks.
Rosa Parks should be admired, but not for the reasons you think. Rosa was brave enough to face the potential consequences that went far beyond jail time. There's a difference between a fireman saving a baby from a burning building and a civilian doing the same.
Rosa Parks didn't stumble upon icon status by accident, it wasn't her feet that were tired of sitting in the back of the bus.
Damn it.
In the most recent issue of The Onion Stephen Colbert (or Cuddle Buns as I prefer to call him) asserted that:
Jon [“Love Muffin,” Stewart] couldn't say on camera that he thinks Rosa Parks was overrated, because that's a hateful thing to say. But this character [Stephen Colbert’s character on the Colbert Report] can get away with it, because the audience on some level knows [he doesn't] mean it.
What?! Stop judging me!
Ok, so I may have said that I think that Rosa Parks is over-rated. But I did this huge research project on the Bus Boycott and it was a planned event. Yes, Rosa Parks was a good woman, brave and willing to face up to many dangers. But it wasn’t as though one day she was just not gonna move. She’d previously refused to move and had no negative repercussions. The Civil Rights movement didn’t just fall into place because people decided to randomly make changes. The Movement was carefully orchestrated by very intentional people who needed a figure like Rosa Parks.
Rosa Parks should be admired, but not for the reasons you think. Rosa was brave enough to face the potential consequences that went far beyond jail time. There's a difference between a fireman saving a baby from a burning building and a civilian doing the same.
Rosa Parks didn't stumble upon icon status by accident, it wasn't her feet that were tired of sitting in the back of the bus.
Bad Blogger, Bad
Ok see here's the deal. I'm grouchy and I broke my foot. Well, ok it turns out that I didn't break it. I did something crazy to it and my Doctor says there's nothing to be done about it and not to walk for basically a month. So I've been hobbling around and laying about with my foot up. Since I've been at home every day I've been doing the following:
Weeping.
Reading a lot.
Writing angry letters to Albertsons.
Watching embarrassing TV.
Hey food channel.
Obsessing about money.
Obsessing about my telephone.
Obsessing about why people with legitimate exercise induced foot injuries have to park in the back of the parking lots, but people who can't walk because they're fat get to park in the handicapped spots.Looking forward to mobility.
Obsessing about my foot.
Not having anything exciting happen to me to blog about. (I don't even need to bitch about the weather, seeing as I can't go anywhere.)
Wanna hear a funny foot story? Well a funny my grandma tries to murder me regularly story? Sure ya do.
So my grandmother really believes in homeopathic medicine. So she's always giving me horrible remedies for things.
Ex. 1. When I was tiny she made me take these stinky brown liquid vitamins. Picture my mom tearing around the house and pinning cute little Quiana in piggy-tails to the ground and jamming a full dropper in her mouth mostly missing. Even though each bottle was 2 months worth Grandma always sent one a month... just in case. (She continues this tradition to this date, when I last moved I threw out 8 bottles of vitamins.) One day my mom was lecturing me about behaving like a baby when it was vitamin time. I told her “if you like the vitamins so much, why don’t you take them?” She said "fine, I will." She put a drop on her tongue and then hurled everywhere.
Ex. 2. The dust infused with positive energy. So I was having some serious health problems a few years back and (as usual) was hiding them from Grandma. Well, when she got wind of my illness she came bustling over with this little tub. It was filled with dust. This dust was a mix of mud and ground crystals that were "infused with positive energy." Basically she was trying to get me to consume magic dirt. "It's from Wyoming," she assured me. "Oh, I see, Wyoming is healthy and magical, it must be the dirt! Wyoming, the Magic Dirt State.") It had cost her a bundle but I threw it away; wasn't it this very same woman who admonished me for playing in the dirt as a child? Even 4 year old Quiana knew not to eat mud pies. Later I was at the airport watching CNN and they were busting homeopathic frauds. Wait for it… wait… wait… ok. Turns out that eating dirt is not good for you. I know, “jump back, I shouldn’t eat dirt. OOPS!” If I had been dutifully drinking this dirt water it might have killed me. (My liver probably couldn't have handled another strain.)
Given this empirical evidence, I knew that when Grandma pressed the bottle into my hand I should've thrown it away. It was a liniment ("to heal your foot, it worked great on Daisy[her schnauzer].") I don't recall what it was called, but it sounded ominously like "Balrog," which we all know is a fiery demon. Hmmmmmmmm... a fiery demon for my foot... sounds awesome. I didn't want to lie to my Grandmother and I figured a liniment probably couldn't cause liver failure, so I decided try it. And in any event, my foot had been really improving, so what could it hurt? Baby blue and completely opaque, it looked like Smurf Jam and smelled like the bastard child of a tube of mentos and some necco wafers. I put it on my foot. It tingled and made my foot feel cold. I thought "either this is working or my foot is about to fall completely off." As I sat reading Calvin and Hobbes, my foot became quite numb. At some point I got up to brush my teeth. The next day I could barely walk.
That woman is a hazard.
Weeping.
Reading a lot.
Writing angry letters to Albertsons.
Watching embarrassing TV.
Hey food channel.
Obsessing about money.
Obsessing about my telephone.
Obsessing about why people with legitimate exercise induced foot injuries have to park in the back of the parking lots, but people who can't walk because they're fat get to park in the handicapped spots.Looking forward to mobility.
Obsessing about my foot.
Not having anything exciting happen to me to blog about. (I don't even need to bitch about the weather, seeing as I can't go anywhere.)
Wanna hear a funny foot story? Well a funny my grandma tries to murder me regularly story? Sure ya do.
So my grandmother really believes in homeopathic medicine. So she's always giving me horrible remedies for things.
Ex. 1. When I was tiny she made me take these stinky brown liquid vitamins. Picture my mom tearing around the house and pinning cute little Quiana in piggy-tails to the ground and jamming a full dropper in her mouth mostly missing. Even though each bottle was 2 months worth Grandma always sent one a month... just in case. (She continues this tradition to this date, when I last moved I threw out 8 bottles of vitamins.) One day my mom was lecturing me about behaving like a baby when it was vitamin time. I told her “if you like the vitamins so much, why don’t you take them?” She said "fine, I will." She put a drop on her tongue and then hurled everywhere.
Ex. 2. The dust infused with positive energy. So I was having some serious health problems a few years back and (as usual) was hiding them from Grandma. Well, when she got wind of my illness she came bustling over with this little tub. It was filled with dust. This dust was a mix of mud and ground crystals that were "infused with positive energy." Basically she was trying to get me to consume magic dirt. "It's from Wyoming," she assured me. "Oh, I see, Wyoming is healthy and magical, it must be the dirt! Wyoming, the Magic Dirt State.") It had cost her a bundle but I threw it away; wasn't it this very same woman who admonished me for playing in the dirt as a child? Even 4 year old Quiana knew not to eat mud pies. Later I was at the airport watching CNN and they were busting homeopathic frauds. Wait for it… wait… wait… ok. Turns out that eating dirt is not good for you. I know, “jump back, I shouldn’t eat dirt. OOPS!” If I had been dutifully drinking this dirt water it might have killed me. (My liver probably couldn't have handled another strain.)
Given this empirical evidence, I knew that when Grandma pressed the bottle into my hand I should've thrown it away. It was a liniment ("to heal your foot, it worked great on Daisy[her schnauzer].") I don't recall what it was called, but it sounded ominously like "Balrog," which we all know is a fiery demon. Hmmmmmmmm... a fiery demon for my foot... sounds awesome. I didn't want to lie to my Grandmother and I figured a liniment probably couldn't cause liver failure, so I decided try it. And in any event, my foot had been really improving, so what could it hurt? Baby blue and completely opaque, it looked like Smurf Jam and smelled like the bastard child of a tube of mentos and some necco wafers. I put it on my foot. It tingled and made my foot feel cold. I thought "either this is working or my foot is about to fall completely off." As I sat reading Calvin and Hobbes, my foot became quite numb. At some point I got up to brush my teeth. The next day I could barely walk.
That woman is a hazard.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Well, it's not raining men... damn it.
Happy 26th day of rain.I'm seriously going to get trenchfoot soon.
Please inspect the page of galoshes, one pair shall go on me tootsies. Let me know what you think. I'm leaning toward the westies or ooze, although leopard-print is also appealing.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Co-workers know worst.
My CoWorker's (Very Knowledgable in the Arts of Things that Suck) Suggestions for Worst Song Ever:
Lou Bega, Mambo Number Five (Eeep!)
Having My Baby, Paul Anka (Yipes!)
Starland Vocal Band, Afternoon Delight (GROSS!!!)
Cherry Pie, Warrant (I LOVE this song)
Danny’s Song, Loggins and Messina (Even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with you honey....) ( I also LOVE this song)
She’s Like the Wind, Patrick Swayze (Is this really THAT bad?) (Ok she's like the wind through my trees... that is pretty bad.)
Zager and Evans, In the Year 2525 (This song is BOMB. Screw you guys.)
William Shatner’s rendition of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
Maxwell Silver Hammer, The Beattles
Michael Bolton’s rendition of When Man Loves a Woman (Bullet to the brain, shark infested waters, 10 minutes with Michael Bolton? I vote brain, though sharks are quite fascinating.)
Memories from Cats
Every song from Phantom of the Opera
Ground Control to Major Tom, David Bowie (I saw the Labirynth... everything about David Bowie is awesome... in size.)
Worst song ever
I submit for your approval, the worst song ever:
Haddaway, What is Love?
Baby don't hurt me.
Second Runner Up:
Captain and Tenile, Muskrat Love
Nibbling on bacon, one would think I would be all over this.
Followed Closely by:
Aqua, Barbie Girl
Made of plastic, it's fantastic!
And who could possibly forget:
Everything ever recorded by Avril Lavigne.
Why'd ya have ta go and make things so complicated?
And of course my most hated song:
Who Let the Dogs Out
Ruff, rufff, ruff, ruff, ruff.
I would actually rather listen to Celine Dion than ANY of these people.
Incidentally, I read an article in (I think) Blender that stated that Eddie Murphy's My Girl Wants to Party All the Time was the worst song ever recorded. FALSE. That song changed my life.
True story.
Haddaway, What is Love?
Baby don't hurt me.
Second Runner Up:
Captain and Tenile, Muskrat Love
Nibbling on bacon, one would think I would be all over this.
Followed Closely by:
Aqua, Barbie Girl
Made of plastic, it's fantastic!
And who could possibly forget:
Everything ever recorded by Avril Lavigne.
Why'd ya have ta go and make things so complicated?
And of course my most hated song:
Who Let the Dogs Out
Ruff, rufff, ruff, ruff, ruff.
I would actually rather listen to Celine Dion than ANY of these people.
Incidentally, I read an article in (I think) Blender that stated that Eddie Murphy's My Girl Wants to Party All the Time was the worst song ever recorded. FALSE. That song changed my life.
True story.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Spelunking
I was just cat-sitting for a very nice coworker and friend of my aunt. She has a lovely apartment, sparse, but everything in it is top quality. She even has one of those fancy smart-foam mattresses. This mattress cost thousands of dollars. Now if you see the commercial you see that a blandly attractive woman can jump on one side of the bed and the walk over to pick up a glass of water on the other side of the bed… wait for it… the glass didn’t move the whole time she was jumping. Now what they didn’t show in the commercial is when the girl steps forward to get off the bed and sprains her ankle in the hole left by the glass of water in her hand.
I have a methodology to sleeping. When you are an insomniac you have to take extra care in all the little rituals. First I start out on my back, reading till sleepy, then flipping off the light. Now at a certain point I will want to adjust to sleep on my side like a sensible girl. However, when on a smart foam mattress the mattress forms around the curves of your body. Thus when you try to move the mattress is still in the shape of your curves, as they were positioned 15 seconds ago. 15 seconds doesn’t seem like a long time, but the depression in the mattress caused by my butt disappears at just a slow enough rate that I can’t flip over onto my side. Talk about depression. I turn over, but with nothing to support my hindquarters I just flop ineffectually back into the same position. I am trapped in my own butt divot.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to shell out 2 grand to buy a mattress that traps me in my own asshole.
I have a methodology to sleeping. When you are an insomniac you have to take extra care in all the little rituals. First I start out on my back, reading till sleepy, then flipping off the light. Now at a certain point I will want to adjust to sleep on my side like a sensible girl. However, when on a smart foam mattress the mattress forms around the curves of your body. Thus when you try to move the mattress is still in the shape of your curves, as they were positioned 15 seconds ago. 15 seconds doesn’t seem like a long time, but the depression in the mattress caused by my butt disappears at just a slow enough rate that I can’t flip over onto my side. Talk about depression. I turn over, but with nothing to support my hindquarters I just flop ineffectually back into the same position. I am trapped in my own butt divot.
I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to shell out 2 grand to buy a mattress that traps me in my own asshole.
Darby O’KILL and the Little People
I’ve had this fear of dwarfs, well little people in general since this one time in a bar. I was living in a tiny town in the big empty side of the state with a friend of mine. I was blissfully slumbering curled up with my roommate’s cat when my door flew open. “Wake up! We’re going out!!!”
“It’s Wednesday, Renee.”
“Don’t ca-are.”
“I was asleep.”
“Don’t ca-are.”
“I hate you.”
“I’ll buy your drinks.”
“Ok.”
We skittered down the street in the chill of nighttime in the desert. The place was pretty empty… not unusual for a summer weeknight in a college town. Renee went to chat with the bartender, a frat brother of one of our closest friends. That day the bar had gotten its first Digital Juke Box- I was mesmerized. It had every song I’d ever heard so naturally I chose Wilson Phillips, “Hold On” as the inaugural song.
People began drifting in and the best seats began to fill up. From our spot at the bar we could peruse the entire room. And that was when I made my error, inadvertent eye contact. With this uhm… dwarf. Now to make this abundantly clear, in spite of the fact that my friend Loren and I watched a three our documentary on little people one Saturday night, I have never had any curiosity about and certainly no fear towards little people of all varieties. In fact growing up one of my mother’s friends and colleagues was a dwarf and I’d always been fond of him as a child. But this guy, he was not freaky because he was tiny, I mean a lot of dwarves are not that much shorter than I am. This guy was freaky because he looked like a dwarf from Deliverance. Actually if you put the Leprechaun from the five Leprechaun movies in a trucker hat, plaid shirt, acid wash jeans and white hightops—that’s the guy.
Renee was chatting up some guys playing pool and I was playing cards with the bartender. The dwarf ambled up and nimbly climbed the bar-stool. He ordered Pabst. Shudder. Then he stared. I hoped he would say something. Really anything, but really I hoped for something awful. Then I could act scandalized and strut off without feeling like a bigot. But he didn’t say a word, he just leaned close and stared. He had the sharpest teeth I have ever seen, they were broken and jagged like Gollum’s.
When the bartender got called away I must have looked panicked, alone at the bar with the silent, staring dwarf. A stranger walked up and said, “Hey there pumpkin, we’re all in the back.” He led me off and quite frankly I couldn’t have picked a more adorable fellow if I’d been trying. But by the time I had joined his little party at the back of the bar I already felt terrible. I was a bigot. I was a homely-phobe and a dwarfo-phobe.
And then I turned back to look for Renee- she wasn’t there, but he was. He had followed me from the bar to the tables and had sat a discreet distance of three feet from me. The fellow, Brian, I think (they are always named Brian, always) seemed perplexed, not wanting to come off as an asshole he just pulled my chair closer and put his arm around my shoulders. Eventually I turned again to find the dwarf had scooched his chair closer to me, I think he was sniffing me. I declared that I needed to go home. Brian offered to walk us home and I agreed. As we left the bar the dwarf exited behind us. We sped up. Brian offered to have us to his house for a night cap to wait out the dwarf. We agreed. He seemed to be nervous, maybe he’d seen The Leprechan too. Later, when Brian was driving us home, he looked in the rearview mirror a lot.
Ever since that night I’ve been kind of freaked out by dwarves. Plus that obsession some folks have with them (think The Man Show or midget porn) definitely doesn’t decrease my worries.
“It’s Wednesday, Renee.”
“Don’t ca-are.”
“I was asleep.”
“Don’t ca-are.”
“I hate you.”
“I’ll buy your drinks.”
“Ok.”
We skittered down the street in the chill of nighttime in the desert. The place was pretty empty… not unusual for a summer weeknight in a college town. Renee went to chat with the bartender, a frat brother of one of our closest friends. That day the bar had gotten its first Digital Juke Box- I was mesmerized. It had every song I’d ever heard so naturally I chose Wilson Phillips, “Hold On” as the inaugural song.
People began drifting in and the best seats began to fill up. From our spot at the bar we could peruse the entire room. And that was when I made my error, inadvertent eye contact. With this uhm… dwarf. Now to make this abundantly clear, in spite of the fact that my friend Loren and I watched a three our documentary on little people one Saturday night, I have never had any curiosity about and certainly no fear towards little people of all varieties. In fact growing up one of my mother’s friends and colleagues was a dwarf and I’d always been fond of him as a child. But this guy, he was not freaky because he was tiny, I mean a lot of dwarves are not that much shorter than I am. This guy was freaky because he looked like a dwarf from Deliverance. Actually if you put the Leprechaun from the five Leprechaun movies in a trucker hat, plaid shirt, acid wash jeans and white hightops—that’s the guy.
Renee was chatting up some guys playing pool and I was playing cards with the bartender. The dwarf ambled up and nimbly climbed the bar-stool. He ordered Pabst. Shudder. Then he stared. I hoped he would say something. Really anything, but really I hoped for something awful. Then I could act scandalized and strut off without feeling like a bigot. But he didn’t say a word, he just leaned close and stared. He had the sharpest teeth I have ever seen, they were broken and jagged like Gollum’s.
When the bartender got called away I must have looked panicked, alone at the bar with the silent, staring dwarf. A stranger walked up and said, “Hey there pumpkin, we’re all in the back.” He led me off and quite frankly I couldn’t have picked a more adorable fellow if I’d been trying. But by the time I had joined his little party at the back of the bar I already felt terrible. I was a bigot. I was a homely-phobe and a dwarfo-phobe.
And then I turned back to look for Renee- she wasn’t there, but he was. He had followed me from the bar to the tables and had sat a discreet distance of three feet from me. The fellow, Brian, I think (they are always named Brian, always) seemed perplexed, not wanting to come off as an asshole he just pulled my chair closer and put his arm around my shoulders. Eventually I turned again to find the dwarf had scooched his chair closer to me, I think he was sniffing me. I declared that I needed to go home. Brian offered to walk us home and I agreed. As we left the bar the dwarf exited behind us. We sped up. Brian offered to have us to his house for a night cap to wait out the dwarf. We agreed. He seemed to be nervous, maybe he’d seen The Leprechan too. Later, when Brian was driving us home, he looked in the rearview mirror a lot.
Ever since that night I’ve been kind of freaked out by dwarves. Plus that obsession some folks have with them (think The Man Show or midget porn) definitely doesn’t decrease my worries.
Friday, January 06, 2006
I hate repeats
Well kids, it's been raining for 19 days. NINETEEN! Now let me say that, yes, Seattle is pretty grey a lot of the time, and fairly consistently drizzly throughout the winter. But it has been actually raining, raining like it rains in other places. I have been carrying an umbrella. An UMBRELLA!
I just looked at weather.com.
Ok, are you ready for the 10 day forecast?
1/6 Rain
1/7 Rain
1/8 Showers
1/9 Rain
1/10 Showers
1/11 Showers
1/12 Showers
1/13 Showers
1/14 Showers
1/15 Rain/Snow
I'm going to buy some galoshes.
I just looked at weather.com.
Ok, are you ready for the 10 day forecast?
1/6 Rain
1/7 Rain
1/8 Showers
1/9 Rain
1/10 Showers
1/11 Showers
1/12 Showers
1/13 Showers
1/14 Showers
1/15 Rain/Snow
I'm going to buy some galoshes.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
"If this Christmas doesn't blow, I'll eat my hat."
I'll have that hat cooked medium rare. After all my usual fear and loathing, Christmas this year was "fine." In any other family that would be kind of "meh," but for my family it's a pretty damn good year if nobody gets in fight. People were eerily pleasant. Pod people? Affable zombies? Who cares? Not I; looking a gift horse in the mouth is not my style.
I even received a spectacular gift: The Complete Calvin and Hobbes
I was soooo excited, especially to read the 20 page introduction by Bill Watterson. Watterson basically never grants interviews and I am eager to read what he has to say about Calvin and Hobbes. The set weighs roughly a billion (22.5) pounds though. Interestingly, today's Foxtrot was about just that:
I even received a spectacular gift: The Complete Calvin and Hobbes
I was soooo excited, especially to read the 20 page introduction by Bill Watterson. Watterson basically never grants interviews and I am eager to read what he has to say about Calvin and Hobbes. The set weighs roughly a billion (22.5) pounds though. Interestingly, today's Foxtrot was about just that:
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Monday, December 19, 2005
Ok, National Department Store of Doom and Misery, I surrender.
In a particularly underhanded act Nationwide Mega-Store Hell has yet again shown me that they are too large and too evil to fight.
The preternaturally evil and devious weasels who run this shadowy company pushed back my schedule from 3-11 to 3:30-11:30 at the very last minute giving me an additional hour of nothing to do before work. A mere day after unilaterally declaring to my co-workers that Ever After was the worst non-ironically intended movie ever made, as a “treat” to the workers, Our National Department Store of Ever-Lasting Torture rented a movie to show in the break room. Being the kind souls they are, they looped the film to increase the likelihood that one could view it in its entirety. The sound of Barrymore’s abysmal accent distracted me so badly that I incorrectly filled in 4 sudoku puzzles before giving up and playing Tetris on my phone.
Ever After, showing ALL DAY at your local Vile Department Store of Eternal Damnation, is set in France, where the people all have English accents (the exception being Barrymore). Barrymore, who apparently was rendered so broke from her failed marriage to Tom Green (thanks Canada), that she could not afford the elocution lessons which could have provided her with a moderately non-retched English or even, dare I suggest it, French accent. Although since she lacked the follow-through to hold her own indeterminable accent through an entire sentence, much less an entire scene, I don’t suppose it matters anyway. Beyond the general outlandishness and predictability of the film, Barrymore’s revoltingly horrible accent manages to cause Ever After to out-suck even Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. In the movie’s favor, the writing is not obviously awful, the acting was actually quite good (if one can overlook Barrymore’s acting), and really it’s a quite visually pleasing film. Having Barrymore in it undoubtedly increased the throngs of America’s Top Model Viewing Morons, but killed any possibility of it being a kind of cutsie but overall satisfactory film. Worse yet is the fact that Barrymore’s accent and lack of theatrical uhm… talent manages to render one of the most beloved fairy-tails in the lexicon of frightening children’s stories completely toothless. Gregory Maguire’s Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister managed to rejuvenate Cinderella, so we can’t really blame the story.
While I believe the worst aspect of the movie was Barrymore’s distracting accent, most people at Nationwide Department Store of Unceasing Sorrow found the presence of Leonardo da Vinci in France the most irritating. In a fine twist, the most seemingly outlandish part of the movie is the only realistic part. In 1515 da Vinci was in France under the auspices of King Francis.
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