Aww...it's Baby's First Meme!
Okay, I got this from Mup's blog, who got it from someone, who...you know the drill. Now, unlike Mup, I actually HATED the movie Pay it Forward. But I do think it's a nice concept, and for the first time in, oh, ever, I'm actually experiencing the thrill of doing my Christmas shopping without worrying about how much I'm spending. It's amazing what a giving mood that puts one in. So, I figure, what the hell. Here's the deal:
I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days. That is my promise. The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.
Now, I reserve the right to make the gift a surprise, and whatever it actually turns out to be will probably depend on who, if anyone, responds. But I guarantee it will amuse me, and really, isn't that why you all tune in on a semi-regular basis? To see me amuse myself? C'mon, do your part...we all know I thrive on audience participation.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Thank You, Disillusionment.
You know, sometimes I don't know why I even bother.
Today was lovely. I was having a very domestic day - I got up, started my laundry, made breakfast, and started preparing a Big Dinner. I should say here that one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend day is preparing a big dinner, and I decided that I was going to make myself Thanksgiving dinner today (since I was too busy working/pouting on the ACTUAL Thanksgiving Day). I made pie crust...ran to the grocery store...started working my way through the various chores required to make dinner. Dishes were done...a little vacuuming...a little more cooking. Seriously, if I'd been wearing a frilly apron and heels, you'd think I was a housewife from the 50's.
Now, the great thing about spending a major holiday alone is that you're allowed to put any spin you want on the traditional favorites. My menu:
Roasted duck leg quarters
Bourbon Butternut Squash Risotto with Shiitake Mushrooms (oh, and I threw in some wild rice for the hell of it)
Maple Cranberry Sauce (which I adapted to include kumquats and some pomegranate. Probably mostly because I really like to SAY kumquats and pomegranate, but regardless, it was fuckin' tasty as hell)
Green beans sauteed in olive oil with some garlic and a little lemon juice
Caramel Pumpkin Pie
So I was feelin' a little fancy this year. Freakin' FANTASTIC dinner, if I do say so myself. In fact, one of my best efforts to date. Very happy Wahooty, even if I am largely indebted to the whipped cream. (Note to self: Whip cream at least once every day. Eat with spoon. Repeat until fat and happy. I think the words you're looking for here are OH DEAR GOD.)
Now, the thing that sucks about spending a major holiday alone is that you are entirely responsible, not just for the eating, but for the preparation AND THE CLEANUP. The work is one thing, but the cook/cleanerupper easily consumes THREE TIMES the amount of calories that the average diner does, all via tasting for seasoning and snitching in the packing up of leftovers. And I am a particularly bad offender where this is concerned. So this evening, after going back for alternating spoonfuls of risotto and whipped cream (shut up, you're not the boss of me), I finally resigned myself to packing up what's left. And as I open the refrigerator door to put the whipped cream away...I manage to knock over a bottle of fish sauce.
I watch it fall. In slow motion. Onto the floor.
The hard, ceramic-tiled floor.
Did I mention that this was a GLASS bottle?
And that said (750-mL) bottle was nearly full?
Now, for those of you who do not do any Thai or Vietnamese cooking, let me explain what fish sauce is. It is...well, pretty much exactly what it sounds like. They pack fish in salt and let it ferment. The juice that runs out over time becomes fish sauce.
This is some pungent shit. The only sensory comparison I can come up with is that it smells disconcertingly like my grandfather's dog kennels used to. Quite delightful in moderation and diluted by food. But maybe not so much in 750-mL quantities. On ceramic tile. Which my apartment now smells like. As do my feet. Which means it follows me. I'm being stalked by a condiment.
You know what's more fun than spilling a bottle of fish sauce all over your kitchen floor? Breaking your mop. Seriously, Fairprice, where, exactly, is my $3.98 going??? Certainly not towards quality control.
And you know what's more fun than mopping up fish sauce with a sponge? Mopping up tiny glass shards.
Nothing says "good fun happy time" like tiny, SALTY glass shards. That smell like fermented fish. When your hands are dried out and eczema-ridden and your feet are bare.
Once I got the puddle contained, I looked up and took a deep breath, only to realize that despite all of my domestic efforts...despite the fact that I went the entire day (and menu) without using any utensil, pot, or bowl less than twice...
...it looks like Thanksgiving exploded all over my kitchen.
Wait, no. Unless Thanksgiving smells like fish sauce.
Today was lovely. I was having a very domestic day - I got up, started my laundry, made breakfast, and started preparing a Big Dinner. I should say here that one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend day is preparing a big dinner, and I decided that I was going to make myself Thanksgiving dinner today (since I was too busy working/pouting on the ACTUAL Thanksgiving Day). I made pie crust...ran to the grocery store...started working my way through the various chores required to make dinner. Dishes were done...a little vacuuming...a little more cooking. Seriously, if I'd been wearing a frilly apron and heels, you'd think I was a housewife from the 50's.
Now, the great thing about spending a major holiday alone is that you're allowed to put any spin you want on the traditional favorites. My menu:
Roasted duck leg quarters
Bourbon Butternut Squash Risotto with Shiitake Mushrooms (oh, and I threw in some wild rice for the hell of it)
Maple Cranberry Sauce (which I adapted to include kumquats and some pomegranate. Probably mostly because I really like to SAY kumquats and pomegranate, but regardless, it was fuckin' tasty as hell)
Green beans sauteed in olive oil with some garlic and a little lemon juice
Caramel Pumpkin Pie
So I was feelin' a little fancy this year. Freakin' FANTASTIC dinner, if I do say so myself. In fact, one of my best efforts to date. Very happy Wahooty, even if I am largely indebted to the whipped cream. (Note to self: Whip cream at least once every day. Eat with spoon. Repeat until fat and happy. I think the words you're looking for here are OH DEAR GOD.)
Now, the thing that sucks about spending a major holiday alone is that you are entirely responsible, not just for the eating, but for the preparation AND THE CLEANUP. The work is one thing, but the cook/cleanerupper easily consumes THREE TIMES the amount of calories that the average diner does, all via tasting for seasoning and snitching in the packing up of leftovers. And I am a particularly bad offender where this is concerned. So this evening, after going back for alternating spoonfuls of risotto and whipped cream (shut up, you're not the boss of me), I finally resigned myself to packing up what's left. And as I open the refrigerator door to put the whipped cream away...I manage to knock over a bottle of fish sauce.
I watch it fall. In slow motion. Onto the floor.
The hard, ceramic-tiled floor.
Did I mention that this was a GLASS bottle?
And that said (750-mL) bottle was nearly full?
Now, for those of you who do not do any Thai or Vietnamese cooking, let me explain what fish sauce is. It is...well, pretty much exactly what it sounds like. They pack fish in salt and let it ferment. The juice that runs out over time becomes fish sauce.
This is some pungent shit. The only sensory comparison I can come up with is that it smells disconcertingly like my grandfather's dog kennels used to. Quite delightful in moderation and diluted by food. But maybe not so much in 750-mL quantities. On ceramic tile. Which my apartment now smells like. As do my feet. Which means it follows me. I'm being stalked by a condiment.
You know what's more fun than spilling a bottle of fish sauce all over your kitchen floor? Breaking your mop. Seriously, Fairprice, where, exactly, is my $3.98 going??? Certainly not towards quality control.
And you know what's more fun than mopping up fish sauce with a sponge? Mopping up tiny glass shards.
Nothing says "good fun happy time" like tiny, SALTY glass shards. That smell like fermented fish. When your hands are dried out and eczema-ridden and your feet are bare.
Once I got the puddle contained, I looked up and took a deep breath, only to realize that despite all of my domestic efforts...despite the fact that I went the entire day (and menu) without using any utensil, pot, or bowl less than twice...
...it looks like Thanksgiving exploded all over my kitchen.
Wait, no. Unless Thanksgiving smells like fish sauce.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Don't Go Thinking I'm Not Thankful
So I spent yesterday pretending it didn't bother me to be working on Thanksgiving.
Now, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Self, I seem to remember that this is not Wahooty's first Thanksgiving away from home." And yes, Self, you would be correct. In fact, I haven't been Home for Thanksgiving since 1999. That was a whole 'nother millennium, in fact.
Not spending Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, and Brother is something I'm used to. I spent 6 of 7 grad-school Thanksgivings (yes, it took me 7 years to get through grad school, thanks for noticing) in Chicago at my aunt's house. They were, quite frankly, the best ones in memory. Not because my brother always fights with my dad or some such stupidity, but because they were the only Big Thanksgivings I ever had. Growing up, Thanksgiving was always just about the four of us. My parents picked up and moved from Illinois to Virginia before I was born because Dad had a good job opportunity. When he got the offer, he came home and asked what Mom thought about Washington.
She lit up, and asked, "Washington state???"
His response: "No. Washington, DC."
Her answer: "Oh. What's there?"
We moved to a Virginia suburb because it was close enough to commute, but far and unfashionable enough to be cheap. We were a one-income, one-child family with another (that would be ME!!!) on the way, after all.
Sacrifices were made - my dad gave up stars, and wide open spaces, and weather, while my mom gave up Chicago - but my parents quickly fell in love with Virginia and I managed to grow up thinking it was the greatest place on earth, even though it wasn't my parents' homeland. But one of the sacrifices they rarely talk about is that of family - I happen to believe because it was the hardest one to make, and one that they often wondered whether it was worth what they got in return. Growing up, we didn't take family vacations to the Grand Canyon or whatever - our big family vacation was a 2-week period every summer, where we spent one week on the farm in Illinois with Dad's parents, and one week on the lake in Wisconsin with Mom's. It was the only time of the year we saw them. Now that I'm an adult, with a little more perspective on parenting (and, thus, grandparenting), I realize how incredibly difficult that must have been on both sets of grandparents, especially considering that they saw most of their other grandchildren at least a couple of times a year. But, you do what you gotta do. Virginia's my home, and I am so grateful to my parents for finding it for me.
When I went to grad school, and people found out where I was from, many people asked, "Why did you come here?" Not because they knew how fantastic Virginia is, but because they couldn't understand why anyone would make a conscious decision to move to Indiana.
Fair enough.
But as soon as I explained that my parents are both from Illinois, so I had tons of extended family within a couple of hours' drive, it made total sense to them. If that didn't work, it always helped that Purdue has a fantastic reputation in my field, but that's a lot harder to explain to non-chemists. :) But anyway, I always had lots of available places to spend any major holiday when I couldn't afford to go home. Generally, I spent these with Mom's sister in Chicago. Not because I loved her more than anyone else, but rather because she was usually the only true invitation. Sure, I could call up any number of people and say, "Hey, I don't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving/Easter/Kwanzaa...can I come over?" But you always feel more welcome and wanted when someone takes the time to invite you. And just between us, given the option, I will almost always spend a holiday alone rather than invite myself over to someone else's celebration. That's just how this bitch rolls.
The group in Chicago varied from year to year. Certain people were staples: my aunt and uncle (obviously), the single cousins who didn't have in-laws battling it out for our time, and our Uncle Snort who (bless his heart) always has been and always will be single. Out of the three children of the aunt in question, the single one would always be there, his twin brother would be there roughly every other year (but when he was there he brought a wife and kids, which doubled the pleasure so you know...law of averages), and every once in a while his younger brother from Far-Off-Place would make it up. Being Perpetually Uncommitted, I was always there, as was Baby Cousin (the youngest of the 11 cousins and also PU). Baby Cousin's dad sometimes came. Baby Cousin's older brother always came with Girlfriend-Then-Wife in tow for dessert. Well before they got married, they established a tradition of dinner with Her family, then dessert and boardgames with ours. She once told me that, upon getting into the car to leave Her parents' house, she said to Him, "Thank God we're going to hang out with your family so I can be myself."
Regardless of who exactly showed up, it was always a Big Thanksgiving. In our house growing up, the maximum number of family was 4. We never had more, because there were no trips to Grandma's house or family coming over with pies in hand. We spent a couple of years sharing Thanksgiving dinner with a family of close friends, which I remember quite fondly, but never the busy household of guests coming and going and flurry of cooking activity. It was always a warm, but well-organized and low-key holiday, whereas those Chicago Thanksgivings were events...there were things to help with, and wines to bring, and sitting around the kitchen table on Wednesday night tearing up bread so it could dry out for the stuffing and the parade on in the background the next morning while we sent my uncle out for last-minute groceries which would take an hour to get even though the grocery store was only 5 minutes away but dammit, we just don't have enough poultry seasoning and wait, Aunt HAS to see the Rockettes perform, it's the only reason she even watches the parade anymore...
I think, at this point, we have ventured into the aspect of the holiday that Canadians just don't get.
They have Thanksgiving. It happened over a month ago. They eat turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes. All of those things that are associated with the autumn harvest in North America, just like we do. But I get the distinct impression that it just isn't as much of an Event as it is for us. Part of it has to do with the timing - for Americans, Thanksgiving pretty much means fall is over, and it's now Christmas time. That is pretty momentous. Also, the fact that it's a Monday for them and a Thursday for us makes a difference. They will have Thanksgiving dinner at some point during a 3-day weekend. Thanksgiving Day is immediately followed by a workday, so people do dinner when they can get everyone together, yadda yadda. Our Thanksgiving Day is the START of, not a 3-day, but a 4-day weekend. We get all of the work done the first day, then have 3 days of turkey sandwich coma, vegetative states, and football ahead of us. It is a wonderful time of relaxation and family and (if you're so inclined) early Christmas shopping at unbelievably low prices. Just about anyone can find something to love about that 4-day period.
Canadians also don't have the Friday After Thanksgiving Phenomenon, or FATPh. The FATPh is, as follows:
1. You have slept off the turkey coma.
2. You now have a full day ahead of you that you would normally have to spend working.
3. You spend this day either sleeping off the tryptophan or attending doorbuster sales.
The sun sets.
5. You have a ridiculous amount of energy due to excessive amounts of poultry-induced slumber or heady sudden-cash-expenditure rush, respectively.
6. All of your old high school friends are in town because of big family holiday.
7. Clearly, there is no better time for getting shitfaced.
My cousins and I planned 7 years' worth of fantastic group vacations via drunken FATP outings. I still remember how the first one went. It was my second year of grad school. None of my cousins had spent much time together since we were kids. We had always enjoyed hanging out growing up, but when you see people once every 2-3 years growing up, you don't have a lot to base an adult friendship on. The first year I went to Chicago, we had Thanksgiving dinner. It was nice...generally polite and a little distant. We were hanging out that night, and my two single boy cousins had been chatting, and one says, "hey, you wanna come out downtown with us tomorrow night?" This is the cousin who is a year younger than I, so he was 22 and in his first-year-out-of-college-in-the-big-city phase.
The following night was the single best bonding experience I think I have ever had with anyone. The three of us are still kind of the core of all of the cousins' goings-on. We fuckin' rule. And all thanks to a few hours in downtown Chicago on the Friday After Thanksgiving.
A sample of how these things go:
7:00 pm: Order pizza. Mantra of young boys who actually live downtown: "Where are we going tonight? Dude. We're NOT going to Beaumont's. No matter what. That place...dude, we're NOT going to Beaumont's."
10:00 pm: Go to nice bar. Good beer, bar full of baby yuppies and their high school friends. Have good time until nice bar closes at 2.
1:55 am: "Dude, what are we doing now?" "WE'RE GOIN' TO BEAUMONT'S!!!"
The following year, my cousin's (now) wife said, "Not only did we GO to Beaumon'ts...we actually CLOSED Beaumont's..."
And you know the best part? YOU DON'T HAVE TO DRIVE BACK HOME THE NEXT DAY. You have a FULL Saturday to nurse your hangover before you drive home on Sunday!!!! It is the ONLY night of the year that you have that kind of freedom unless you're on vacation, and ALL of your friends have it with you!
All of this is what makes Thanksgiving for me. The big family gathering, the comings and goings, the turkey coma, the getting shitfaced the next night, the hungover, worthless Saturday, the always gracious and delicate extraction of myself for the drive home on Sunday with Christmas music in my CD player while stuck in traffic. These are the things that I was missing while I watched the snow fall from my window at work yesterday. It was the first snow of the season, and all I could think of was that it would have been so nice to be watching that snow fall from my cozy little apartment, with warm cooking smells and the parade on the TV in the background. That's simply how it's supposed to be.
I think next year, I'm taking the day off.
Now, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Self, I seem to remember that this is not Wahooty's first Thanksgiving away from home." And yes, Self, you would be correct. In fact, I haven't been Home for Thanksgiving since 1999. That was a whole 'nother millennium, in fact.
Not spending Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, and Brother is something I'm used to. I spent 6 of 7 grad-school Thanksgivings (yes, it took me 7 years to get through grad school, thanks for noticing) in Chicago at my aunt's house. They were, quite frankly, the best ones in memory. Not because my brother always fights with my dad or some such stupidity, but because they were the only Big Thanksgivings I ever had. Growing up, Thanksgiving was always just about the four of us. My parents picked up and moved from Illinois to Virginia before I was born because Dad had a good job opportunity. When he got the offer, he came home and asked what Mom thought about Washington.
She lit up, and asked, "Washington state???"
His response: "No. Washington, DC."
Her answer: "Oh. What's there?"
We moved to a Virginia suburb because it was close enough to commute, but far and unfashionable enough to be cheap. We were a one-income, one-child family with another (that would be ME!!!) on the way, after all.
Sacrifices were made - my dad gave up stars, and wide open spaces, and weather, while my mom gave up Chicago - but my parents quickly fell in love with Virginia and I managed to grow up thinking it was the greatest place on earth, even though it wasn't my parents' homeland. But one of the sacrifices they rarely talk about is that of family - I happen to believe because it was the hardest one to make, and one that they often wondered whether it was worth what they got in return. Growing up, we didn't take family vacations to the Grand Canyon or whatever - our big family vacation was a 2-week period every summer, where we spent one week on the farm in Illinois with Dad's parents, and one week on the lake in Wisconsin with Mom's. It was the only time of the year we saw them. Now that I'm an adult, with a little more perspective on parenting (and, thus, grandparenting), I realize how incredibly difficult that must have been on both sets of grandparents, especially considering that they saw most of their other grandchildren at least a couple of times a year. But, you do what you gotta do. Virginia's my home, and I am so grateful to my parents for finding it for me.
When I went to grad school, and people found out where I was from, many people asked, "Why did you come here?" Not because they knew how fantastic Virginia is, but because they couldn't understand why anyone would make a conscious decision to move to Indiana.
Fair enough.
But as soon as I explained that my parents are both from Illinois, so I had tons of extended family within a couple of hours' drive, it made total sense to them. If that didn't work, it always helped that Purdue has a fantastic reputation in my field, but that's a lot harder to explain to non-chemists. :) But anyway, I always had lots of available places to spend any major holiday when I couldn't afford to go home. Generally, I spent these with Mom's sister in Chicago. Not because I loved her more than anyone else, but rather because she was usually the only true invitation. Sure, I could call up any number of people and say, "Hey, I don't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving/Easter/Kwanzaa...can I come over?" But you always feel more welcome and wanted when someone takes the time to invite you. And just between us, given the option, I will almost always spend a holiday alone rather than invite myself over to someone else's celebration. That's just how this bitch rolls.
The group in Chicago varied from year to year. Certain people were staples: my aunt and uncle (obviously), the single cousins who didn't have in-laws battling it out for our time, and our Uncle Snort who (bless his heart) always has been and always will be single. Out of the three children of the aunt in question, the single one would always be there, his twin brother would be there roughly every other year (but when he was there he brought a wife and kids, which doubled the pleasure so you know...law of averages), and every once in a while his younger brother from Far-Off-Place would make it up. Being Perpetually Uncommitted, I was always there, as was Baby Cousin (the youngest of the 11 cousins and also PU). Baby Cousin's dad sometimes came. Baby Cousin's older brother always came with Girlfriend-Then-Wife in tow for dessert. Well before they got married, they established a tradition of dinner with Her family, then dessert and boardgames with ours. She once told me that, upon getting into the car to leave Her parents' house, she said to Him, "Thank God we're going to hang out with your family so I can be myself."
Regardless of who exactly showed up, it was always a Big Thanksgiving. In our house growing up, the maximum number of family was 4. We never had more, because there were no trips to Grandma's house or family coming over with pies in hand. We spent a couple of years sharing Thanksgiving dinner with a family of close friends, which I remember quite fondly, but never the busy household of guests coming and going and flurry of cooking activity. It was always a warm, but well-organized and low-key holiday, whereas those Chicago Thanksgivings were events...there were things to help with, and wines to bring, and sitting around the kitchen table on Wednesday night tearing up bread so it could dry out for the stuffing and the parade on in the background the next morning while we sent my uncle out for last-minute groceries which would take an hour to get even though the grocery store was only 5 minutes away but dammit, we just don't have enough poultry seasoning and wait, Aunt HAS to see the Rockettes perform, it's the only reason she even watches the parade anymore...
I think, at this point, we have ventured into the aspect of the holiday that Canadians just don't get.
They have Thanksgiving. It happened over a month ago. They eat turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes. All of those things that are associated with the autumn harvest in North America, just like we do. But I get the distinct impression that it just isn't as much of an Event as it is for us. Part of it has to do with the timing - for Americans, Thanksgiving pretty much means fall is over, and it's now Christmas time. That is pretty momentous. Also, the fact that it's a Monday for them and a Thursday for us makes a difference. They will have Thanksgiving dinner at some point during a 3-day weekend. Thanksgiving Day is immediately followed by a workday, so people do dinner when they can get everyone together, yadda yadda. Our Thanksgiving Day is the START of, not a 3-day, but a 4-day weekend. We get all of the work done the first day, then have 3 days of turkey sandwich coma, vegetative states, and football ahead of us. It is a wonderful time of relaxation and family and (if you're so inclined) early Christmas shopping at unbelievably low prices. Just about anyone can find something to love about that 4-day period.
Canadians also don't have the Friday After Thanksgiving Phenomenon, or FATPh. The FATPh is, as follows:
1. You have slept off the turkey coma.
2. You now have a full day ahead of you that you would normally have to spend working.
3. You spend this day either sleeping off the tryptophan or attending doorbuster sales.
The sun sets.
5. You have a ridiculous amount of energy due to excessive amounts of poultry-induced slumber or heady sudden-cash-expenditure rush, respectively.
6. All of your old high school friends are in town because of big family holiday.
7. Clearly, there is no better time for getting shitfaced.
My cousins and I planned 7 years' worth of fantastic group vacations via drunken FATP outings. I still remember how the first one went. It was my second year of grad school. None of my cousins had spent much time together since we were kids. We had always enjoyed hanging out growing up, but when you see people once every 2-3 years growing up, you don't have a lot to base an adult friendship on. The first year I went to Chicago, we had Thanksgiving dinner. It was nice...generally polite and a little distant. We were hanging out that night, and my two single boy cousins had been chatting, and one says, "hey, you wanna come out downtown with us tomorrow night?" This is the cousin who is a year younger than I, so he was 22 and in his first-year-out-of-college-in-the-big-city phase.
The following night was the single best bonding experience I think I have ever had with anyone. The three of us are still kind of the core of all of the cousins' goings-on. We fuckin' rule. And all thanks to a few hours in downtown Chicago on the Friday After Thanksgiving.
A sample of how these things go:
7:00 pm: Order pizza. Mantra of young boys who actually live downtown: "Where are we going tonight? Dude. We're NOT going to Beaumont's. No matter what. That place...dude, we're NOT going to Beaumont's."
10:00 pm: Go to nice bar. Good beer, bar full of baby yuppies and their high school friends. Have good time until nice bar closes at 2.
1:55 am: "Dude, what are we doing now?" "WE'RE GOIN' TO BEAUMONT'S!!!"
The following year, my cousin's (now) wife said, "Not only did we GO to Beaumon'ts...we actually CLOSED Beaumont's..."
And you know the best part? YOU DON'T HAVE TO DRIVE BACK HOME THE NEXT DAY. You have a FULL Saturday to nurse your hangover before you drive home on Sunday!!!! It is the ONLY night of the year that you have that kind of freedom unless you're on vacation, and ALL of your friends have it with you!
All of this is what makes Thanksgiving for me. The big family gathering, the comings and goings, the turkey coma, the getting shitfaced the next night, the hungover, worthless Saturday, the always gracious and delicate extraction of myself for the drive home on Sunday with Christmas music in my CD player while stuck in traffic. These are the things that I was missing while I watched the snow fall from my window at work yesterday. It was the first snow of the season, and all I could think of was that it would have been so nice to be watching that snow fall from my cozy little apartment, with warm cooking smells and the parade on the TV in the background. That's simply how it's supposed to be.
I think next year, I'm taking the day off.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Like Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine, and Jack.
Well, tonight is officially the last night of my 20's. And while I would like to spout some "age ain't nuttin' but a number" bullshit, I have to admit that yes, it bothers me. I'm hardly the first of my friends to celebrate this particular birthday this year, and I've thought quite a bit about the inevitable mopey, self-indulgent blog post that I would eventually write about how I am very happy with where I am in life, but I'm still in debt, I'm still single and living in a basement, I worry about never finding someone who will love me and have my babies, blah blah blah.
But if there's one thing this blog doesn't need, it's mopey self-indulgence.
So instead, I am taking a birthday poll.
A friend of mine (who may or may not read this blog) sent me flowers at work yesterday. They caused quite a stir on the 4th floor. Damn near made Labmate's head explode.
Wait, I should back up - I was in a meeting with Fearless Leader when they arrived, and a technician from one of the other groups on our floor accepted the delivery. He brought them to Labmate, with the intent that she would make sure I got them, but Labmate just sees someone coming at her with a bouquet. Her thought process was as follows (and I swear I am not making this up - this is straight from the horse's mouth):
"Oh my gosh!!! Who could they be from???
I know they're not from Boyfriend, because he would never send me flowers!!!
MAYBE THEY'RE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER!!!
Oh... they're for Beth.
Now I REALLY need to know who they're from!!!"
Excessive punctuation has been added to reflect the psychotic glint present in Labmate's eyes when I came back from my meeting.
Meanwhile, I exit Fearless Leader's office, and the guy who sits at the desk directly facing mine is sitting out there, and asks some random question about the length of my meeting, then mumbles something about there being something on my desk. Ever the eloquent and sparkling conversationalist, I say:
"Huh?"
Guy #1: Nothing...
I walk around to put my laptop back in the hallway so that I can get back to work, and there's another guy from another neighboring group out there.
Guy #2: Your labmates are looking for you. There's, like, something wrong...with one of your experiments...or something.
Nice try. I haven't RUN any experiments today. Okay fine, I'll bite. I enter the lab. Am greeted by the aforementioned Labmate with the psychotic Need to Know. So I see the flowers, and figure out immediately who they are from, based purely on the location indicated on the delivery slip. So I'm trying to dig the card out of the bouquet without messing too much with the wrappings, because I'll need those relatively intact in order to get the flowers home safely.
I am apparently taking too long to do this. Apparently.
Labmate is now vibrating.
I open the card, and it confirms my suspicions.
Me: Aww...yep, that's what I thought.
Labmate: WHO ARE THEY FROM????
Me: They're from (name of friend who may or may not read this blog).
Labmate: Oh.
Still vibrating. Seriously, never seen this girl so excited about anything in the year I have known her. And she is a highly excitable individual.
I should add here that every pair of eyes in the surrounding area is currently focused on me. Including people who I have never seen before in my life, who I am convinced are only pretending to work at instruments so they can find out who the flower girl is and why. The flowers get put in a huge graduated cylinder because it's the only thing around with a big enough opening to hold them (vases are surprisingly hard to come by in a laboratory environment, but glassware is plentiful) and I go back out into the hall so I can work on my design in peace.
Sort of.
Chatty Nasal Girl from one of the other groups comes along and asks me about the flowers. Why they came...who they came from...I explain that they are from a friend. Just a friend. And yet, somehow I get the feeling she doesn't believe me. Maybe because she says so.
Now, as I'm trying to explain that yes, it is in fact possible for a friend to send me flowers just because it's my birthday, the VGLM happens to wander by. So I pose the question to him, for a male perspective:
Me: Hey! (VGLM)! What do you think? Is it possible for a guy to send a girl flowers without some sort of romantic motive?
VGLM: (thinking almost as hard about this as he did about whether or not he wanted to see Evil Dead: The Musical...which, contrary to what you may be thinking, is some serious contemplation indeed) ...It's...possible. But I wouldn't say likely.
Me: Kinda like a UFO. Or a yeti.
VGLM: Yes!
I find this whole thing fascinating. And so, I pose the question to you, my handful of beloved readers. You may answer as many times as you like. Feel free to expound in the comments, anonymously or otherwise. You will need a #2 pencil and a calculator.
And now, for the self-indulgent portion of the program: When I really think about it, the last decade of my life has encompassed higher highs and lower lows than I ever could have known were possible. Mistakes have definitely been made, but I think I can honestly say that I regret nothing. Okay, except maybe the unfortunate spending habits. And I can only hope that 10 years from now I can say the same, except with a big, fat retirement account and a good credit rating. Some of you have known me since I was a teenager, and I thank you for sticking with me this long. If you're still here, I guess that means you're stuck with me. Others have only known me a short while, or maybe even not at all, but who knows where we'll be in the next decade.
And to all those here, there, or somewhere in between, I say:
Salut!
Nosdrovya!
Cheers.
Here's to our Roaring 30's.
(clink)
But if there's one thing this blog doesn't need, it's mopey self-indulgence.
So instead, I am taking a birthday poll.
A friend of mine (who may or may not read this blog) sent me flowers at work yesterday. They caused quite a stir on the 4th floor. Damn near made Labmate's head explode.
Wait, I should back up - I was in a meeting with Fearless Leader when they arrived, and a technician from one of the other groups on our floor accepted the delivery. He brought them to Labmate, with the intent that she would make sure I got them, but Labmate just sees someone coming at her with a bouquet. Her thought process was as follows (and I swear I am not making this up - this is straight from the horse's mouth):
"Oh my gosh!!! Who could they be from???
I know they're not from Boyfriend, because he would never send me flowers!!!
MAYBE THEY'RE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER!!!
Oh... they're for Beth.
Now I REALLY need to know who they're from!!!"
Excessive punctuation has been added to reflect the psychotic glint present in Labmate's eyes when I came back from my meeting.
Meanwhile, I exit Fearless Leader's office, and the guy who sits at the desk directly facing mine is sitting out there, and asks some random question about the length of my meeting, then mumbles something about there being something on my desk. Ever the eloquent and sparkling conversationalist, I say:
"Huh?"
Guy #1: Nothing...
I walk around to put my laptop back in the hallway so that I can get back to work, and there's another guy from another neighboring group out there.
Guy #2: Your labmates are looking for you. There's, like, something wrong...with one of your experiments...or something.
Nice try. I haven't RUN any experiments today. Okay fine, I'll bite. I enter the lab. Am greeted by the aforementioned Labmate with the psychotic Need to Know. So I see the flowers, and figure out immediately who they are from, based purely on the location indicated on the delivery slip. So I'm trying to dig the card out of the bouquet without messing too much with the wrappings, because I'll need those relatively intact in order to get the flowers home safely.
I am apparently taking too long to do this. Apparently.
Labmate is now vibrating.
I open the card, and it confirms my suspicions.
Me: Aww...yep, that's what I thought.
Labmate: WHO ARE THEY FROM????
Me: They're from (name of friend who may or may not read this blog).
Labmate: Oh.
Still vibrating. Seriously, never seen this girl so excited about anything in the year I have known her. And she is a highly excitable individual.
I should add here that every pair of eyes in the surrounding area is currently focused on me. Including people who I have never seen before in my life, who I am convinced are only pretending to work at instruments so they can find out who the flower girl is and why. The flowers get put in a huge graduated cylinder because it's the only thing around with a big enough opening to hold them (vases are surprisingly hard to come by in a laboratory environment, but glassware is plentiful) and I go back out into the hall so I can work on my design in peace.
Sort of.
Chatty Nasal Girl from one of the other groups comes along and asks me about the flowers. Why they came...who they came from...I explain that they are from a friend. Just a friend. And yet, somehow I get the feeling she doesn't believe me. Maybe because she says so.
Now, as I'm trying to explain that yes, it is in fact possible for a friend to send me flowers just because it's my birthday, the VGLM happens to wander by. So I pose the question to him, for a male perspective:
Me: Hey! (VGLM)! What do you think? Is it possible for a guy to send a girl flowers without some sort of romantic motive?
VGLM: (thinking almost as hard about this as he did about whether or not he wanted to see Evil Dead: The Musical...which, contrary to what you may be thinking, is some serious contemplation indeed) ...It's...possible. But I wouldn't say likely.
Me: Kinda like a UFO. Or a yeti.
VGLM: Yes!
I find this whole thing fascinating. And so, I pose the question to you, my handful of beloved readers. You may answer as many times as you like. Feel free to expound in the comments, anonymously or otherwise. You will need a #2 pencil and a calculator.
And now, for the self-indulgent portion of the program: When I really think about it, the last decade of my life has encompassed higher highs and lower lows than I ever could have known were possible. Mistakes have definitely been made, but I think I can honestly say that I regret nothing. Okay, except maybe the unfortunate spending habits. And I can only hope that 10 years from now I can say the same, except with a big, fat retirement account and a good credit rating. Some of you have known me since I was a teenager, and I thank you for sticking with me this long. If you're still here, I guess that means you're stuck with me. Others have only known me a short while, or maybe even not at all, but who knows where we'll be in the next decade.
And to all those here, there, or somewhere in between, I say:
Salut!
Nosdrovya!
Cheers.
Here's to our Roaring 30's.
(clink)
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.
Continuing on with the general happiness theme, I present a few of my favorite things, as of this evening:
Victoria Beckham.
I started to rethink my stance on Posh a few months ago, but then the new Spice Girls single had pretty much killed that. Until I found out that she is doing a guest spot on Ugly Betty. Now she is getting dangerously close to can-do-no-wrong territory. I can almost forgive her for "2 Become 1." I hate myself a little for even typing that.
Reaper.
Seriously, kids. LOVE this show. Watch it. Kind of want to marry the lead character. Plus, Curtis Armstrong did a guest spot tonight. Anything that means Curtis Armstrong is employed is tops in my book. Oh, and Ray Wise is freakin' genius as the Devil.
A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
Oh. My. God. Y'all know how much I love the trashy reality TV shows. And this is my new favorite. It took me until the third episode to write about it, but in all fairness, I started writing with the first one and my first attempt was lost when the power flashed out the other night. For those of you not familiar, Tila Tequila's primary (arguably, sole) claim to fame is that she has over two million friends on MySpace:
ok what the hell man? I know I have lots of friends on here but it's not like I can help it ok? I didn't join this thing thinking, "OMG I SOOOO HAVE TO GET A MILLION FRIENDS ON HERE!" Yea right! It was more like someone invited me to join and I was like k wutever....another stupid lame online community. Who would've known that my profile would turn into some kind of weird "Tila Phenomenon!" hahaha! What I'm trying to say is.....just because I have lots of friends on here and blah blah blah...that doesn't mean that I'm not a normal girl who wants to meet normal and down to earth people....BECAUSE I AM AND DO! So don't be afraid to write me...I will read them all, HOWEVER I may not write back to everyone because I honestly get a billion notes a day. If you are just writing to say..."ohohohoh fuck me you're hot!" I won't be able to write back ok? And don't get all bitter if I can't write you back....I'm not mad at your nor do I hate you ok?? All I'm asking is for some understanding...that's all....ummm what else?? OH YEA....AND PLEASE....I AM NOT SOME KIND OF ADVERTISING TOOL! DON'T FUCKEN TRY TO USE ME OK? Like I always have people writing me asking me to post up advertising bulletins for them since I can reach lots of people....dude...fuck off! I feel so fucken used! Also people keep asking me how to put music on their page, if they can use my server to put music up and blah blah blah....you know what?? I AM NOT A WEBMASTER NOR IS MY OFFICIAL WEBSITE A HOST FOR YOUR MUSIC FOR ONLINE COMMUNITIES! *breaths* Jesus....I think that is all for now...other than that...I love you guys. You gimme something to do when I am bored at 4 in the morning.....no seriously....you guys totally rock....just stop using me for stuff ok? Thanks...xoxoxoxox
And that, friends, is exactly why one of the rooms in my personal hell is simply labeled, "MySpace."
So, without further ado, I present my thoughts:
Bitch, you ain't bisexual. You are simply an attention whore. Exhibit A: In the first episode, the standings were as follows:
Boys you made out with: 1
Girls you made out with: 2
This, taken alone, does not seem like very definitive evidence. Until I add the fact that you met with the guys one-on-one. You did no such thing with the women. When you made out with a girl, it was with another girl sitting RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. Oh, and you have said, on more than one occasion, "I usually only date lipstick lesbians." That ain't bisexuality, that's exhibitionism.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #1:
Number of boys who claim they are virgins: 1
Number of girls who claim they are virgins: 1
Your response to both, "You're lying!" Okay, fair enough. However, you eventually used the virginity argument against the boy and eliminated him, even though he was adorable and sweet. You even denied him the chance to kiss you. As far as the girl is concerned? "All my dreams just came true." WTF???
Okay, Momma's boy: Seriously, you can stop reminding us that you live on your mom's couch. In this episode alone, I felt the need to start a tally. Number of times MB has mentioned sleeping on his mom's couch/working at a pizza parlor/riding to work on a bike instead of in a car: 4. That would be totally rad if you were, like, 12. I mean, for the love of God, man, when you got to the house and saw that everyone would be sharing one huge bed, your response was, "I'm not used to having a bed, so..." SERIOUSLY??? MY mama would've taught me not to publicly declare my losertude so much. In fact, she did. This is why I'm so vastly superior to you. I may be a tool, but at least I don't advertise.
Tila, honey. I'm already over your raspy giggle. It's the same EVERY FREAKING TIME. Dear God, make it stop. Get some Fisherman's Friend up in this joint. Repeat after me: Ahem.
Okay, now we come to the point I have been wanting to make for years. Ever since the advent of these Competitive Dating Shows, there has been a reason that they are not done in same-sex environs. And that reason is not, contrary to popular belief, homophobia. I mean, let's face it, this is TV. People will watch all sorts of shit that they don't feel comfortable with in real life as long as they can put a series of vacuum tubes between them and the thing they secretly can't look away from. This is the fundamental principle that keeps Jerry Springer on the air. The reason, dear friends, is that the gays ain't stupid. If you put them on Boy Meets Boy/Next/DisMissed/ElimiDate (not that I have ever watched any of these), they are not obtuse enough to ignore the laws of probability. They KNOW they have a better chance of hooking up with one of their "competitors" than they ever do of hooking up with the officially sanctioned object of their affection. And there is absolutely no reason, short of contractual obligation, not to do so! So does it really come as a surprise to anyone when the criminally narcissistic "target" on Next ends up alone while all the cuties are making out blissfully on the bus without him? I can respect anyone who has a logical grasp on statistics.
So, ever since I first saw a promo for this show, I have been wondering how long it would take before SOMEONE would hook up in the house.
Okay, so Tila's not a Complete Moron (tm). (For anyone keeping track, however, she IS still an Attention Whore (tm)). When the group moved in, she clearly stated the house rules. Of which there are apparently a sum total of one, which would be that there is to be no hooking up in the house.
That lasted all of 1/4 of one episode. I say that, because apparently that rule only holds in the house, and seriously, God only knows what kind of shit went on at whatever hotel they were putting the contestants up in before they moved in, because apparently the cameras were not allowed. Apparently. You KNOW there was MAD hooking up going on. I mean, everyone loves hotel sex. Especially when it's anonymous reality tv hotel sex. Not that I've ever had hotel sex. I'm just sayin'. It sounds like sexy. Not that I would know.
Number of people who have pronounced it "supposably": 2
Number of people wearing a t-shirt that says, "Vagitarian": 1. Unfortunately, yes, it was a boy. Unforgivable.
Tila sets up a "Country Fair" to entertain everyone. A direct quote from the boy from West Virginia:
"I used to love going to the state fair. I used to spray the poop off of the elephants - the carnies used to get me to do it."
Dude. You are SINGLEHANDEDLY JUSTIFYING EVERY WEST VIRGINIAN JOKE EVER TOLD.
Okay, so during the fair, the Vagitarian TOTALLY rats out the people who were doing...questionable? (bitch, this shit is on TAPE!) things under the covers in the Big Bed. Guy in question comes up to defend himself. Vag says, "I didn't say any name, right? So why is he here for?" (Vag is Italian, so the questionable English is excusable. In fact, he is referred to as "Little Italy" by some of his compatriots, which almost makes up for the fact that I must, henceforth, refer to him as Vag.) DUDE TOTALLY JUST SOLD HIMSELF OUT. FUCKIN' AWESOME.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #2:
Put everyone into one HUGE bed, and tell them NOT to hook up. Oh, and throw in a game of Spin the Bottle, a stripper pole, and LOTS of liquor. Like THAT'S gonna happen. You know, nothing says "trustworthy" like the words "club promoter." That's all I'm sayin'. The man has my utmost confidence.
Seriously, MTV, how am I supposed to blog with a straight face when you keep putting up that "The following program contains mature subject matter" disclaimer after every commercial break? This subject matter couldn't be less mature if it were Spongebob. My Super Sweet 16 is of a more mature nature than this piece of crap. Not that I've ever watched that. (I am, of course, referring to My Super Sweet 16. I TOTALLY watch Spongebob.)
So back to the big scandal. Tila says something to the group about how someone has broken the rules. So Rebecca says, "Well, yeah, I kissed Brandi, but..."
And Tila says, "That's not what they were talking about."
"Oh."
OOOOHHHHH! BUSTED!!! You did THAT in TILA'S HOUSE???
Wait, bitch, that ain't your house. It's whatever house MTV rented for this awful, AWFUL show. I should know. I saw that episode of My Super Sweet 16 where the girl throwing the party demonstrated how rich her family was by saying that VH1 rented their house to film I Love New York.
Um...not that I...oh, hell. I give up.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #3:
You claim to be bisexual, yet you expect all of your candidates to be either straight men, or full-on lesbian women. You're totally that girl who is going to convince someone you want to be monogamous, but insists it's not fair for them to expect you to be faithful, because you're attracted to both sexes. Honey, I'm attracted to a LOT of men. That doesn't mean that I get to DO all of them.
Mmmkay. So the competition for Alone Time (tm) in this episode was...
wait for it....
A pie-eating contest.
I swear to God I am not making this up.
Wanna bet who won?
The one butch girl left.
Of course she did.
The elimination ceremony:
Tila, I can totally see your nipples through that dress. Which is impressive, since it's not at all form-fitting. Mad props.
Mmmmkay. So, lemme get this straight (no pun intended). You kept the boy who did (questionable?) things under the covers with the (alleged) lesbian. You kept the girl who kissed the (alleged) lesbian. You dumped the (alleged) lesbian. YOU DUMPED THE (not just alleged) LESBIAN KRYSTAL???? YOU DUMPED TWO HOT BOYS BUT KEPT MOMMA'S BOY (hey, at least I can keep the tally going)???? YOU DUMPED THE BOY WHO WAS TEARING UP BUT KEPT THE VAG????
Bless me, reader, for I have SINNED. Hate the sinner, love the sin. Wait...
Victoria Beckham.
I started to rethink my stance on Posh a few months ago, but then the new Spice Girls single had pretty much killed that. Until I found out that she is doing a guest spot on Ugly Betty. Now she is getting dangerously close to can-do-no-wrong territory. I can almost forgive her for "2 Become 1." I hate myself a little for even typing that.
Reaper.
Seriously, kids. LOVE this show. Watch it. Kind of want to marry the lead character. Plus, Curtis Armstrong did a guest spot tonight. Anything that means Curtis Armstrong is employed is tops in my book. Oh, and Ray Wise is freakin' genius as the Devil.
A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.
Oh. My. God. Y'all know how much I love the trashy reality TV shows. And this is my new favorite. It took me until the third episode to write about it, but in all fairness, I started writing with the first one and my first attempt was lost when the power flashed out the other night. For those of you not familiar, Tila Tequila's primary (arguably, sole) claim to fame is that she has over two million friends on MySpace:
ok what the hell man? I know I have lots of friends on here but it's not like I can help it ok? I didn't join this thing thinking, "OMG I SOOOO HAVE TO GET A MILLION FRIENDS ON HERE!" Yea right! It was more like someone invited me to join and I was like k wutever....another stupid lame online community. Who would've known that my profile would turn into some kind of weird "Tila Phenomenon!" hahaha! What I'm trying to say is.....just because I have lots of friends on here and blah blah blah...that doesn't mean that I'm not a normal girl who wants to meet normal and down to earth people....BECAUSE I AM AND DO! So don't be afraid to write me...I will read them all, HOWEVER I may not write back to everyone because I honestly get a billion notes a day. If you are just writing to say..."ohohohoh fuck me you're hot!" I won't be able to write back ok? And don't get all bitter if I can't write you back....I'm not mad at your nor do I hate you ok?? All I'm asking is for some understanding...that's all....ummm what else?? OH YEA....AND PLEASE....I AM NOT SOME KIND OF ADVERTISING TOOL! DON'T FUCKEN TRY TO USE ME OK? Like I always have people writing me asking me to post up advertising bulletins for them since I can reach lots of people....dude...fuck off! I feel so fucken used! Also people keep asking me how to put music on their page, if they can use my server to put music up and blah blah blah....you know what?? I AM NOT A WEBMASTER NOR IS MY OFFICIAL WEBSITE A HOST FOR YOUR MUSIC FOR ONLINE COMMUNITIES! *breaths* Jesus....I think that is all for now...other than that...I love you guys. You gimme something to do when I am bored at 4 in the morning.....no seriously....you guys totally rock....just stop using me for stuff ok? Thanks...xoxoxoxox
And that, friends, is exactly why one of the rooms in my personal hell is simply labeled, "MySpace."
So, without further ado, I present my thoughts:
Bitch, you ain't bisexual. You are simply an attention whore. Exhibit A: In the first episode, the standings were as follows:
Boys you made out with: 1
Girls you made out with: 2
This, taken alone, does not seem like very definitive evidence. Until I add the fact that you met with the guys one-on-one. You did no such thing with the women. When you made out with a girl, it was with another girl sitting RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. Oh, and you have said, on more than one occasion, "I usually only date lipstick lesbians." That ain't bisexuality, that's exhibitionism.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #1:
Number of boys who claim they are virgins: 1
Number of girls who claim they are virgins: 1
Your response to both, "You're lying!" Okay, fair enough. However, you eventually used the virginity argument against the boy and eliminated him, even though he was adorable and sweet. You even denied him the chance to kiss you. As far as the girl is concerned? "All my dreams just came true." WTF???
Okay, Momma's boy: Seriously, you can stop reminding us that you live on your mom's couch. In this episode alone, I felt the need to start a tally. Number of times MB has mentioned sleeping on his mom's couch/working at a pizza parlor/riding to work on a bike instead of in a car: 4. That would be totally rad if you were, like, 12. I mean, for the love of God, man, when you got to the house and saw that everyone would be sharing one huge bed, your response was, "I'm not used to having a bed, so..." SERIOUSLY??? MY mama would've taught me not to publicly declare my losertude so much. In fact, she did. This is why I'm so vastly superior to you. I may be a tool, but at least I don't advertise.
Tila, honey. I'm already over your raspy giggle. It's the same EVERY FREAKING TIME. Dear God, make it stop. Get some Fisherman's Friend up in this joint. Repeat after me: Ahem.
Okay, now we come to the point I have been wanting to make for years. Ever since the advent of these Competitive Dating Shows, there has been a reason that they are not done in same-sex environs. And that reason is not, contrary to popular belief, homophobia. I mean, let's face it, this is TV. People will watch all sorts of shit that they don't feel comfortable with in real life as long as they can put a series of vacuum tubes between them and the thing they secretly can't look away from. This is the fundamental principle that keeps Jerry Springer on the air. The reason, dear friends, is that the gays ain't stupid. If you put them on Boy Meets Boy/Next/DisMissed/ElimiDate (not that I have ever watched any of these), they are not obtuse enough to ignore the laws of probability. They KNOW they have a better chance of hooking up with one of their "competitors" than they ever do of hooking up with the officially sanctioned object of their affection. And there is absolutely no reason, short of contractual obligation, not to do so! So does it really come as a surprise to anyone when the criminally narcissistic "target" on Next ends up alone while all the cuties are making out blissfully on the bus without him? I can respect anyone who has a logical grasp on statistics.
So, ever since I first saw a promo for this show, I have been wondering how long it would take before SOMEONE would hook up in the house.
Okay, so Tila's not a Complete Moron (tm). (For anyone keeping track, however, she IS still an Attention Whore (tm)). When the group moved in, she clearly stated the house rules. Of which there are apparently a sum total of one, which would be that there is to be no hooking up in the house.
That lasted all of 1/4 of one episode. I say that, because apparently that rule only holds in the house, and seriously, God only knows what kind of shit went on at whatever hotel they were putting the contestants up in before they moved in, because apparently the cameras were not allowed. Apparently. You KNOW there was MAD hooking up going on. I mean, everyone loves hotel sex. Especially when it's anonymous reality tv hotel sex. Not that I've ever had hotel sex. I'm just sayin'. It sounds like sexy. Not that I would know.
Number of people who have pronounced it "supposably": 2
Number of people wearing a t-shirt that says, "Vagitarian": 1. Unfortunately, yes, it was a boy. Unforgivable.
Tila sets up a "Country Fair" to entertain everyone. A direct quote from the boy from West Virginia:
"I used to love going to the state fair. I used to spray the poop off of the elephants - the carnies used to get me to do it."
Dude. You are SINGLEHANDEDLY JUSTIFYING EVERY WEST VIRGINIAN JOKE EVER TOLD.
Okay, so during the fair, the Vagitarian TOTALLY rats out the people who were doing...questionable? (bitch, this shit is on TAPE!) things under the covers in the Big Bed. Guy in question comes up to defend himself. Vag says, "I didn't say any name, right? So why is he here for?" (Vag is Italian, so the questionable English is excusable. In fact, he is referred to as "Little Italy" by some of his compatriots, which almost makes up for the fact that I must, henceforth, refer to him as Vag.) DUDE TOTALLY JUST SOLD HIMSELF OUT. FUCKIN' AWESOME.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #2:
Put everyone into one HUGE bed, and tell them NOT to hook up. Oh, and throw in a game of Spin the Bottle, a stripper pole, and LOTS of liquor. Like THAT'S gonna happen. You know, nothing says "trustworthy" like the words "club promoter." That's all I'm sayin'. The man has my utmost confidence.
Seriously, MTV, how am I supposed to blog with a straight face when you keep putting up that "The following program contains mature subject matter" disclaimer after every commercial break? This subject matter couldn't be less mature if it were Spongebob. My Super Sweet 16 is of a more mature nature than this piece of crap. Not that I've ever watched that. (I am, of course, referring to My Super Sweet 16. I TOTALLY watch Spongebob.)
So back to the big scandal. Tila says something to the group about how someone has broken the rules. So Rebecca says, "Well, yeah, I kissed Brandi, but..."
And Tila says, "That's not what they were talking about."
"Oh."
OOOOHHHHH! BUSTED!!! You did THAT in TILA'S HOUSE???
Wait, bitch, that ain't your house. It's whatever house MTV rented for this awful, AWFUL show. I should know. I saw that episode of My Super Sweet 16 where the girl throwing the party demonstrated how rich her family was by saying that VH1 rented their house to film I Love New York.
Um...not that I...oh, hell. I give up.
Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #3:
You claim to be bisexual, yet you expect all of your candidates to be either straight men, or full-on lesbian women. You're totally that girl who is going to convince someone you want to be monogamous, but insists it's not fair for them to expect you to be faithful, because you're attracted to both sexes. Honey, I'm attracted to a LOT of men. That doesn't mean that I get to DO all of them.
Mmmkay. So the competition for Alone Time (tm) in this episode was...
wait for it....
A pie-eating contest.
I swear to God I am not making this up.
Wanna bet who won?
The one butch girl left.
Of course she did.
The elimination ceremony:
Tila, I can totally see your nipples through that dress. Which is impressive, since it's not at all form-fitting. Mad props.
Mmmmkay. So, lemme get this straight (no pun intended). You kept the boy who did (questionable?) things under the covers with the (alleged) lesbian. You kept the girl who kissed the (alleged) lesbian. You dumped the (alleged) lesbian. YOU DUMPED THE (not just alleged) LESBIAN KRYSTAL???? YOU DUMPED TWO HOT BOYS BUT KEPT MOMMA'S BOY (hey, at least I can keep the tally going)???? YOU DUMPED THE BOY WHO WAS TEARING UP BUT KEPT THE VAG????
Bless me, reader, for I have SINNED. Hate the sinner, love the sin. Wait...
Monday, November 05, 2007
"You know why super villains are so unhappy, Arthur? They don't treasure the little things."
There is an Oscar Levant quote that goes, "Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember." I guess I'm an oddity then, because I am often well aware that I am experiencing happiness. As in, I will be walking down the street, or eating a meal, and thinking to myself, "Damn, this is making me happy right now!" And then I'll say something to that effect to whoever happens to be with me, and it's generally greeted with the old Smile&Nod (tm) treatment. And occasionally a pat on the head.
Today is one of those positively asstastic fall days. It's been gloomy and overcast all day....damp and chilly...the wind is picking up and apparently bringing rain and/or snow with it over the next 48 hrs or so...basically, a typical November day in Toronto. The kind that makes it easy for me to forget that fall is supposed to be my favorite season. So, in an attempt to brighten my own spirits (and avoid getting back to work on that AutoCAD drawing I'm supposed to be working on), I decided while I was walking back from lunch to make a list of things that have made me happy today.
(Regular readers of this blog should be well aware that it really takes very little. So I hope you're not expecting much.)
1. Wearing my new hat. It's goofy, and a wee bit ridiculous, but I do love it so and happen to find myself most adorable in it. Secretly, I'm a little bit happy about the chill and rain, because it allows me to walk around and have strangers look at me and think, "she looks sullen, yet I have this strange feeling she knows the way to the nearest haberdashery."
1 1/2. Using the word "haberdashery."
2. Dogs that walk themselves. As I left for lunch, I saw a guy walking a little white shaggy terrier kind of dog, and sort of teasing it with the leash. The dog caught the leash in his mouth, and happily trotted along, walking himself. I've known other dogs that do this, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets any less adorable. It's sort of the canine equivalent of holding your hand.
3. A Parking Enforcement officer....parking poorly. I mean, REALLY poorly. Seems like those responsible for enforcing good parking practices ought to lead by example.
4. There is nothing happy about the number 4. Or rather, there wouldn't be, if it existed.
5. Making "there is no #4" jokes.
6. Halloween in the Gay Village. Okay, now I'm cheating, and telling you about things that made me happy last week. All in all, it was a low-key evening on our end - we just wandered down to check out some of the costumes and take some pictures. My favorites: two guys dressed as the Yip Yips from Sesame Street. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to grow up with Sesame Street:
Totally made my whole night. Close second: a group of 5 or 6 guys dressed as sperm. White turtlenecks, white tights, bathing caps and goggles, and little curly white tails. The reason I enjoyed them so much was that they really committed to the character - they were SO EXCITED to have their pictures taken that they could barely stop milling around each other long enough to pose. Until, of course, another group of 5 or 6 guys came along dressed as Hooters girls. One of the sperm kept butting his head up against one of the "girls." Seriously adorable.
BTW, my friends and I have decided to do it properly next year by going in costume ourselves. Again, those who know me well know that I have, on occasion, taken up to a full year to plan a Halloween costume. So I am officially opening the floor for suggestions for next year's costume. Previous costumes have included Mr. Hat (the hand puppet from South Park), Thing (from the Addams Family), Smurfette, and a pimp. I told you Halloween makes me happy.
7. Ah hell, since I'm already cheating...Wine, cheese, and the Pontiac Quarterly, which also happened last week. Oh, and wearing my LOUD PANTS. The evening ran more than a little bit late by the time it was over, but I wholeheartedly enjoyed myself. One guy did an entirely deadpan lesson on the history and development of meat maps. I shit you not. I must thank Ian for allowing me to drag him to it, even though I was REALLY late for dinner. The LOUD PANTS really needed an evening out.
8. Steve Wilson. He is a local artist/illustrator whose work #1 and I discovered about a year ago when he had a piece on display at the Steam Whistle brewery. About a month or so ago I happened to run across one of his pieces again, figure out who he was, and find that he had just started a blog. He and another guy illustrate the Pontiac, live, and that's how I found out about it in the first place. Now I just need to get a loft with huge walls so I can buy one of the illustrations sometime.
So suck on it, Mr. Levant.
Today is one of those positively asstastic fall days. It's been gloomy and overcast all day....damp and chilly...the wind is picking up and apparently bringing rain and/or snow with it over the next 48 hrs or so...basically, a typical November day in Toronto. The kind that makes it easy for me to forget that fall is supposed to be my favorite season. So, in an attempt to brighten my own spirits (and avoid getting back to work on that AutoCAD drawing I'm supposed to be working on), I decided while I was walking back from lunch to make a list of things that have made me happy today.
(Regular readers of this blog should be well aware that it really takes very little. So I hope you're not expecting much.)
1. Wearing my new hat. It's goofy, and a wee bit ridiculous, but I do love it so and happen to find myself most adorable in it. Secretly, I'm a little bit happy about the chill and rain, because it allows me to walk around and have strangers look at me and think, "she looks sullen, yet I have this strange feeling she knows the way to the nearest haberdashery."
1 1/2. Using the word "haberdashery."
2. Dogs that walk themselves. As I left for lunch, I saw a guy walking a little white shaggy terrier kind of dog, and sort of teasing it with the leash. The dog caught the leash in his mouth, and happily trotted along, walking himself. I've known other dogs that do this, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets any less adorable. It's sort of the canine equivalent of holding your hand.
3. A Parking Enforcement officer....parking poorly. I mean, REALLY poorly. Seems like those responsible for enforcing good parking practices ought to lead by example.
4. There is nothing happy about the number 4. Or rather, there wouldn't be, if it existed.
5. Making "there is no #4" jokes.
6. Halloween in the Gay Village. Okay, now I'm cheating, and telling you about things that made me happy last week. All in all, it was a low-key evening on our end - we just wandered down to check out some of the costumes and take some pictures. My favorites: two guys dressed as the Yip Yips from Sesame Street. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to grow up with Sesame Street:
Totally made my whole night. Close second: a group of 5 or 6 guys dressed as sperm. White turtlenecks, white tights, bathing caps and goggles, and little curly white tails. The reason I enjoyed them so much was that they really committed to the character - they were SO EXCITED to have their pictures taken that they could barely stop milling around each other long enough to pose. Until, of course, another group of 5 or 6 guys came along dressed as Hooters girls. One of the sperm kept butting his head up against one of the "girls." Seriously adorable.
BTW, my friends and I have decided to do it properly next year by going in costume ourselves. Again, those who know me well know that I have, on occasion, taken up to a full year to plan a Halloween costume. So I am officially opening the floor for suggestions for next year's costume. Previous costumes have included Mr. Hat (the hand puppet from South Park), Thing (from the Addams Family), Smurfette, and a pimp. I told you Halloween makes me happy.
7. Ah hell, since I'm already cheating...Wine, cheese, and the Pontiac Quarterly, which also happened last week. Oh, and wearing my LOUD PANTS. The evening ran more than a little bit late by the time it was over, but I wholeheartedly enjoyed myself. One guy did an entirely deadpan lesson on the history and development of meat maps. I shit you not. I must thank Ian for allowing me to drag him to it, even though I was REALLY late for dinner. The LOUD PANTS really needed an evening out.
8. Steve Wilson. He is a local artist/illustrator whose work #1 and I discovered about a year ago when he had a piece on display at the Steam Whistle brewery. About a month or so ago I happened to run across one of his pieces again, figure out who he was, and find that he had just started a blog. He and another guy illustrate the Pontiac, live, and that's how I found out about it in the first place. Now I just need to get a loft with huge walls so I can buy one of the illustrations sometime.
So suck on it, Mr. Levant.
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