What about your friends?

Okay, I resisted Facebook for the longest time, and I STILL patently refuse to EVER join MySpace, but this just totally made my day:

That's right.  Jay Mcfuckin'Carroll is my homie.  Sometimes it pays to get drunk and send friend requests to random reality star/fashion designers while purchasing Flight of the Conchords CDs on iTunes.  And yeah, I'm not ashamed to say that's my idea of a rockin' Friday night.*

 

But the fact remains...I'm friends with Jay Mccarroll and you're not.

 

*Okay, so maybe I am.  A little bit.  Man, I need to get out more.

Bananahammocks.

All-Request Week continues.  This one goes out to Em in The Middle of Nowhere, Iowa.

 

Most of my closest friendships are maintained long-distance these days.  And while I think I've gotten pretty good at making that work - most of the years I lived in Indiana I really never lived alone, because I regularly came home at night to dish and watch TV with Em via IM - it sucks when one of your best friends is going through something really shitty and you can't say, "I'll be right over with ice cream/a bottle of wine/tampons/a shotgun."  About the best I can offer in these situations is a sympathetic set of eyes while said friend vents whatever is bothering them, until they say, "say something that will make me happy."

 

BANANAHAMMOCK!!!!

 

Works.  Every.  Time.

 

No, seriously.  Sometimes you need them in bulk:

 

BANANAHAMMOCKBANANAHAMMOCKBANANAHAMMOCK!!!!

 

If you can read that - honestly look at the letters and read it all the way through - without smiling, then I really don't think we can be friends.  Because in all honesty, in those moments where nothing can really be said, and the person you're talking to just wants to change the subject, it's the only thing I can think of to break the mood.  Or, at least, the only thing that is guaranteed to work.  I'm not really sure why it does - it can't really be unexpected, because I ALWAYS do it.  Except the friend in question is sometimes so deep in the throes of funk that they have temporarily forgotten that that's what I'm going to say.  But even if they haven't, even if they KNOW that's what's coming, there's something about the way that word looks plastered across your IM screen that's happy-making.  It's just such an unabashedly silly and ridiculous word. 

But there are other silly, ridiculous words out there.  None of which work as well as BANANAHAMMOCK.  Trust me.  I've tried them.

 

A brief encounter I had last night convinced me that I need to start putting this little trick into more general use.  As a single girl in the city, you find yourself spending a great deal of time alone - in restaurants, at movies, on transit.  I've learned to enjoy this time alone...you notice things you wouldn't if you were chattering with a friend next to you.  I know for a fact that one of the things that some of you kids greatly enjoy about this blog is my ability to notice the ridiculous in the most mundane of places and then blow it way out of proportion for (hopefully) comedic effect.  In fact, that should be the title of this blog: Ridiculous Things Made Downright Ludicrous as a Result of My Seriously Overthinking Them Because I Got Bored on the Subway.  But that's too unwieldy, and doesn't even make a clever acronym (unless someone would care to tell me how in the hell one pronounces RTMDLAAROMSOTBIGBOTS...okay, now that I see that spelled out, it's almost as good as BANANAHAMMOCK!!!...almost.  But mental note: MUST start using BIGBOTS...I do an awful lot because I got bored on the subway...).  Unfortunately, an awful lot of things happen to a single girl when she's lost in her thoughts while leaving a movie theater...lingering over a glass of wine...riding home at night...that aren't so amusing.  Strangers coming up to talk to you can quickly cross the line from silly...to annoying...to dude you are starting to freak me the fuck out...to gee, officer, he always kind of kept to himself but he seemed harmless. 

But here's the thing - even when you're getting freaked out, chances are you're overreacting.  If someone were sitting next to you, you'd have one hell of a giggle after this guy walked away, and you wouldn't feel threatened at all.  So last night, BIGBOTS, I started to think that I need to do something to bring myself down when I start to get a little too worried - if for no other reason than if you already have the creeps, they will only compound for the rest of the day/night and really, who has that kind of time to waste on unnecessary anxiety?  So naturally, I thought to myself, "what do I do to snap OTHER people out of their anxiety/rage/depression?"

 

BANANAHAMMOCK!BANANAHAMMOCK!BANANAHAMMOCK!!!

 

Case(s) in point:

1) So last night, I'm leaving the movie theater after a rather entertaining documentary on Jay McCarroll, and an even more entertaining Q&A with the directors and Mr. McCarroll himself.  I'm walking to the subway station, thinking about the movie, and how I would have loved to ask a question or introduce myself to Jay but didn't because I just wasn't feeling fashionable enough to talk to a fashion designer, and how I really REALLY want that colorblock trenchcoat he showed in his spring/summer collection...

And a man walks up from behind me and says, "You are vvvvvvvery...elegant."  At least, I THINK that's what he said.  Between the slurred speech and the mysteriously ambiguous European accent, he might have ACTUALLY said, "You are vvvvvalley...elephant."  Or possibly, "Yew, our valued elfin plant."  Hey, you never know, maybe this guy was seriously into bonsai.  At the time I met him, however, he was most definitely seriously into vodka.  And/or seriously opposed to The Man trying to enslave our walking paths in the shackles of rectilinear conformity.  This guy was weaving across the sidewalk in a manner that would've made figure skaters dizzy.  But hey, it was kind of a nice compliment, if...weird.

"Um...thank you."

"May I...introduuussse myssssssself to you?"

Um...not really sure what to do with that one.  I've never had someone ask if they could introduce themselves.  And, as much as I would like to see this conversation die an early yet somehow extremely timely death, it seems unbelievably bitchy to just say "No."

"Um...no, thank you?"

"Ah...you are...no longer sssssssssssthingle?"

Ooh, yeah, what he said.

"Um...NO.  NO, I am NOT."  <insert noncommital, but could be read as regretful shrug here>

"Well, you know what I have to sssssssthay about that?  Ssssthssome guyth have all.........the luck.  BASSSSSSTHARDTHS."

 

And he just sort of continues walking into Bathurst station.  And onto the platform I'm headed toward.

Shit.

I hang back enough to try to put enough distance between us on the platform that I won't end up on the same car with Cassssssssssanova, and bury my nose in my book so as to avoid eye contact.  The guy stumbles down the platform in my direction - this is where, even though there are plenty of people around, and this guy can barely keep upright, let alone harm me, I start to get more creeped out than amused.  I mean, dammit, I am small.  And not very strong.  And all alone.  And don't really know how good my self-defense skills are, since I have never had to use them.

BANANAHAMMOCK!

Just like when Wayne and Garth would go into a dream sequence on Wayne's World.  I'd do the hand motions and the doodleydo noises if it wouldn't turn me into exactly the sort of person that creeps me out.  But the bananahammock gave me enough of an inward giggle to shrug off the not-so-fresh feeling that this guy had left me with.

 

2) There's a bus that I now avoid at all costs in the morning.  I would sometimes find myself on it when I was running really late in the morning - it's the last one before the buses start coming further apart as rush hour dies down, so even if I'm running super-late, I will scramble to catch it.  One morning, I got on it, sat towards the back, and realized shortly that the guy in the back corner seat was talking.  Thought process:

Must be with a friend.

Nope, the people sitting near him are most definitely not a part of the conversation.

Must be on a phone or bluetooth headset.  I will never get used to seeing people talking on bluetooth headsets in public.

Negative.  No electronic gadgetry in sight.

Yep, dude is totally just talking to himself.

Meh, no biggie.  At least he seems to be interested in what he has to say.

 

A couple of weeks later, I'm back on that bus.  Dude is on it.  When he gets off the bus at Lawrence, I could swear I heard him mutter something like, "I love you" as he passes me.  Nah, probably just imagining things.  Probably just said "I love shoes" or "Aye, rough Jews!"

 

A couple of weeks later, same bus.  This time I'm sitting about halfway back, in a single seat on the side.  Didn't even notice anyone else on the bus, nose buried in book for the ride.  We pull up to the Lawrence stop, and I distinctly hear someone say, in a low voice and directly behind me, "I love you."  Look up to see Dude as he dashes for the back door of the bus.  Nah, I couldn't possibly have heard what I think I just heard.  But proceed to spend the rest of the morning more than a little creeped out.

Everyone wants to hear "I love you."  Just maybe not from a creepy, possibly schizophrenic dude who runs away as soon as he says it.

 

...A couple of weeks later...yep.  Once again, not really paying attention to who's on the bus when I get on, and sit in one of the double seats in the middle of the bus because I'm carrying lots of crap that day.  Open book, insert nose.  Shortly before the Lawrence stop:

Hmm.  Someone's standing in the aisle just ahead of me.  Maybe I should move my stuff so someone can sit next to me.  Wait...loads of empty seats on this bus...

As the bus rolls up to the stop, Dude leans over, says, "I'll see you later" in the same raspy, throaty whisper, then trots up to the front door and hops off the bus.  He stands on the sidewalk while the bus pulls away, and knocks on my window as I ride by.

Apparently, in Dude's world, we are an item.  And we have a date tonight.  Or possibly, three months from now.  Apparently.

 

BANANAHAMMOCK!BANANAHAMMOCK!BANANAHAMMOCK!!!!

It's not quite Dorothy clicking her ruby-slippered heels together three times, but it'll have to do.

 

I figure this is also a great way to make a mental note of a particularly ridiculous situation.  When one sees a black man...on roller skates...carrying a wok...BANANAHAMWOK!

 

This should come in quite handy.  I happen to think that more deliciously ridiculous things happen to me than to most people.  Partly because I happen to notice them more as they happen, and partly because I am, when it comes down to it, an inherently ridiculous person.  Birds of a feather reaping what they sow and whatnot.  So I continue this list with some of my sillier Bananahammocks, as they shall henceforth be called:

 

3) Several years ago, I was in Amsterdam with my then-boyfriend.  We were sitting on a bench on the edge of a canal...sunset was looming, the little lights on the bridges were reflecting on the water...lovely romantic evening.  A guy in a captain's hat comes off of one of the houseboats...sort of a Dutch Popeye.  He ambles up the sidewalk, muttering under his breath.  All I can make out is something like, "<grumblegrumble> F-ing C--T! <grumblegrumblegrumble>..."  As Popeye approaches us, he proceeds to tell us a little about himself.  Namely, that he is Satan.  Then he looks us over, nods approvingly, and says, "This...this, I like this" as he points at us before continuing along his way, cursing whatever woman it was that done him wrong.

It's a wonder that relationship didn't work out, what with the blessing de Beelzebub, and all.

BEELZEHAMMOCK!

 

4) meh...NANAHAMMOCK!

 

5) When I was a wee undergrad, I once serenaded a men's a cappella group.  I sang "Don't Use Your Penis For a Brain" while one friend sang backup in the hallway and another danced around the room, handing the guys flowers.  Shortly thereafter, one of the guys made a comment that I "seem like the sort of person who would keep a penis in the freezer."  Some of them still vaguely remember me as the Penis Chick.  Can you believe some clever guy hasn't snatched this one up, folks?  Luckily, I'm guessing we lost all of the guys way back at "tampons," so they haven't seen this.

FROZENBANANAHAMMOCK!

 

6) I once sort of broke into Ross-Ade Stadium.

To make a mix CD.

That included the Fat Boys/Beach Boys duet of "Wipeout."

BANANAHAMMOCK: IMPOSSIBLE!

 

7) I once played not one...not two...but three, yes, THREE VARIETIES OF POULTRY on stage. 

bawkbawkBAWNANAHAMMAWK!

 

8) On a "Dark Side of Charleston" tour, our gravelly-voiced tour guide decided I was the perfect person to string up in restraints in the abandoned jail.

BANANA-S&M-MOCK!

 

9) TOTALLY been hit on by a pirate.  Twice.

BANARRRRNAHARRRRMOCK!

 

At this stage, I believe I've made my point.  My sincere apologies who thought, upon seeing the title of this post, that they would get to read my delightful observations on Speedos.  I can't WAIT to see the Google hits I'll get off of this bad boy.

 

For what it's worth, I don't care how good you look in a Speedo, as far as I'm concerned, you look better in trunks.

Working Like a Dog.

We interrupt All-Request Week to bring you this brief message:

 

There's an old Far Side cartoon that I always think of on days like today.  I wasn't able to find the cartoon I had in mind, and Gary Larson is known for actually, you know, trying to protect his intellectual property (crazy bastard), so rather than risk a cease-and-desist order (I do reach TENS of readers, after all), I will try my best to describe it.

 

A puppy stands in a window, looking forlorn.  While his neighborhood friends attack the mailman, he's holding a violin. 

 

Spring has FINALLY come to Toronto, and I'm stuck inside, trying to focus on work.  Ain't being gainfully employed a bitch?  (Heh heh...see what I did there?  Bitch?  Dog?  Ah, to heck with ya.)

 

I hope the rest of you are getting some of this lovely weather, wherever you may be.  And if you are, I sure as hell hope you get the chance to go out and play in it while I'm playing etudes. 

Save a tasty bit of ankle for me.

Three's Company

Okay, I'm going to start All-Request Week with Ian's request, because I found it surprisingly easy to answer.  However, the phone lines are still open - keep sending requests.  You've given me some interesting things to think about.

 

You are able to sit down and have dinner with 3 people, past or present and talk to them for 3 hours. Who would they be and why?

 

I feel a bit like I'm on a job interview.  I'm surprised the next request wasn't "Where do you see yourself in five years?"  Thank God it wasn't, because if there's one thing grad school taught me, it's that no matter where I see myself five years from now, I couldn't be more wrong about it.  But anyway, this is the sort of question that people ask to suss out your personality, figure out your priorities, and evaluate your creativity.  And thus, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that most of us have heard it at some point, and thought about who those 3 people would be.  Some people go straight for the obvious: Jesus, the Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Teresa, Oprah, Carrot Top.  Some people go for those they think aren't obvious, but totally are: Hitler, Eva Peron, Sirhan Sirhan, Charles Manson.  Yet others go out of their way to make their choices as obscure as possible: I'll take Evelyn Nesbit, Crispin Glover, and Millard Fillmore for $200, Alex.

 

So my choices aren't going to be terribly original, or very obscure.  But considering the idea essentially boils down to putting together one kickass dinner party, I naturally feel the need to include people that I not only admire, but would really get a kick out of talking to.  If you've been reading this for a while, you'd know that last year was hard on my sense of idol worship.  And you're probably expecting me to put Kurt Vonnegut and Mr. Wizard on this list.  But here's the thing - while Vonnegut is one of the most quotable individuals I've ever run across, with a particular knack for saying the things I'm thinking in far more eloquent, poetic, and viciously sarcastic ways than I can ever hope to achieve...he's also written a lot of incredibly mediocre filler.  And I don't want to sit through a 3-hour dinner for 30 minutes of soundbites I want to listen to.  And as much as I love Mr. Wizard with every fiber of my being...I don't imagine he was a particularly sparkling conversationalist.  Jack Lemmon?  Well, I'd probably just make him re-enact the last scene of The Apartment all night and then snuggle up to him as he strains spaghetti through a tennis racket. 

 

So, while I've ruled out the idols I've spoken of to great extent previously, I'm also sure that my choices will come as little to no surprise to most of you.  Of course, the thing that makes it interesting for me, is that my answer is always different.  So here are my choices right now:

 

Guest #1: Katharine Hepburn.  Within the last few years, I have discovered Katharine Hepburn.  I know, you're thinking, "um, didn't EVERYONE discover Katharine Hepburn, like, 70 years ago???"  But there's a HUGE difference between knowing someone is an icon, and actually watching the movies that MADE them an icon.  Most of the people I know have never actually watched a single one of Kate's movies.  Hell, I've only watched a few (would have been a lot more if Canada had a decent equivalent to Netflix, but no...).  Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, should see The Philadelphia Story.  The plot is fairly simple overall...it is a movie that works (as the original stage play did) because of the charisma of its actors.  Without Kate, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart, it would've been just another romantic comedy.  The Hepburn character is one of those roles that makes me wish a community theater would mount a production of The Philadelphia Story, just so I might have a chance in hell of playing it. I'd never get to, though.  I'm short and chunky instead of tall and slim...cute instead of beautiful...endearingly goofy rather than charismatic.  Kate always played the woman every woman wishes she could be and wants people to think she is.  She was tall.  And beautiful.  And wore pants.  She had this striking, assertive, confident persona.  And somehow, she managed to still be a woman underneath.  While you're at it, watch Woman of the Year.  This was her first movie with Spencer Tracy - the archetype is pretty much the same.  But the thing that's unique about that movie is that you can literally watch a man - an everyman, infinitely relatable...average...and so lovely in his flawed ordinariness - fall in love with this remarkable, strong-willed woman.  And I'm not talking a Gigli, oo, you can really see J-Lo and Ben Affleck fall in love, kind of deal.  No, you can actually see this woman grow on this man, to the point that he can't help but smile while watching her just be her.  You can see how much he has fallen under her spell, in fiction and in real life.  It's incredible.  Spence could not fake that - he never did with any other actress.  But this doesn't really explain why she would make a fantastic dinner party guest.

Last fall, I read Kate Remembered.  Now, if you recall, this was the book that came out almost immediately when she passed away.  It was not some sort of slapped-together attempt to capitalize on Hepstalgia - the author had actually interviewed her once-upon-a-time, at which point they became fast friends.  The book is not so much a biography of a Hollywood icon as a memoir of the author's time spent as Kate's friend.  And much of what she told him was said with the caveat that he not publish any of it until she had passed away.  Reading that book, you get a much better sense of who she was as a person.  And that person is someone I want to know.  The sort of person who says, "hey, you are interesting and I like you.  You WILL come to dinner and meet my friends."  I'm not that person.  I can get as far as the first half...sometimes.  But actually planning parties?  I'm still that girl that's surprised when people actually want to come to one of my parties.  But just READING about her makes me want to sit down with her...watch her in action.  Because that persona wasn't just someone she played on screen...it WAS her.  And it was incredibly entertaining to just sit back and watch.

 

Guest #2: Albert Einstein.  This one probably qualifies as the cliche science geek answer, but my reasons extend beyond the fact that the man was just plain fucking brilliant.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd love to know how he would react to the knowledge that, in this day and age, physicists are STILL performing experiments that prove how dead-on his reasoning was nearly a century ago.  And I'd love to ask him why my devices just don't quite work the way they should sometimes.  By far my favorite part of taking physics in undergrad was when we covered special relativity...it takes a unique sort of creativity to imagine circumstances under which a 300-foot train can disappear in a 200-foot tunnel.  The things I find the most interesting in science are those I can work with, but not quite fully get my head around - sort of a scientific functional illiteracy.  It feels more like magic that way.  Spending all day doing the things that come easily to you gets really boring - but when you can do the things that you don't think you should be able to pull off, that's a special feeling.  When I was teaching basic quantum mechanics to first-years last year, I was surprised to find that those were some of my favorite lectures, because out of what I was required to teach, it was the material I had the least intuitive understanding of.  I've never felt like I had a good grasp on electronics, but found myself really enjoying teaching electronics labs to fourth-years at Purdue.  It's true what they say - the best way to learn something is to teach it to someone else.  I like to think that Einstein would agree with me to an extent - one of his more famous quotes was, "Do not worry about your problems with mathematics, I assure you mine are far greater." 

About the time I was wrapping up my quantum lectures last year, I began reading Einstein in Love.  The book jacket was a bit misleading, since it was subtitled A Scientific Romance and ostensibly the story of his life, told through love letters and his relationships with various women.  It wound up being far more technical than I had expected it to, and much more a Romance with Science than a Scientific Romance.  However, it did give a glimpse into the man as he was in his personal relationships, flaws and all.  For an uber-nerd, he could be quite the romantic: "Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity."  My quote book might as well have an entire chapter devoted to Einstein ("Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand."), so I remain firmly convinced that having dinner with him would be a hoot.  I can only imagine how much fun it would be to get him drunk. 

 

Plus, I think Kate would get one hell of a kick out of him.

 

Guest #3: Christopher Moore.  This may be my only left-field kind of choice, but if you know me, you know it's not random at all.  One of my all-time favorite books is Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal.  Some people write this book off as sacreligious on the basis of the title alone, without ever having cracked it open.  If you actually do open the cover, what you'll find is the story of Biff, who has been resurrected 2000 years after Christ's death to write a Gospel that will fill in all of the years that are missing from the four existing books of the Gospel (i.e., pretty much anything before the age of 30 or so).  Biff is a regular guy, kind of an asshole, who happened to meet Jesus when they were 7 and became his best friend.  Perhaps most importantly, he was the one that was with him when he was trying to come to terms with what exactly he was supposed to DO as the Son of God.  If you actually READ the book, you'll see that there's really nothing sacreligious about it - Jesus, although very much human, is always a picture of piety and propriety - it's Biff that is the irreverent, amoral goofball.  Okay, fine, once or twice he gets frustrated trying to get his message across and lets out a "dammit!" but that's as bad as it gets.  And that's what I like about it - it's a wonderful portrait of male friendship (what, you've never met a ridiculously nice guy with an asshole for a best friend?), and it imagines Jesus as a real person - with a sense of humor, and curiosity, and an incredible burden on his shoulders.  It's also screamingly funny.  No, seriously - I've gotten some weird looks on the bus while reading it.  And Biff's account of the Passion is quite possibly the most heartbreaking thing I've ever read - even if you don't believe in Jesus, just imagine watching your best friend put himself through that, willfully and out of love for you and everyone around you.  I like to re-read this book during Lent...ever since the first time I read it, I've thought, yeah, THAT'S what I've always thought Jesus was really like, and what I think faith is all about.  "Faith isn't an act of intelligence, it's an act of imagination."  What we know from books only gets us halfway - at that point, you've gotta take what you know and just let your imagination run wild.

 

Moore has written plenty of other books as well, and the others are far less heavy in terms of subject matter.  They tend to be about odd, supernatural things, everything from giant sea creatures to Native American spirits to vampires and grim reapers.  When I read the opening chapters of Fluke (or I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings), I thought, "man, this guy REALLY gets how scientists actually work."  They are all ludicrously funny and I can't recommend them enough.  Most of them do have a spiritual element to them, even if you have to squint and tilt your head just so to get it.  But above all, he is creative, he is hysterical, and I can never wait to see what he'll come up with next.  And that's why he gets a spot at my table.

 

Guest #4: There is no Guest #4. 

 

However, I am totally going to cheat here, because the rules never said that I wasn't allowed to pick a person to MAKE the meal.  That person would be Heston Blumenthal.  Most of my regular readers have probably not heard of him.  He's a 3-Michelin-star chef who takes the molecular gastronomy approach to cooking.  Simply put, he has a deeply analytical and scientific take on developing recipes and cooking methods.  He has a show called In Search of Perfection that is currently airing on Food Network Canada - it is the only cooking show that actually makes this foodie/science geek horny.  And before you start going all "whoa, that was TOO MUCH INFORMATION" on me, just think about the number of food-porn shows out there that are TRYING to do just that.  Heston's just the only one who succeeds.  I mean, the man makes ME go, "whoa...you may be thinking just a little too much about your food."  But I love him.  I'm not the sort of person who makes a list of things to do before I die, but if I did, they'd probably all be food-related, and at the top of the list would be the tasting menu and wine pairings at The Fat Duck.  Chances are, that would do me in anyway, both financially and cardiovascularly, but dammit, what a way to go.

 

And with that, so begins All-Request Week.  Request lines are, as I said before, still open - there does seem to be some demand along the "What, exactly IS it that you do?" lines, so one post will definitely cover my research.  However, that post will be significantly more entertaining if Fearless Leader gives me his blessing to post some of my silly movies on YouTube (under a personal account, not the lab one, unless otherwise instructed), so I may hold off for a bit.  In the meantime, keep the requests coming, or else you'll be hearing an awful lot about bananahammocks and ramen noodles...

You're the inspiration.

So...you may have noticed that things have been a little quiet around here.  Well, if I'm being totally honest, life has been a little dull of late.  If I were to write about what I've been up to lately, it would go something like this:

 

1.  Ate lots of things that were bad for me.

 

2.  Haven't been working out.

 

3.  Put on enough weight to officially make my pants not fit. 

 

4.  Yeah, right.

 

5.  Nursed a sinus infection for a week and a half.

 

6.  Watched WAY too much Veronica Mars.

 

7.  Spent sick days subsisting on nothing but ramen noodles and marked-down easter chocolate while watching Veronica Mars.  Well, that pretty much covers items 1-6 in one fell swoop.

 

Lather, rinse, repeat.  So you can see why I've been feeling a lack of inspiration lately - none of those experiences really scream, "Now I must WRITE!!!"  With the possible exception of the Veronica Mars - I am a huge fan and devoured all 3 seasons in the space of about 2 weeks.  With about two episodes left to go in the series, I put my finger on the primary thing that kept me coming back.  I mean, the mystery/private eye bit is very engaging, but for me, there has to be a little something extra to keep me hooked.  I had thought it was the snark (which is quite liberally applied throughout the series, and we all know what a fan I am of snarkitude), but it's more than that.  There is a relatively high grab-and-kiss factor.  We all know what a fan I am of the g&k - thus, the satisfying moments are excessively so.  Also, lots of forehead kisses.  I'm convinced that one of the writers must have been a short woman and/or a tall man with a short girl fetish, because forehead kisses are near and dear to the hearts of all us short girls.  Strangers will kiss you on the cheek, lovers will kiss you on the lips, but only someone who loves you will kiss you on the forehead.  Well, someone who loves you and who just doesn't have the energy to stoop over very far.  I've found that I generally date guys in the range of 5'10"-6'1" - I believe this is because this is the perfect height differential for two of my favorite forms of affection: the resting of his chin on top of my head during the hug, and the forehead kiss.  I know what some of you are thinking: "Dude, you're 5'3".  You don't need a 6" guy for that..."

 

But this midget likes to wear heels.

 

The midget also likes to digress.

8.  The Yeti Strikes Back.  Frequent readers may remember the Yeti.  For you newbies, click the link.  The poll should still be active - vote early and often, kids.  This is what Bigfoot looks like:

Chatty Nasal Girl is still trying to convince me that the Yeti Likes Me likes me.  However, I'm the only one who actually knows Yeti, so therefore mine is the only opinion that matters.  Frankly, I am just happy to have pretty flowers, regardless of the motivation.  I'm just hoping that the wilty bits will hold on until those last two lilies open for me.  So far, everything seems to be going strong.  Yetis have expensive taste, which tends to result in gifts with long shelf-lives.

 

9.  Went to the Hart House Orchestra concert in the Great Hall.  Any fellow Torontonians (or future visitors to Toronto) with Harry Potter fixations would be well-advised to attend an event in the Great Hall at Hart House.  I didn't invite anyone to go with me this time - none of my friends that are actually interested in classical music really needed to witness firsthand the effect that seeing the VGLM in a tux, carrying a violin, has on me.  Luckily, I am sophisticated enough to know that it is not, in fact, considered appropriate to throw one's panties on the stage at such an occasion.  That man will be the death of me.  Or, at the very least, of my dignity.

 

All told, this doesn't make for a very interesting post, despite the fact that it's taken a wee turn for the interactive (unlike the Great Hall, here it is COMPLETELY appropriate to throw undergarments.  Preferably lacy ones).  So here's what we're gonna do: I've been thinking for a long time about doing a theme week.  Mup did one a while back (Beatles week, where each post was inspired by the title of a Beatles song), and an impromptu one this week.  And since I've been eating pretty well this week, starting to shed some of my clearance candy weight, and slowly getting back into as much of a gym routine as my still-tickly lungs will allow (translation: lots of yoga, not so much with the swimming/running), I'm starting to fit in my pants again, feel a little less down on myself and a little more ready for a wee bit of inspiration.  So here's what we're gonna do - my theme of choice is....

 

<drum roll>

 

...Audience Participation.

That's right, it's All-Request Week here at The Alchemist!  Here's how it's going to go: you suggest topics for me.  I will use your suggestions for my next week's worth of posts.  As per Mup's self-imposed rules, a blogging week is 5 posts, although if there are enough interesting topics, I am willing to work through the weekend or even pull overtime.  So, what do you want me to do?  Explain what, exactly, it is that I DO at work?  Always wanted to know what my favorite color is?  Detailed analysis of the homoerotic overtones of the Danger Mouse/Penfold dynamic and my extended conspiracy theory that Penfold is, in fact, a marmot, and not a hamster as previously believed?  Force me to sit through an episode of American Idol or Paradise Hotel and live-blog every excruciating moment of it?  Want to know why there is no number 4, or what, exactly, makes me so Goddamned awesome?

 

Okay, so that last one doesn't count, because pretty much every post I write is an attempt to answer that question and if I haven't by now, I'm sure I never will.  Anyway, requests can be silly or serious, sacred or profane.  You can submit requests a number of ways:

1.  In the comments.  This has the benefit of giving you the option of submitting your idea anonymously.

2.  E-mail me via my profile.  This has the benefit of allowing you to submit an idea privately, so the rest of the class won't know what's about to hit them.

3.  Telepathy.  The best of both worlds.  Although your chances of getting through aren't so good.  Direct-dialing this midget's brain may result in a busy signal.

4.  Bitch, please.

 

So have at it.  Tell me what you want to know - you no suggest, me no write. 

Heh heh heh...you might call it cruel or unfair, I call it blogmail...

Meh, whatever.

A conversation with a friend tonight reminded me of a favorite movie quote, "You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life.  Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others."

 

I meant to write a long post this weekend.  I mentally composed paragraphs on several topics.  However, thinking takes very little effort...writing, marginally more so.  I found myself more drawn to watching old episodes of Veronica Mars online than to typing out my deepest, darkest thoughts on said topics.

 

Plus, most of the topics I've been thinking about will involve disguising the identities of the parties involved, and I'm not feeling very inspired with the clever nicknames.  The others involve things that I'm not sure I'm ready to share yet.  Some involve both, believe it or not.

 

I know, I know.  I promised to write about New Orleans.  I will.  Trust me.  I'm tempted to wait until I've gotten my 2 1/2 rolls of film developed to add to the experience, because I've decided illustrated posts are fun.  But mostly, I just haven't had time to sit down and compose that post yet.  On the bright side, there's one post that's been written for months, just waiting for the other 1/2 roll that was trapped in my camera until pictures of the French Quarter liberated it, so you'll get two posts in one at that point.

 

Yeah, so, I'm stalling.  Can't help it - my belly is full of my own cooking, wine, and pie.  Not necessarily in that order.  Just wanted to let you all know that I'm thinking of you, and I know that some of you <coughcoughDAVEcough> are anxiously awaiting yet another window on my world.

 

And to those of you, I say, ahem:

 

HAHAHA!!!!  SUCKERS!!!

 

You'll get it when I'm good and ready, bitches.

Horoscopes are such crap.

This was my horoscope today:

You are more hopeful today that you can be happy without turning your life upside down. The bad news is that you are being led by your fantasies. The good news is that you are fully capable of making your dreams, however unrealistic, come true. Planning can make the difference between failure and success.

That's not all.  This was yesterday's:

 

You may feel something that has returned from the past, but your undeniable desires can also spark the emotional renewal you have been seeking. Your imagination may drift, but you are certain about what feels good. This is a time of heightened intensity; concentrate on your heart's desire and make your dreams come true.

So it seems that, according to the Cosmos, all of my dreams should be coming true this week - all this great, renewing change is supposed to be happening as I find my heart's desire, no matter how unrealistic it may be.

 

Maybe I have, if my heart's desire is Valentine's chocolate still on clearance in mid-March (which, to be fair, IS pretty unrealistic, yet it DID come true).  Or teaching my labmate how to use the plate reader.  Or having a passive-aggressive argument with my landlady via letters left on my door.  But I'm pretty sure it's none of the above.  I did find out this week that the money for my raise has come through (YAY, grants that were scored before the NIH got its budget cut), but that's more a sigh of relief than "emotional renewal."  In fact, I'm not sure I know what my heart's desire really is right now, but I have a sneaking suspicion it involves snuggling something.  And my fantasies of grabbing certain crushes and making out with them furiously certainly aren't leading me anywhere hopeful or imaginative.

But I'm headed to Ann Arbor tonight to see Matt and #1 (YAY, Alamo Rent A Car).  Maybe that's where my hope is.

 

But I'm thinking it's back to the drawing board, Cosmos.

Sweet Home Canada

So, if you read my last post, and if you happen to have heard that Toronto was buried by about a foot of snow on Saturday, you may be expecting a fresh rant, chock-full of fury about all of the trouble I had getting back into town yesterday. 

 

Well, I hate to disappoint anyone, but it was pretty uneventful.  I think this pretty much sums it up:

 

I made it home tired, fat, happy, and reasonably close to on-time.  Although we did have yet another parking lot situation on the tarmac, so if you're keeping track, that means I ran into the exact same problem in 4 different airports.  That seems excessive.  There will be a more detailed account of my trip going up whenever I have time to write it - I'm trying to get back into the swing of things and will be out of town again next weekend, so don't hold your breath.

I just wanna fly.

A tale of two three FOUR?!?  SERIOUSLY?!? cities...

Pretty much anyone who has talked to me in the last couple of weeks knows that I am going to be in New Orleans for the next week - a business trip with a little vacation mixed in that I have been looking forward to for about 6 months now.  And these same people have a tendency, when something exciting like this happens to me, to ask something along the lines of, "are you SO excited???" only to get a response along the lines of "meh."  This trip has been a major exception - I have been completely unable to contain my enthusiasm and anticipation because I am so thoroughly excited about it in every way.  The following shall henceforth serve as a reminder to myself of why I generally hedge my enthusiasm for exciting developments until they ACTUALLY develop.  Also, be forewarned - this is long and not terribly exciting, much like the last 24 hours.  But it is, at the very least, illustrated.

 

So Friday afternoon, after a slow, snowy bus ride, I arrive at the airport not too terribly late, considering.  I wait in a very slow-moving line, only to be told, "yeah, okay, that one's going to be delayed three hours." 

Stupid New Jersey.

Apparently, the weather is worse in Newark than it is in Toronto.  Apparently.  Stupid no-good winter.  So naturally, since I had less than an hour to make my connection, I will not be making it to New Orleans tonight as scheduled.

 

Well, shit.

 

He tries to put me on a 7:30 flight Saturday morning, which will go through Cleveland but still get me to NO in time for lunch.  <sigh> Okay, I guess I can live with that.  There's one seat left, and it will soon be mine.

Except as he's trying to book it, they cancel the flight.

 

Double shit.

 

So now I have a 6:30 flight, connecting in Newark, then Houston, THEN New Orleans.  My full Saturday of lovely bohemian tourism in the French Quarter is disintegrating before my very eyes.  Well, at least I'll get there in time to settle in and have a couple of hours of daylight left.  That'll have to do.

 

Except there's another, more pressing problem than precious hours of vacation being lost.  My only source of transportation in Toronto is public transit.  Getting to my house from the airport takes a good two hours on a GOOD day, and it's smack in the middle of rush hour.  And snowing.

 

I see your double shit and raise you a steaming pile of crap.

 

So I decide to rent a car and drive home, which will be cheaper than staying at an airport hotel or taking a cab, allow me to get a few hours' sleep in my own bed, and get back to the airport by 4:30 AM without having to take night buses to do so.  I just don't have it in me to lug my luggage back and forth on the transit journey, and just plain don't feel like spending the night in a hotel when I know I have a good 9 nights of that still ahead of me. 

 

So let's get this straight: I now have a car.  In rush hour.  And it is snowing.  I live right off of the highway that goes straight to the airport - Mapquest estimates the drive at about 27 minutes.  Anyone want to place a bet on how long it actually took me to get home?  Anyone?  Bueller?

How about 3 1/2 hours? 

In a car with no CD player, whose rear defrost just seems to shut off whenever the hell it feels like it.  You know what I learned in the course of that drive?  Two things: 1) I am never buying a Dodge Avenger and 2) MAN does Canadian radio suck.  Even more so than American radio, and that, my friends, is saying something.

 

I raise you a flaming bag of dog poo.

 

So I finally get home, let the Landlords know that I'm home so they don't freak out when they hear noises coming from downstairs and/or see a strange car blocking theirs into the driveway because the snowdrifts have left me nowhere to park on the street, and try to settle in.  After a beer to take the edge off, an order of fish and chips, a very brief and fitful nap, and an hour and a half of late-night Alton Brown, I brush my teeth and bundle myself back into the car at 3:30 AM to begin my do-over.  This time, the trip to the airport actually takes the prescribed amount of time, and even with a couple of quick stops and turning in the rental, I'm about 10 minutes earlier than planned.  At this point, there are long lines, but everything seems to be going the way it should - the customs line is longer than I have ever seen it, teeming with middle-aged couples headed off on cruises, like some sort of yuppie Ellis Island.  Give me your empty nesters, your DINKs, your pale and pasty masses, yearning to eat buffets until their asses expand to the point that, during their snorkeling expedition, they are mistaken for a small tropical port-of-call...um, where was I?  Oh yes, I am reminded why I NEVER schedule flights for Saturday mornings.  After breakfast of the world's worst muffin, croissant, and coffee (seriously...all three were ABYSMAL), I finally arrive at my gate, where I find an outlet for my computer and cell phone charger and begin writing this post. 

This is what 7 hours of sleep over two nights looks like at 5 AM.  Ain't a pretty picture, is it?

 

Now, as I'm sitting here typing, I'm starting to think, "hey, shouldn't we be, like, getting on the plane soon?"  But it seems every plane boards and takes off late, yet arrives on time or early, while others board on time and arrive hours late, so I'm trying not to fret.  Except my layover in Newark is, once again, less than an hour, so I'm a little more tense than usual.  But my tension fades after takeoff when the Dingbat Flight Attendant gives me the whole can of Diet Coke!  Getting the whole can on a plane is one of those small pleasures on a long trip that you have to cling to:

Mine!  ALL MINE!!!  MUAHAHAHA!!!

As is taking maniacal self-portraits with your webcam.  I'm sure Fearless Leader is glad to see me putting my new work computer to good use.

The plane lands in Newark about the time my connecting flight is supposed to begin boarding, so I'm thinking, yeah, it'll be tight, but I can still make it.  Um...except we don't have a gate. 

Ever circled a parking lot, trying to find a space?  This is the first time I've had to do that in an airplane. 

WHY IS THERE ANOTHER PLANE IN OUR GATE???  IT'S NOT LIKE THEY DIDN'T KNOW WE WERE COMING. 

Hey buddy, we CLEARLY HAD OUR BLINKER ON FIRST.

So we sit there. 

And sit there. 

And the adorably disarming man flying alone with the adorable baby is starting to fret because the adorable baby is getting understandably and not particularly adorably fussy.  And I hear the guy next to him tell him that he is supposed to be catching the same flight that I am to Houston.

And I start to think, "Hey, as soon as my connecting flight takes off, THEN there'll be a gate available..."

Sure enough, I'm standing there, waiting for my gate-checked carry-on when my next flight pulls away from the gate.  Of course, I don't know this yet, so in a fit of wanton and completely unmerited optimism, I hurry mine ass to the connecting gate, just in case my second flight has been delayed or held for the passengers that they know have been stuck on the tarmac waiting for a parking space. 

Yeah, no such luck.

 

This is where I would like to pick up Continental Airlines by the scruff of the neck and rub their nose in the mess they have made on the carpet of my vacation/business trip.  But since I am still short of breath from the sprint with my carry-on and laptop in tow, I go to the Continental customer service counter to get my THIRD itinerary for this trip.  Where I am informed that I will now be arriving in New Orleans at 7 PM.  So my lovely bohemian late afternoon of sightseeing has now been reduced to a late supper if I'm lucky.

This makes the Wahooty very sad:

Seriously.  Even started tearing up when I was waiting at the counter for my new boarding passes.  I mean, I'm low on sleep, being cheated out of a much-needed day of relaxation and sunshine, and I never even got an apology.  At least the guy at the counter in Toronto expressed genuine concern about the inconvenience I was being caused and offered suggestions on how to play on the sympathies of the hotels in order to get a cheaper rate so I wouldn't have to go all the way home.

 

Okay, Continental, I see your shit-demon and call it. 

 

This is also where the Wahooty begins mulling the possibility of having a beer at 9 AM for the first time ever outside of a tailgating scenario:

I run into the guy from my first flight in the bar, so we spend our two-hour delay having a couple of beers and chatting, which turned out to be quite pleasant.  If nothing else, at least I can say that today I met an interesting Colombian (who is not, for the record, a cocaine kingpin).  And not everyone can say that.  And he does live and work in Toronto, so maybe I got a new friend out of the flaming shit-demon that is this trip.  Only time will tell.

 

As I finally board my second flight of the day, I am thanking my lucky stars that I have a) a laptop with a decent battery and b) four discs of Danger Mouse with me to watch on the plane.  Because I have a lot of time to kill, and on less than 2 hours' sleep there's only so long you can read a book before you lose consciousness.  And because I know you're dying to know, this is what it looks like when I watch Danger Mouse after two beers:

Oo, look, pretty mountains!

Now, when THIS plane lands, you'll never guess what happens....

Yup. 

Eventually, the pilot comes on the PA to update us on the situation, and says, "Okay, we're all straightened out now...they had to bring out a cart to start the plane in our gate, but now...well...I actually have no idea what they're doing now."

I shit you not.

So my pilot may have no idea what's going on, but at least none of MY planes have needed a freaking JUMP START to get out of the gate.

 

Which brings me to the present, when I'm sitting at my departure gate in Houston, with about 75 minutes yet to kill until my final flight is supposed to begin boarding, and listening to a boarding call at the next gate over for a flight to New Orleans.  There had damned well better be asses in every single seat on that plane, because at this point, I could have WALKED to New Orleans faster than this. 

 

Oh, and I bet I know what you're thinking - the perfect ending to this story would be my luggage not making it to New Orleans with me.  Actually, it made it here FASTER than I did - my flight was delayed by about half an hour, but I got off the plane and it was waiting at the baggage carousel from some earlier flight.  So there may not have been room for my ass on one of those flights, but at least there was room for my underwear.

Crikey!

Andy Warhol famously said, "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." My generation seems to have turned his sarcastic observation about the state of pop culture into some sort of birthright - "reality" show contestants and internet "celebrities" are often heard expressing an appalling sense of entitlement - "Dammit, I want my 15 minutes of fame!"

 

Dude. The quote doesn't say a peep about anyone actually DESERVING it.

 

But we do live in an ADHD culture, where in the blink of an eye you can go from Nobody to Somebody and right back again. When I started writing this thing, I figured it would probably go the way of every attempt I made at writing a journal as a kid - I'd write one paragraph, realize I had nothing worthwhile to say, and drop it. Besides, writing longhand is slow and makes my hand hurt. When I started grad school, one of my best friends from college and I used to write journal entries and mail them to each other - yep, that's right, actual letters with postage and everything. That's when I realized that just writing down my thoughts was incredibly unsatisfying - I need at least one other person to read them before they are suitably purged. So who knows, if I hadn't told Em about this thing the very night I started it, I might never have continued it. And now, this here little blog of mine has grown, to the point where I have tens, yes TENS of readers. Okay, maybe more like ten, singular, but hey, that's a whole order of magnitude of growth in, like, a year and a half!

Okay, yeah, that's pretty lame. But I've said before that I write this thing for my own mental health/amusement, and don't really care how many people read it, just as long as someone's out there to occasionally tell me I'm brilliant or that I made hot beverages fly out of their sinuses.

 

But then something happened.

 

Unbeknownst to me (until pointed out by the beautiful and charming maja in the comments), I was quoted and linked by a site called Crikey. To sum up, Crikey is an Australia-based news and commentary site run by incredibly insightful and brilliant people with excellent taste. They did a little "morning after" Oscars piece - a digest of what those in the blogosphere were saying about the ceremony. Among those quoted were Gawker...Slate...Salon...

 

...and The Alchemist.

 

I think the words you're looking for here are "what the fuck?"

 

The statement that got me in? "Number 9: Nicole Kidman's inability to move her eyebrows."

Apparently, Aussies like it when you make fun of Nicole Kidman. Or Botox. Or some combination thereof. Apparently.

 

On any normal day, this page gets approximately 10 hits - most of them courtesy of Ian, Will, and Mup, who faithfully check in every day even though I rarely reward them with anything new to read. In the last two days, I've gotten over 500 hits. That's another order of magnitude, baby! Four more and I'll be Perez Hilton! Except prettier. And more articulate. And with an IQ slightly higher than that of a rotten cabbage.

Of course, the more people are reading your thoughts, the greater the chances that someone you've written bad things about might actually read them. So, just in case they're out there, I should probably apologize to a few people:

Celine Dion - I've actually met you in person. You are a delight. I just HATE THAT FUCKING SONG.

Canada - I give you a hard time sometimes, but I kid because I love. Same goes for you, U.S.A.

Tila Tequila - Oh, who the hell are we kidding, you deserve every bad thing I've ever said about you. I look forward to season 2 of your show so that I can once again rejoin the hatas.

Robin Antin and anyone who has ever appeared on that damned Pussycat Dolls show - See above.

 

As far as being World-Famous, well, I think my recent activity map speaks for itself:

Not bad. Although clearly I have some work to do in Africa and South America. And Greenland. And, well, anywhere that ever embraced Communism. Of course, the vast majority of these people will never return to this page, but it was nice having you here, no matter how short your stay. This is all very surreal - it's like when someone cites a paper I've written - my first reaction is always, "wait, someone actually READ that???" Or when, in my Civic Theater days, I'd meet someone and they'd say, "oh, I know you...you were in <insert name of show here>." Wait, someone actually purchased tickets and SAW that???? Weird. If even a handful of you stick around, then groovy. I'll even try to throw a little Australian content your way occasionally (RussellCroweShirazIanThorpeKeithUrbanColinHayTimTamRupert 
MurdochVegemitePAULHOGAN,BABY!!!). I intend to enjoy this unexpected popularity while it lasts. I also intend to completely forget about all of the little people who got me where I am today. That is, until this all blows over in, I'm betting, the next 24 hours.

 

Tick tock, kids.

10(ish) Things that pissed me off about the Oscars.

1.  Ryan Seacrest.  Seriously want to reach through my TV to slap him.  I always watch the red carpet coverage because it's the only time you get to look at all of the pretty dresses.  But I can't handle the inane interviews.  Or your weird chocolate lapels.  And you can't mute it because then you won't know who MADE the pretty dresses or, more importantly, who made the ass-ugly ones.

 

2.  Mispunctuation.  The title card of the ABC red carpet coverage says "Oscar's Red Carpet 2008."  Anything that is going to be splashed across my screen at every commercial break should be free from glaring grammatical errors.  Unless the red carpet is owned by an actual man named Oscar, I believe I am justified in my indignation.

 

3.  Helen Mirren's rack.  What kind of deal do you have to strike with Satan to get boobs like that?  Mine never have, and never will, look as good as hers do.  And she's literally twice my age.  So unfair.

 

4.  The way...just kidding.  There is no #4.

 

5.  Regis Philbin referring to this as the "80th anniversary" of the Academy Awards.  No, it's the 80th ANNUAL Academy Awards.  If the first one was in 1929, this would make it the 79th anniversary.  Unless you and Joy celebrated your first anniversary on your wedding night, in which case I stand corrected.  He also said something along the lines of "Nobody puts on a big production number like the Oscars."  Um, actually, Reege, someone does.  It's a little thing called Broadway.  Look into it.

 

6.  The excessive use of "My Heart Will Go On" during the "80 years of Oscar" montage.  I fucking hate that song with the white-hot intensity of 10,000 suns.  And again, that was really only 79 years of Oscar - there were no clips from this year's show.  I'm just sayin'.

 

7.  Renee Zellweger's haircut. 

 

8.  The fact that we had to get more than an hour into the show before someone used the word "buttocks" in an acceptance speech.  Thank you, Tilda Swinton.

 

9.  Nicole Kidman's inability to move her eyebrows.

 

10.  The fact that we had to get more than two hours into the show before someone compared winning an Oscar to "male menopause."  Thank you, Steven Spielberg.

 

One thing that did NOT piss me off: No Country for Old Men doing very well.  I don't remember the last time I saw a movie that stuck with me so strongly.  I'm going to go out on a limb and say that those Coen boys are gonna be big one of these days.

I am in an emotional cal-de-sac.

I need to go on a date.

It has officially been so long that I now would rather go on a bad date than no date at all.  If nothing else, just to prove to myself that I'd rather it be the other way around.  I need to mix it up.  Every guy that I've met in the last 6 months that is crush-worthy either proved to be otherwise or taken.  Seriously - I am wildly popular with guys with girlfriends/fiancees.  I think it's because I am reasonably cute and flirtatious, yet non-threatening.  The girlfriends like me too.

 

Case in point:  just before Christmas, I met someone who I had seen every day, and who had made pointed eye contact.  Labmate characterized him as "the kind of guy I can see you dating."  And, as much as I hate to admit it, she was TOTALLY right.  I am not making this up - I decided that yeah, he is My League.  He's not out of it, and not below it, he IS It.  But, he is engaged.  And I've met his fiancee, and I want to hang out with her because she is mad cool and rather like myself.  Which just proves the hypothesis at hand.

 

Remember a little while ago when I mentioned a possible new crush on the horizon?  Well, said human being finally asked me to do something after two months since our last get-together.  The last get-together was at my house, and he stayed all of 90 minutes.  There was mistletoe.  I stood under it for a good 3-4 minutes, chatting, while dinner was cooking.  He didn't take the bait.  Had he been interested, he would have taken advantage of that opportunity.  So, fine, whatever.  We're friends and all.  We went to a movie last week, and when I got home that night, I realized that I had spent the entire evening listening to his opinions on...well...nearly everything.  And only once had he asked me mine.  Now, to be fair, most of the opinions were on things that I don't really feel informed enough to express one of my own on - this year's Academy Award nominees...Canadian history...Canadian literature...but still.  Every time I see him, he makes a point of looking at the book I am carrying, yet he never feels the need to ask WHY I am reading that book, or what it means to me...he's perfectly content being appalled by the fact that I've never read any Margaret Atwood or Douglas Copland.  Dude - Margaret Atwood just ain't my style.  And Douglas Copland...well, he's Canadian.  And there are about a zillion American and British authors with similar sensibilities that, quite frankly, I've heard of a hell of a lot sooner than I ever heard of Douglas Copland.  Nothing against him, but, hell, I'll get to it when and if I get to it.  Meanwhile, you're an English teacher, and the only book you read during the bulk of your summer break was the latest Harry Potter. 

 

So yeah, not really feeling the crush at the moment.  But who knows, it may come back, so please don't use this entry against me later.

 

Unfortunately, in recent weeks, the VGLM has resurfaced. 

 

I've been thinking about him a lot lately.  I thought I had put it behind me, but...well...no.  I haven't.  Even a little bit.  When there's not something else new and exciting to distract me, I realize that he's talking to me more than he used to.  And for some reason, he feels comfortable sharing really personal details with me. 

And he's still Very Good Looking.

After having spent a Friday night binge drinking with a group that included two of his Very Good Looking (yet very, very much engaged) labmates, I ran into one of them on Monday morning as I was getting off of the subway.  So we walked in to work together, making small talk about what an ass we'd made of ourselves a few days ago.  We got off of the elevator, and walked right past the VGLM.

He noticed.

A couple of days later, I was talking to the other one.  Probably about the very same aforementioned ass-making. 

He noticed that too.

I can't help but take a little bit of petty pleasure in that.

 

But, at the same time, whenever I feel the longing for a Really Good Snuggle, I can't help but think about the time that I forcibly snuggled him.  Because it's the only time in recent memory I've felt someone snuggle back.  I need a good snuggle.  I deserve a good snuggle.  An episode of Sex and the City just made me cry because of the way Steve looked at Miranda.

I realized when I came home around New Year's that if I had to pick one way to describe my attitude towards love, it would be "ripe for the picking."  I may have a lot of crushes, and the primary target of my attention may skip around from day to day or week to week, but that's only because I am SO ready to fall in love it hurts sometimes.  It won't take much - just a little positive encouragement, a couple of good dates, a few meaningful looks of adoration - and I'll be gone.  And re-reading that, the feminist in me is screaming and threatening to put on her combat boots and cargo pants.  Girls aren't supposed to say things like that - it makes us look like the vulnerable little things that we all are deep inside.

 

But I'm clearly in a repeating loop here.  So either one of the old crushes or someone completely new needs to take me out on a date.  Give me an excuse to get all dressed up.  I'm begging you - my good shoes need to be taken out for a walk.  Otherwise, they're just going to get cranky and piddle on the floor to spite me.

 

And, for what it's worth, I hear I'm a good kisser.

The Night Shift

The night bus fuckin' rules.

Usually, taking the night bus means waiting a brief eternity. At a cold intersection. And occasionally meeting Zanta. But sometimes, you get lucky. Tonight, I waited for a few minutes before catching the first night bus after the subway stopped running. I have never understood exactly why the subway stops running approximately 6 minutes before closing time. As someone who has closed many bars in her day, all I have to say about that is: Canada is FUBAR. BUT the one good thing about this practice is that that first night bus after closing time is ALWAYS entertaining. It is the one and only time that I find a full bus preferable to a nearly empty one. Busload of drunks always = a good time in the wide world o' Wahooty, ah garontee.

Tonight was special, though. I made friends. Night Bus Friends.

Two of them, to be exact: Vlad, and Whateverdudeihavenoideawhatthefuckyernameis. To be fair, I have a slight inkling of how to pronounce the latter's name, but no fucking clue as to how to spell it, and in Wahooty's world, knowledge = pronunciation + spelling. I am a rather talented mimic, but do not feel like I can say anything with authority until I have seen it spelled and heard it said. Any less is ignorance, and I am one ignorant-ass American, thankyouverymuch.

From Bloor to Sheppard, we had quite the conversation. It ranged from politics to introductions. Yes, in that order. We restarted the conversation several times because it insisted on going awry repeatedly. Vlad and Whateverdude had just met that night. I liked Vlad. Not so sure about Whateverdude. He was a bit argumentative and militant for my tastes, and I remain a wee bit fuzzy as to whether he was Middle Eastern - as the sound, but perhaps not the spelling, of his name would indicate - or South African, or Jamaican. He claimed both of the latter, which is why my Ignorant American self is choosing to just fall back on Middle Eastern, because dammit, that's what he sounded and looked like, and Whateverdude's accent could not have been less African/Jamaican and he is not here to correct me.

Our topics of conversation included: me = American. Me = wearing hat that, while not really stylish, not half bad. Me = not wearing gloves. War = good. Or possibly bad. Or Whateverdudeihavenoideawhatthefuckyernameis. Boys = gay. Maybe. Kinda. Whateverdude may or may not have a girlfriend, but that particular point seems to be moot, as he is headed in a homeward direction with Vlad anyway.

Turns out my new friends, who are new friends themselves, are also friends with the rather sad-looking friends across the aisle.

One of them has, and I quote, "a professor fetish."

No one else on Earth has ever been so fascinated by the fact that I have taught first-year chemistry. And having taught first-year chemistry has never before made me feel Dirty. Hey, there's a first time for everything, I guess.

And this...THIS...is why I don't mind my commute one bit.

Unless it's snowing.

Stupid is as Stupid does.

The start of this post will be delayed while the author juices some limes.
Mama needs her tequila for this one.

Let me start by saying that I like giving advice. I'm generally much better at figuring out what other people should do with their lives than what I should with mine. And I must give halfway decent advice, because the same people ask for it over and over. I figure this either makes me pretty smart, or them pretty self-destructive and co-dependent. The truth probably lies somewhere in between. So when, as I was wrapping up my workday today, an IM popped up from someone I hadn't talked to in ages, saying they needed some advice, I was more than happy to listen and see what I could offer.

The friend in question is someone #1 and I know from our community theater days. When I met him, he was 16, and I was 25. I've always had kind of a sisterly affection for him, or at least as sisterly as one can be with a boy 9 years your junior who insists on inappropriately flirting with you at every opportunity. We won't even get into the Oedipal/Freudian nightmare that is the manner in which this boy relates to older women - his mother is a woman I would like to drop-kick from here to Tibet for bringing not one, but two very sweet boys into this world, only to turn them into complete basketcases that will be well into their adulthood before they ever stand a chance at figuring out what it takes to be a real man.

Deep breath...

So yeah, I guess it's hardly surprising that I only ever hear from him when he is wallowing in self-pity, needing advice, and not finding anyone else online. Regardless, I'm always happy to help someone who is at least smart enough to recognize that I am older and just a wee bit (oh, who the hell are we kidding - a HELL OF A LOT) wiser than he.

"So, what's the problem?"

Blahblahblah..."I have so many things I want to do, but I'm a workaholic (good thing the keyboard can't transmit eye rolls)...I work hard and I love what I do (which is, apparently, waiting tables at TGIFriday's...a true labor of love to be sure)...blahblah...but I come home at night and I'm exhausted, and just can't seem to get anything done."

(crickets)

"Um, so what exactly is your question?"

"Well...I want to go back to school. And I'm thinking that (name of desirable school withheld) is a good way to go, because they offer a BA in blahblahblah and a BFA in blahblahblah, and they wipe your record clean of any F's so you can start fresh." I feel the need to note here that my use of the word "desirable" is meant only to reflect this boy's desire to attend - not any notable academic reputation on the part of the institution in question.

Now is the time on Sprockets when we explain that this young man has failed out of not one, but TWO colleges. One was "the Julliard of the Midwest for musical theater" (so...many...jokes...must not...mock...openly...), and the other was fuckin' Millikin University. I'm sorry, if you can't get enough close personal attention in a "university" that is SMALLER THAN MY HIGH SCHOOL to pass all of your classes while MAJORING IN MUSICAL THEATER in what is essentially a Midwestern GHOST TOWN with absolutely NOTHING ELSE to do, you are CLEARLY DOING SOMETHING WRONG.

That's what I wanted to say. Instead, I said, "again, what exactly is your question? It seems like you know what you want to do."

"Well...I was going to take some classes at (name of less-desirable school withheld) to get my grades up. But I don't have any way to get back and forth because I don't have a car or a license because of my DUI."

THUD. That would be the sound of my forehead hitting the computer.

Insert big lecture for being stupid enough to get a DUI here.

So the score is as follows:
Stupid things he has done: Failing out of school? Check. Twice. Waited tables in an establishment that requires the wearing of Flair? Check. Endangered the lives of innocent Hoosiers by operating a motorized vehicle while intoxicated (mmm...margarita...oh, shut up, I take transit, remember?)? Check.
Intelligent things he has done: (crickets)

Ooh, Stupidity is up by a seemingly insurmountable margin of 4-0.

It is soon revealed that his punishment for the DUI was rather lenient (the judge apparently thought that a day in traffic school and some community service was adequate. Apparently. Personally, I'm more in favor of a day in stringing-up-by-the-balls school.) and Nicole Ritchie here can actually have his license back whenever he wants. There just "hasn't been a good time to do it."

GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!

Moronitude: 5
Brilliance: 0

He also has some cash saved up, so once he actually gets his license back, he should be able to buy some mode of transport. Aw, what the hell...

Imbecility: 5
Lack of Complete Mental Retardation: 1

So my advice was pretty radical - actually make some attempt at communication with (name of desirable school withheld) to find out if they would, in fact, consider accepting him with his current GPA. (It seems to me that any school that actually ADVERTISES a "clean slate" policy is probably not going to be too picky about how many F's they have to wipe clean, but what the hell do I know? Having never actually attended a school that feels the need to LURE FAILING STUDENTS into its enrollment, I can't say that I have much of a frame of reference.) If not, suck it up, get the license, AND the car, and register for some damned classes already, since you have already wasted an entire semester and are about to waste another.

"Okay, yeah, that sounds good. But..."

Ah, yes. Here it comes: the inevitable "I am completely fucked up over this girl..." moment. The school thing was merely a ruse to draw me in so that he could whine about his love life. I know this is coming, because every conversation I've had with this kid since he graduated high school is a two-parter. Part 1: How I Suck at School. Part 2: How I Suck at Picking Women.

To sum up: the woman in question is his manager.
She is 25.
And engaged.
And the mother of a very small child.

Witlessness: 9
Mental Fortitude: 1, but there may be a challenge on the field. Hey, this is my game, I can make up rules retroactively if I wanna.

My advice at this point? RUN, FORREST! RUN!!!!

"But...she tends to get too involved too quickly with men...and the flirtation...and the sexual tension...and the phone conversations and birthday and Christmas presents we exchange..."

RUN, FORREST! RUN!!!!

I am not a smart man, Jennay: 10
But I know what love is: 0 (Oh, yeah, I took that point back. It was really just a half-point at best - I was rounding up.)

Now, if we're going strictly with the Forrest Gump theme here, I would call this woman Jennay. Instead, I think I'll opt for Psycho TrainWreck Bitch From Hell. PTWBFH...that's pretty much the sound I'm making as I'm reading this giant, steaming pile of crap. The fiancee will henceforth be known as Sucker.

What I wanted to say: "What the FUCK is wrong with you???? How FUCKING STUPID do you have to be???"

What I actually said: "Read what you just wrote. Are you kidding me?"

So apparently, the thing I don't understand is how strong the Connection between Forrest and PTWBFH is. Apparently. She said something like, "I mean, I care about Sucker a lot, but with you...it's like you're my SOULMATE..."

FOOM! All that remains in my desk chair is a cloud of dust as I fantasize about taking my leave in manner of Road Runner.

Okay, maybe I'm just getting crotchety in my old age. But any time I hear one of these kids today mention Soulmates...well...I think they call this the dry heaves. Even at 21, I wasn't so hopelessly naive as to think that there is one, and only one, person on the face of this earth that I am Meant to Be With. I guess I sort of believe in soulmates...but more in the sense of kindred spirits. Believing that one person will complete you is unbelievably dangerous and laden with self-delusion, but there are people you come across in this world that you connect to on a deeper level, even before you know anything about them. Some of my soulmates are platonic, and several of those are reading this right now. Some have the romantic chemistry element, but you don't always meet them at the right time. I like to think that someday I will meet one of them at the right time for both of us, and we will live happily ever after. But we won't make it to death-do-us-part because we are each the only person the other could go the distance with - it'll be because we choose to make it so, and accept that any other soulmates we might meet from then on will just be dear, dear friends.

In a kindly, maternal moment, I explain this particular philosophy to Forrest.

"That makes SOOOOOOOO much sense."

No shit, Sherlock. That's why I have a Ph.D. and you don't.

I'm totally kidding. A Ph.D. in chemistry, contrary to popular belief, does not make me an expert in everything. It's the fact that I just happen to be really fuckin' smart that makes me an expert in everything.

Again, I'm kidding. I suck at sports trivia.

So anyway, this kinder-gentler moment is just part of my overall message to, in no uncertain terms, RUN, FORREST! RUN!!!

"But..."

No buts. This girl is selfish, fickle, and ludicrously unstable. And even if she did dump her fiancee to be with you, do you want to be with a woman who would accept a PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE, only to TAKE IT BACK????

"But...who knows what would happen..."

I DO. She will BREAK YOUR HEART. Run. Run like the fucking wind, as fast as you can, as far as you can, from this woman. Small towns all over the country are littered with women like this...PARTICULARLY in the state of Indiana. No good can come of a 25-year-old manager from TGIfuckingFridays who thinks a 21-year-old waiter with no education is her SOULMATE. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE.

I don't really get anywhere until I play the "you deserve so much better" card. I didn't want to have to go there, but damned if it doesn't work like a charm.

"Yeah, you're right. I do deserve so much better. And I feel like I have SO much to offer...BIG things I want to do...blahblahblah..."

Yes, yes...I know...you're going to be a big, bright shining star. With Flair.

So at this point, Forrest seems to at least be taking my advice to heart, if not actually taking my advice. Baby steps. I take the opportunity to excuse myself so I can finally head for home.

"But wait...I have more questions..."

Sigh...no, I don't know much about student loans...oh, well, if you had a payment due a month ago then you need to get on that immediately...interest is not your friend...can it wait a couple of hours until I get home...great. Talk to you then...yep, no problem, that's why they call me Dr. Beth...

"You're a doctor now?"

Final score:
Idiocy: an even dozen
Faith in America's youth: nonexistent and yet somehow still plummeting

Google Update

Okay, so apparently, if you mention Google a few dozen times in a single post, you suddenly get a lot more click-throughs from Google hits. Apparently. Since I put up my post on the topic less than 72 hours ago, I have had people visit my site after Googling:

elvis cake pan (TWO MORE TIMES. Am starting to consider leaving chemistry to enter celebrity-shaped confectionery business - clearly there is a demand going unfulfilled here.)
Martha Stewart comeback (the kids love the Martha)
martha stewarts beaver (whoa...maybe just a little too much)

And then a couple of hits each for my last two titles. The Dylan Thomas quote makes sense - it's one of the quotes of the day on my Google homepage. But I'm not entirely sure why someone decided to Google "Watch you weave then breathe your story lines." These ones were neat, though, because they seem to have come from all over the world. I like to see more than two flags in my log.

And because people keep asking, the commenter formerly known as "Professor Howdy" is NOT, in fact, Fearless Leader. FL is, in fact, the last person on this Earth who would EVER send me a link to a video that makes a "convincing argument" against evolution. I have no idea who or what Professor Howdy is, but I guarantee he does NOT want to hear what I think about his comments. Or his blog, for that matter.

Oh, great Oracle of Google, will I ever understand your mysterious ways? Probably not. But at least I know that if you Google "chicken porn," this page now comes up as hit #84 out of more than 2 million.

Not bad.

"An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do."

-Dylan Thomas

You would think I would have something to add here, but no.

Watch you weave then breathe your story lines

If the Pope shits behind a fallen tree in the forest and there isn't a blogger around to hear it, does it sound like one hand clapping?

One of my Faithful Readers (tm) IM'ed me today (allegedly) to bitch about the fact that I'm not posting all that often these days (allegedly). Dave honey, this one is (allegedly) for you - I've been compiling it for a few months, and I guess now is as good a time as any...

Oh, and the same people who bitch (allegedly) about me not posting enough, are the same ones who, when I DO post, bitch (allegedly) about them being too long. You people can kiss my ass - you want brevity, find a Twitter page.

I know that a great proportion of my Faithful Readers (tm) (I believe five of a total of about seven, so that's, like, 71% of my readership!) are such because they also write blogs. Much like mine, they're all just chock full of clever little observations/rants about their daily lives, brought into existence by a need to vent/pontificate/keep in touch with long-distance friends. I started writing this silly thing (and continue doing so) because I was getting a fresh start in a new town and entering what I anticipated would be the best time in my life thus far. I wanted to document it for a couple of reasons: first of all, I wanted to remember all of the odd, interesting, and exhilarating things that you notice when everything in your life is new and fresh. Second, I wanted to remember that no matter how good life is, it still has its ups and downs - all too often, our memories are colored too heavily with either the positive or negative. When people ask me how I like living in Toronto, I tend to glow...I don't talk about the fact that the propensity for gloomy weather often gets me down, or that the wind chill can be unreal, or that single Canadian men all seem to fall into one of two categories - those that I scare the bejeezus out of and those that are Just Not That Into Me. On the other hand, only after a year and a half away from Lafayette have I been able to get to a place where I can remember it fondly - for a long time, any pleasant memories of football games, community theater, slumber parties, improv shows, etc. were all but obscured by the bad taste left in my mouth by those last couple of years trying to escape grad school. I like to think that this blog is a fairly accurate representation of what I've been thinking, feeling, and experiencing since I moved here, for better or worse. When I go back through the archives, I can remember quite vividly how I was feeling when I wrote each post, which is what I wanted. Finally, writing a blog is an easy way to keep people up to speed on what you're doing. I am a lousy correspondent - I've dropped the ball on so many e-mail dialogues that my e-toes are throbbing. I love IM, because it's an easy way to stay in touch with people...I feel more connected with old friends just because I see them on my contact list every day. Even if I haven't spoken to them in YEARS, I still see them every day and know they're just a click away from me, and that's comforting. But that doesn't tell me what they've been up to, and typing out a long story is exhausting, and you end up having to break up the story into fragments because each IM has a character limit, and you can't properly edit your storytelling for effect like you all know you do before you call your best friend to tell them what ohmyGodjusthappened to you, and retelling each story for everyone you talk to is justplainEXHAUSTING and...well...you get the point. And this is exactly why I encourage all of you who don't do so already to start a blog - so that I will REALLY know what's going on with you.

So yeah, I pretty much started writing this thing just for me, and that's the main reason so few people read it. My family knows I have a blog, but I haven't given them the address because, well, in the words of my very wise mother as she dropped me off for my first semester of college, "there are some things Moms just don't need to know." And while I could do what some people do and put a big, "Hey Mom, you might wanna skip this one" warning at the top of those sorts of posts, I know I would abuse the privilege. Mom doesn't REALLY need to know exactly how much shitty TV I watch, or how much I swear when I watch football alone, or how badly that last date went or how well the next one might go (winkwinknudgenudgeknowwhatImean?). And frankly, I would end up either censoring myself or putting a "Hey Mom" tag on nearly every post. I've said before that the people that read this thing fall into one of two categories: (1) my best friends of all time and (2) complete strangers. I only give this site out to people who I trust will still love me (or, if it's even possible, love me more) after reading it, and as far as the strangers go, hell, if you don't like it, you can move on, and if you do like it, chances are I like you too so I'm fine with it. But the fact of the matter is, if you put things like this out there, people can find it. This is why I never use last names, and avoid writing about people who I can't come up with a clever pseudonym for (there's more than one person that I have been DYING to write about but haven't, because I can't think of something clever to call them and refuse to use their real names). At any rate, I'm glad I have people reading this, because when I started writing it I had no idea how important feedback was going to be to the whole process.

There are a couple of things that bloggers thrive on. A pinch of narcissism (just enough to convince us that people might actually want to READ what we write)...endless navel-gazing...spellcheck...and in my case, copious amounts of alcohol and the freedom to ramble off-topic whenever I choose. And, of course, feedback. I think my fellow blogger friends would probably agree with me when I say that the frequency of your postings is directly proportional to [(the number of perceived regular readers) + (the number of new readers)^2] x (the number of comments received). Okay, so that may not be the exact formula, but a quick browse of the archives tells me that when people comment frequently, or I have just given this page to someone, or a new reader outs themselves in the comments, I post more often. And, let's face it, just as I can't be trusted to keep posting on a regular basis, my Faithful Readers (tm) can't always be trusted to comment to let me KNOW they're reading. So, a while ago, in an effort to keep myself motivated and keep tabs on whether or not there is, in fact, Anybody Out There, I put a webcounter on this here page. The particular tracking site I use is pretty nifty - it tells me who's checking the page, how often, and how they got here. I actually know when some of you get to work based on when you always check this page, and I can tell whether my regulars are checking from home, or work, or from their parents' house over Thanksgiving. It helps me figure out if I'm losing people because I haven't posted in a month. Or if the random people that happen on my page stick around, or get the heck out of Dodge as soon as they realize that they did not, in fact, find a site that will tell them how to make controlled substances out of common household ingredients in hotel bathrooms. (I've learned the hard way that identifying oneself as a chemist online leads to a certain amount of "Hey, I bet she can tell me how to make meth at home!")

Don't worry, I can't see your names or the fact that you left my page to Google "chicken porn."

I can, however, see what people Googled in the first place that somehow landed them on my page. And really, now that my Faithful Readers (tm) leave me comments to let me know they're still reading, that's primarily what I use the silly webcounter for - I get endless amusement from looking up the Google entries. Like I said at the top of this post, I've been compiling some of these for a LONG time. Unfortunately, I was primarily compiling them in my head at the beginning, and some of the most amusing ones are long since forgotten. Now, I realize that by including these various phrases in a post, I am merely increasing the likelihood that some misguided sap looking for these topics will end up here, but, quite frankly, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I seem to remember MadMup doing a post like this some time ago, and I found it fascinating and highly amusing. And really, we all know that this blog exists for the sole purpose of amusing the Wahooty, faceless Googlers be damned.

I have noticed that the following Googles can be grouped into categories, so that's how I've decided to present them, rather than chronologically. Any spelling/punctuation/grammatical errors have been left intact because dammit, they're funny. However, anything in parentheses is my own commentary:

PSYCHOLOGY/SELF-HELP:
cartoon about unrequited love with an emotionally unavailable man
on a scale 1 to 10 what number i am i quizzes
dream interpretation wearing wedding dress no groom
dream interpretation people without faces
dream of a red weddind dress interpret
Horoscope information is currently not available (TWICE!)
self fulfilling prophecies horoscope
HOROSCOPE SELF FULFILLMENT PROPHECY

Okay, I find the first one just plain sad, but if there is such a cartoon, I am now convinced I need to see it. And apparently, I'm not the only one trying to interpret my own dreams. Or the only person that thinks that horoscopes tend to become self-fulfilling. Apparently. But seriously, who the fuck Googles "Horoscope information is currently not available"??? TWICE??? I mean, what is it about that sentence that makes someone think to themselves, "Hmm...I need more information. Perhaps if I GOOGLE it, the oracle of Google will tell me exactly why I have no future."

ALCHEMIST REFERENCES:
the alchemist symbols themes
the alchemist direct quotes
monologue from the alchemist
THE ALCHEMIST GIRLFRIEND

Okay, these make sense. I believe stuff like this is precisely why MadMup's blog is no longer entitled, "The Muppet Show," although I do think it was the most awesome title ever. I can't see myself changing my title, but if I ever do, "Chicken Porn" is going to be right at the top of my list of alternates.

FOOD:
fish sauce with pomegranate (I believe the word we're looking for here is EW.)
Penrose Fish and Chips Mt. Pleasant (I believe I can blame an Ian comment for that one)
How to make Curds & Whey By Alton Brown (I guess this one makes sense, I do love me some AB. Not getting the curds and whey connection but, eh, whatever.)
elvis cake pan (Em is to blame here - it came up not once... not twice... not even three times... FOUR TIMES. Seriously?!? Let me save you some time, Elvis cake fans - just search directly on eBay next time.)

POP CULTURE REFERENCES/SONG LYRICS (this is by far the biggest category, because we all know how much I love the random pop culture goodness):
im a hazard to myself but im a when im wi (um, what?)
lyrics um ba way A movie theme (not quite sure what they were after there, but I hope they found it)
I fought the law and law won t-shirt
Underalls commercial (this makes me happier than it has any right to)
Billy Vera and the Beaters
family ties song alex dances to at dance (as do these two)
terrible trivium (twice - for those of you who don't know, this is a Phantom Tollbooth reference)
lyrics "but i won't let it faze me"
bud beer commercials raindrops on roses (IS there a Bud commercial featuring "Raindrops on Roses"??)
cartoon germs
the awesome power of music
scrubs lyrics "this is ourselves"
I can't recall your name but your fez is familiar
Mr. Magee don't make me angry
make me angry magee
most charming supervillains
let auld acquaintances be forgot

I think it's funny how many of these come from my incredibly obscure titles. A number of them referred people to my "Awesome Power of Music" post, which is still one of my all-time favorites, so I figure it's Martha (in Wahootyspeak, that means it's a Good Thing). Which leads me to...

MARTHA STEWART (yes, kids, she gets her own category!)
martha stewart alchemist
martha is my hero
martha stewart home hero

That first one is my favorite. Because what on earth would possibly possess someone to need to Google those two things together? Is Martha secretly the holder of the Philosopher's Stone? Because I don't think I can handle loving her any more than I already do.

COMPLETELY RANDOM:
reasons i live alone (dude, if you don't already KNOW your reasons, perhaps you should get thyself a roommate)
Labmates Kennels (twice???)
grand & toy sucks (hee hee - it just makes me happy that Googling ANYTHING plus the word "sucks" would land you on my page)

SOMEWHERE, A GOOGLER WAS SORELY DISAPPOINTED:
girls in victoria's secret pink underwear
VGLM sex

That second one made me laugh, but also had me very worried that all this time I'd been using an initialism (not an acronym, that's something for another post I've been compiling for AGES) that meant something I really didn't want it to mean. So, just to be safe, I Googled the phrase to find out what that person might ACTUALLY have been looking for...all the time worrying that I was going to find pictures of some sex act so horrifically deviant that I had never even heard of it.

Fortunately, it turns out that the Googler in question was, in fact, only looking to have sex with a Very Good-Looking Man. Whew. But seriously...dude, I am SO EMBARASSED FOR YOU RIGHT NOW.

And, of course, there were a few hits where somebody Googled "Wahooty" or "the alchemist blog" or some combination. I trust that those folks are probably you people and you actually found exactly what you were looking for. I've tried Googling "Wahooty" and was pleased to find out that very few hits come up - there's this page, and then some random postings to message boards and the like where it is used merely as a joyful exclamation of sorts. It's good to feel original. I may not be a very reliable source for an Elvis cake pan, a pomegranate/fish sauce recipe, lingerie models, or biographical information on Martha Stewart, but I am the one, and only, Wahooty. I'm glad you found me, no matter how brief the stay.

Final side note: One other thing I just recently gleaned from my webcounter is that I now have reason to believe that my boss (aka Fearless Leader) may actually be reading this. Some would be scared pantsless by this, but since a) I don't blog while I'm supposed to be working and b) in my brief mentions of him I believe I only say things that range from inconsequential to flattering, I'm not all that paranoid about it. Especially since, if it IS you, I know you've stopped by when you're at work. ;) If you are out there, FL, I have NO IDEA how you found this thing or how long you've been around, but you are certainly welcome. But suffice it to say, you now know me WAY better than I know you, so you owe me at least one long night over many, many beers.

Oh, and you are reading this site along with some poor schmuck who just Googled "pantsless chicken porn." I hope you're proud of yourself.