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.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot?

New Year's Eve just ain't all it's cracked up to be. It's like Valentine's Day - full of optimism and planning, and nearly always disappointing.

About a month and a half ago, I had a conversation that went as follows:

Me: I'm trying to decide on Christmas travel plans.
Unidentified Other Person: Yeah? What's the problem?
Me: I can spend New Years' either here or at home. If I stay home, I am guaranteed that Mom and Dad will go to bed by 10pm, and I will ring in the New Year alone at midnight because I am too damned stubborn to go to bed before then. If I come back here, chances are my friends will forget about me/not know I'm back in town because I'm too tired to remind them and I will ring in the New Year alone at midnight because I am too damned stubborn to go to bed before then. Either way, there's a 90% chance I'll be alone at midnight anyway, so I don't know why I'm debating it.
Me again: Oh, and this is complicated by the fact that I have a friend that has invited me to a wedding on the 30th. Not that I'm expecting that particular invitation to hold water, since this friend has a history of disappointing me.
UOP: Well, my friends and I never decide until a couple of days after Christmas what we're doing, but whatever it is, you're welcome to join us.

It was a nondescript, yet I believed sincere, invitation.

Around this time, I am also invited by BNL to a "house party." I tell him I already have a tentative invitation, but will keep him in mind if that falls through. I am a first-come, first-served kind of girl. Besides, I'd rather hang out with people my own age and not attending a kegger, no matter how ragin' (but I keep that to myself).

Cut to a couple of weeks later. I ask AforeMentioned Friend if he knows yet if he is invited to said wedding with guest, because I would go with him if he agrees to take me to the airport the next day. I figure that way I get to see him (which would be nice - AMF is one of 3 people from high school I still make an effort to speak to) but also get a ride to the airport out of it, which makes everyone happy. He agrees to this arrangement, but qualifies it by saying that he's not sure he's going to get invited with a date, because it's going to be a small wedding. Okay, let me know, I say.

Cut to a few days later - I ask if the invitation has come. He says no, but don't count on the invite, because his buddy got his invitation and his wife wasn't even invited. A day later, it's confirmed that when his invite arrives, it will not read, "AMF...and guest." Glad to hear that my low expectations have been met perfectly.

Cut to a week ago. I e-mail the UOP because I haven't talked to them since I went home and am about to be out of internet/phone contact for a couple of days. I figure this would be a good time for the UOP to renew the New Year's invitation if they were actually serious about it. No response.

Cut to yesterday. I arrive home after 14 hours of travel and no sleep. Still no response. AforeMentioned Friend IMs me: "hey there."
Me: "hey."
AMF:

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MEN? Why would you IM me if you have nothing, repeat NOTHING, to say to me??? Oh, and may I add that the AMF lives in my hometown? He has waited until the very night I have arrived back in Toronto to even attempt talking to me. Even though I popped online every evening while I was home. He has a knack for doing this.

Fine...

Me: Aren't you supposed to be at a wedding?
AMF: That was yesterday.

THE MOTHERFUCKER HAD THE DATE WRONG.

Me: you told me it was the 30th.
AMF: it was the 29th. The invitation hadn't arrived yet, and I was just going on what I was told.
Me: I'm glad I didn't make travel plans around it or anything.

A little history on the AMF: He made a trip to Buffalo this past summer. Months ahead of time, he told me he was planning said trip. He said he would come see me (Buffalo is only about 2 hours away from Toronto). I said, "great." He hinted at it again about a month before he came up...how it wouldn't be a big deal to drive up here since it wasn't far. I heard nothing from him for a few weeks, until he IMed me to say, "I was up in your neck of the woods a few days ago." This is fairly representative of our entire relationship. He and I are great together in theory, but in practice, he can't seem to care enough to actually see me. Ever. Don't let the frequent mantra of, "so when are you coming home? Harrisonburg isn't that far..." fool you. I've learned not to.

Anyway, I digress. I managed to not let the AMF fuck up my plans this time like he has with, oh, pretty much every other trip home ever. It was a narrow escape, but an escape nonetheless. The problem is, I still haven't heard back from the UOP, the person I would really have liked to spend New Year's with. The UOP is fun and interesting, and has fun and interesting friends that I can make conversation with. And okay, fine, the UOP is a single man whose company I enjoy and whom I would not at all have minded kissing at midnight, platonically or otherwise. So sue me.

Regardless, my prediction came true. It's midnight, and I'm alone and wearing flannel cow pajamas. To be fair, I don't feel much like going out anyway - I'm allergic to something in my parents' house (probably their Christmas tree, although you'll never see me buying a fake one because I don't believe in them) and have come home with something that may or may not be a sinus infection but involves something fluid inside my right ear because I can hear better if I tip my head to the left. And sometime this morning I decided to make myself a Good Dinner because after a week and a half away (and a few days beforehand of takeout because I didn't want to leave any dirty dishes behind) I miss my own cooking. I won't get into the details, but there was Sauce involved. And I have discovered a new cocktail - a glass of bubbly with some pomegranate juice and a few seeds dropped in - it's like a pink, sparkly, alcoholic lava lamp that I can watch along with Shrek 2 and some old episodes of Sex and the City. And tomorrow, I have a few inches of snow and a full afternoon of football planned - I have laid in a good supply of beer and whiskey and a Crock Pot dinner in the works - and if you know me even a little bit, you know that you probably shouldn't disturb me (Gator Bowl + Rose Bowl = blue and orange collegiate goodness all around). So all in all, it's a pretty nice New Year's, and a freaking fantastic Monday night.

It is the nature of the self-indulgent blogger to look back at what they have written and re-evaluate. Last year, I wrote, "So I'm raising a glass to 2007, in the hopes that a new cycle will begin. One in which every year is the BEST year of my short life. Foolishly optimistic? I'm sure. But what can I say? I'm a hopeless romantic."

Here's to 2008. So far, so good.

Haven't you always wanted a monkey?

I just spent the evening in an infomercial.

You know the ones...where someone is playing the "host," and all of their "friends" just "happen" to be sitting around an abnormally large breakfast bar in the kitchen while they accidentally show them how AMAZING this new kitchen gadget is.

The only thing is, I'm not entirely sure what the infomercial was for.

Landlady invited me to a "Ladies' Night" tonight. The invitation was via e-mail, very wine and cheese casual. So I figure, what the hell, I'll go up when I get home from work, have a couple of glasses of wine and maybe meet some interesting people. Say what you will about my landlord, but no one would ever call her boring, so I'm anticipating meeting some entertaining friends of hers.

Now, usually when I get a "come over for a Ladies' Night" invitation, it's because whoever is doing the inviting is doing one of those in-home sales things where they try to peddle baskets or candles or melon ballers or sex toys on you. Yes, that last one is for real. Unfortunately I only get invited to the basket/candle/melon baller variety of in-home sales party - my friends are not bold enough to try to sell me sex toys, although I have to say I would find THAT sort of party FAR more interesting than some aromatherapy or a chafing dish. This one didn't specify an ulterior motive. I think that's because Landlady was peddling something a little more abstract than kitchen gadgets or home decor.

It all kicked off with the woman next to me asking how Landlady had "lost her weight."

Landlady has been doing a "cleanse." Two of the other guests also use/sell this "cleansing" program. Okay, this really isn't all that surprising - I had gotten an e-mail from Landlady a couple of weeks ago about how much she loves this stuff and includes a link which tells me she is clearly going to start selling it. What IS surprising to me is how much the other ladies in the room are eating this up. They're dying to hear about it. The sound like those people who say things like, "well sure, it can darn your socks, but can it make a good guacamole?"

"YOU BET IT CAN, KEVIN!"

So there are a few testimonials being bantered about at this point. I roll my eyes and sip my wine politely, keeping my mouth shut. Then Landlady gets everyone's attention because there are things she wants to say.

So begins an impassioned speech about the power and glory of women, and the amazing assortment of women in the room, and proceeds to go into detail about every amazing woman there and how she knows them and what makes them amazingly amazing.

Present company included - she said some very nice things about me. But seeing as how I know PLENTY of women who have accomplished EXACTLY as much as I and usually done it better, I am fairly unimpressed with myself. But when she tells everyone about my education and the fact that I "teach", everyone oohs and aahs appreciatively.

OVER THE 30-YEAR-OLD WOMAN LIVING IN HER BASEMENT.

Now, don't get me wrong - there are some very accomplished and fascinating women up there. One was a coach for Canada's national tennis program...one provides wigs and other aesthetic services for women undergoing various medical treatments and has started what is essentially the Canadian equivalent of Locks of Love for kids...these are some pretty neat chicks. But there's also the girl who she knows because she was a regular at the family souvlaki joint while working at the Shoppers Drug Mart across the street. Yeah, said girl worked to put herself through school and wants to be a lawyer - admirable goals to be sure, but hardly remarkable.

And thus I was almost with her on the Girl Power bandwagon until she started talking about how she "changes lives" by...

...selling insurance.

Buying insurance is a smart thing to do. It is sensible, and responsible, and something you do to protect the people you love. IT IS NOT A LIFE-CHANGING EXPERIENCE.

And I'm sitting there feeling like a horrible person because while everyone is nodding along at the amazing speech and "ooh"ing and "aah"ing...I am rolling my eyes and thinking "come ON!" Is it wrong that I think we should have higher standards for ourselves? That we should surround ourselves with incredible people and expect ourselves to live up to, and then exceed our own expectations? I don't need to brag about myself or my friends - I prefer to expend my energy on moving forward and what comes next, rather than on congratulating myself or patting myself on the back for what I've already done.

Then they start talking about the cleanse again. Because the last two women she introduces to the group are, of course, her fellow Cleanse Pushers. She's been SAVING them! So I hear the spiel all over again (apparently we're now past the first commercial break so they have to repeat everything verbatim)...one CP is a nurse, and is really into nutrition, and she works with athletes, and she dropped 7 1/2 lbs, and it's the EXACT OPPOSITE of a diet because you drop fat and build muscle. I'd like to know what fucking piece of shit diet this woman has been doing that causes her to LOSE muscle and BUILD fat.

I stopped counting cliches pretty early on in the evening because I knew I wouldn't have enough fingers by the end. But one woman actually used the phrase "I'm always on the go." IN A NON-IRONIC FASHION.

WHO DOES THAT???

Okay, so the conversation slowly drifts back to normality. Then it becomes a whole diatribe on how some oncologist said that the biggest problem with women today is that they're under too much stress and that's what's giving all of us the cancer and the strokes and the heart disease. No shit, Sherlock. Newsflash: stress makes you sick. This is why some of us drink. Here's my miracle cure: not sleeping well? no energy? not losing weight? TRY EXERCISE, YOU FAT ASS! There was not a SINGLE effect of this "cleanse" that wasn't something I associate with the way I feel when I am eating nutritious food and exercising vigorously. 30 minutes of wandering around the city window shopping is not exercise. If you do something that is hard for your heart and lungs to do for 30 minutes, your blood will start flowing. And you know what that blood does? It CLEANSES you. THAT IS WHAT IT'S THERE FOR.

Thus is the natural rhythm of the infomercial - the conversation would drift onto normal topics, and then someone would say, "hey (Landlady), I wanna hear more about your thing!"

WHO DOES THAT???

I kept waiting for her to say, "How much would YOU pay? If you call within the NEXT 10 MINUTES..."

My favorite part was when the alpha-CP was talking about cortisol, and everyone starts murmuring about "belly fat" and "stress hormone" and all sorts of other ancient secret wisdom that you, too, would have if you spent one weekend watching infomercials from 3-5am. If ONE PERSON had contributed something to the "cleanse" conversation that I hadn't already heard a million times before from sources far less educated than myself, I might have been impressed. But none of these amazing women had anything intelligent to offer.

The funny thing is I'm still not entirely sure if she was trying to sell vitamins...

...or insurance.

I believe your exact words were: "Hey Spacey, pay it forward."

Aww...it's Baby's First Meme!

Okay, I got this from Mup's blog, who got it from someone, who...you know the drill. Now, unlike Mup, I actually HATED the movie Pay it Forward. But I do think it's a nice concept, and for the first time in, oh, ever, I'm actually experiencing the thrill of doing my Christmas shopping without worrying about how much I'm spending. It's amazing what a giving mood that puts one in. So, I figure, what the hell. Here's the deal:

I will send a handmade gift to the first 3 people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this PIF exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days. That is my promise. The only thing you have to do in return is pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.

Now, I reserve the right to make the gift a surprise, and whatever it actually turns out to be will probably depend on who, if anyone, responds. But I guarantee it will amuse me, and really, isn't that why you all tune in on a semi-regular basis? To see me amuse myself? C'mon, do your part...we all know I thrive on audience participation.

Thank You, Disillusionment.

You know, sometimes I don't know why I even bother.

Today was lovely. I was having a very domestic day - I got up, started my laundry, made breakfast, and started preparing a Big Dinner. I should say here that one of my favorite ways to spend a weekend day is preparing a big dinner, and I decided that I was going to make myself Thanksgiving dinner today (since I was too busy working/pouting on the ACTUAL Thanksgiving Day). I made pie crust...ran to the grocery store...started working my way through the various chores required to make dinner. Dishes were done...a little vacuuming...a little more cooking. Seriously, if I'd been wearing a frilly apron and heels, you'd think I was a housewife from the 50's.

Now, the great thing about spending a major holiday alone is that you're allowed to put any spin you want on the traditional favorites. My menu:

Roasted duck leg quarters
Bourbon Butternut Squash Risotto with Shiitake Mushrooms (oh, and I threw in some wild rice for the hell of it)
Maple Cranberry Sauce (which I adapted to include kumquats and some pomegranate. Probably mostly because I really like to SAY kumquats and pomegranate, but regardless, it was fuckin' tasty as hell)
Green beans sauteed in olive oil with some garlic and a little lemon juice
Caramel Pumpkin Pie

So I was feelin' a little fancy this year. Freakin' FANTASTIC dinner, if I do say so myself. In fact, one of my best efforts to date. Very happy Wahooty, even if I am largely indebted to the whipped cream. (Note to self: Whip cream at least once every day. Eat with spoon. Repeat until fat and happy. I think the words you're looking for here are OH DEAR GOD.)

Now, the thing that sucks about spending a major holiday alone is that you are entirely responsible, not just for the eating, but for the preparation AND THE CLEANUP. The work is one thing, but the cook/cleanerupper easily consumes THREE TIMES the amount of calories that the average diner does, all via tasting for seasoning and snitching in the packing up of leftovers. And I am a particularly bad offender where this is concerned. So this evening, after going back for alternating spoonfuls of risotto and whipped cream (shut up, you're not the boss of me), I finally resigned myself to packing up what's left. And as I open the refrigerator door to put the whipped cream away...I manage to knock over a bottle of fish sauce.

I watch it fall. In slow motion. Onto the floor.

The hard, ceramic-tiled floor.

Did I mention that this was a GLASS bottle?

And that said (750-mL) bottle was nearly full?

Now, for those of you who do not do any Thai or Vietnamese cooking, let me explain what fish sauce is. It is...well, pretty much exactly what it sounds like. They pack fish in salt and let it ferment. The juice that runs out over time becomes fish sauce.

This is some pungent shit. The only sensory comparison I can come up with is that it smells disconcertingly like my grandfather's dog kennels used to. Quite delightful in moderation and diluted by food. But maybe not so much in 750-mL quantities. On ceramic tile. Which my apartment now smells like. As do my feet. Which means it follows me. I'm being stalked by a condiment.

You know what's more fun than spilling a bottle of fish sauce all over your kitchen floor? Breaking your mop. Seriously, Fairprice, where, exactly, is my $3.98 going??? Certainly not towards quality control.

And you know what's more fun than mopping up fish sauce with a sponge? Mopping up tiny glass shards.

Nothing says "good fun happy time" like tiny, SALTY glass shards. That smell like fermented fish. When your hands are dried out and eczema-ridden and your feet are bare.

Once I got the puddle contained, I looked up and took a deep breath, only to realize that despite all of my domestic efforts...despite the fact that I went the entire day (and menu) without using any utensil, pot, or bowl less than twice...

...it looks like Thanksgiving exploded all over my kitchen.

Wait, no. Unless Thanksgiving smells like fish sauce.

Don't Go Thinking I'm Not Thankful

So I spent yesterday pretending it didn't bother me to be working on Thanksgiving.

Now, some of you may be saying to yourselves, "Self, I seem to remember that this is not Wahooty's first Thanksgiving away from home." And yes, Self, you would be correct. In fact, I haven't been Home for Thanksgiving since 1999. That was a whole 'nother millennium, in fact.

Not spending Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, and Brother is something I'm used to. I spent 6 of 7 grad-school Thanksgivings (yes, it took me 7 years to get through grad school, thanks for noticing) in Chicago at my aunt's house. They were, quite frankly, the best ones in memory. Not because my brother always fights with my dad or some such stupidity, but because they were the only Big Thanksgivings I ever had. Growing up, Thanksgiving was always just about the four of us. My parents picked up and moved from Illinois to Virginia before I was born because Dad had a good job opportunity. When he got the offer, he came home and asked what Mom thought about Washington.

She lit up, and asked, "Washington state???"

His response: "No. Washington, DC."

Her answer: "Oh. What's there?"

We moved to a Virginia suburb because it was close enough to commute, but far and unfashionable enough to be cheap. We were a one-income, one-child family with another (that would be ME!!!) on the way, after all.

Sacrifices were made - my dad gave up stars, and wide open spaces, and weather, while my mom gave up Chicago - but my parents quickly fell in love with Virginia and I managed to grow up thinking it was the greatest place on earth, even though it wasn't my parents' homeland. But one of the sacrifices they rarely talk about is that of family - I happen to believe because it was the hardest one to make, and one that they often wondered whether it was worth what they got in return. Growing up, we didn't take family vacations to the Grand Canyon or whatever - our big family vacation was a 2-week period every summer, where we spent one week on the farm in Illinois with Dad's parents, and one week on the lake in Wisconsin with Mom's. It was the only time of the year we saw them. Now that I'm an adult, with a little more perspective on parenting (and, thus, grandparenting), I realize how incredibly difficult that must have been on both sets of grandparents, especially considering that they saw most of their other grandchildren at least a couple of times a year. But, you do what you gotta do. Virginia's my home, and I am so grateful to my parents for finding it for me.

When I went to grad school, and people found out where I was from, many people asked, "Why did you come here?" Not because they knew how fantastic Virginia is, but because they couldn't understand why anyone would make a conscious decision to move to Indiana.

Fair enough.

But as soon as I explained that my parents are both from Illinois, so I had tons of extended family within a couple of hours' drive, it made total sense to them. If that didn't work, it always helped that Purdue has a fantastic reputation in my field, but that's a lot harder to explain to non-chemists. :) But anyway, I always had lots of available places to spend any major holiday when I couldn't afford to go home. Generally, I spent these with Mom's sister in Chicago. Not because I loved her more than anyone else, but rather because she was usually the only true invitation. Sure, I could call up any number of people and say, "Hey, I don't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving/Easter/Kwanzaa...can I come over?" But you always feel more welcome and wanted when someone takes the time to invite you. And just between us, given the option, I will almost always spend a holiday alone rather than invite myself over to someone else's celebration. That's just how this bitch rolls.

The group in Chicago varied from year to year. Certain people were staples: my aunt and uncle (obviously), the single cousins who didn't have in-laws battling it out for our time, and our Uncle Snort who (bless his heart) always has been and always will be single. Out of the three children of the aunt in question, the single one would always be there, his twin brother would be there roughly every other year (but when he was there he brought a wife and kids, which doubled the pleasure so you know...law of averages), and every once in a while his younger brother from Far-Off-Place would make it up. Being Perpetually Uncommitted, I was always there, as was Baby Cousin (the youngest of the 11 cousins and also PU). Baby Cousin's dad sometimes came. Baby Cousin's older brother always came with Girlfriend-Then-Wife in tow for dessert. Well before they got married, they established a tradition of dinner with Her family, then dessert and boardgames with ours. She once told me that, upon getting into the car to leave Her parents' house, she said to Him, "Thank God we're going to hang out with your family so I can be myself."

Regardless of who exactly showed up, it was always a Big Thanksgiving. In our house growing up, the maximum number of family was 4. We never had more, because there were no trips to Grandma's house or family coming over with pies in hand. We spent a couple of years sharing Thanksgiving dinner with a family of close friends, which I remember quite fondly, but never the busy household of guests coming and going and flurry of cooking activity. It was always a warm, but well-organized and low-key holiday, whereas those Chicago Thanksgivings were events...there were things to help with, and wines to bring, and sitting around the kitchen table on Wednesday night tearing up bread so it could dry out for the stuffing and the parade on in the background the next morning while we sent my uncle out for last-minute groceries which would take an hour to get even though the grocery store was only 5 minutes away but dammit, we just don't have enough poultry seasoning and wait, Aunt HAS to see the Rockettes perform, it's the only reason she even watches the parade anymore...

I think, at this point, we have ventured into the aspect of the holiday that Canadians just don't get.

They have Thanksgiving. It happened over a month ago. They eat turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes. All of those things that are associated with the autumn harvest in North America, just like we do. But I get the distinct impression that it just isn't as much of an Event as it is for us. Part of it has to do with the timing - for Americans, Thanksgiving pretty much means fall is over, and it's now Christmas time. That is pretty momentous. Also, the fact that it's a Monday for them and a Thursday for us makes a difference. They will have Thanksgiving dinner at some point during a 3-day weekend. Thanksgiving Day is immediately followed by a workday, so people do dinner when they can get everyone together, yadda yadda. Our Thanksgiving Day is the START of, not a 3-day, but a 4-day weekend. We get all of the work done the first day, then have 3 days of turkey sandwich coma, vegetative states, and football ahead of us. It is a wonderful time of relaxation and family and (if you're so inclined) early Christmas shopping at unbelievably low prices. Just about anyone can find something to love about that 4-day period.

Canadians also don't have the Friday After Thanksgiving Phenomenon, or FATPh. The FATPh is, as follows:
1. You have slept off the turkey coma.
2. You now have a full day ahead of you that you would normally have to spend working.
3. You spend this day either sleeping off the tryptophan or attending doorbuster sales.
The sun sets.
5. You have a ridiculous amount of energy due to excessive amounts of poultry-induced slumber or heady sudden-cash-expenditure rush, respectively.
6. All of your old high school friends are in town because of big family holiday.
7. Clearly, there is no better time for getting shitfaced.

My cousins and I planned 7 years' worth of fantastic group vacations via drunken FATP outings. I still remember how the first one went. It was my second year of grad school. None of my cousins had spent much time together since we were kids. We had always enjoyed hanging out growing up, but when you see people once every 2-3 years growing up, you don't have a lot to base an adult friendship on. The first year I went to Chicago, we had Thanksgiving dinner. It was nice...generally polite and a little distant. We were hanging out that night, and my two single boy cousins had been chatting, and one says, "hey, you wanna come out downtown with us tomorrow night?" This is the cousin who is a year younger than I, so he was 22 and in his first-year-out-of-college-in-the-big-city phase.

The following night was the single best bonding experience I think I have ever had with anyone. The three of us are still kind of the core of all of the cousins' goings-on. We fuckin' rule. And all thanks to a few hours in downtown Chicago on the Friday After Thanksgiving.

A sample of how these things go:

7:00 pm: Order pizza. Mantra of young boys who actually live downtown: "Where are we going tonight? Dude. We're NOT going to Beaumont's. No matter what. That place...dude, we're NOT going to Beaumont's."
10:00 pm: Go to nice bar. Good beer, bar full of baby yuppies and their high school friends. Have good time until nice bar closes at 2.
1:55 am: "Dude, what are we doing now?" "WE'RE GOIN' TO BEAUMONT'S!!!"

The following year, my cousin's (now) wife said, "Not only did we GO to Beaumon'ts...we actually CLOSED Beaumont's..."

And you know the best part? YOU DON'T HAVE TO DRIVE BACK HOME THE NEXT DAY. You have a FULL Saturday to nurse your hangover before you drive home on Sunday!!!! It is the ONLY night of the year that you have that kind of freedom unless you're on vacation, and ALL of your friends have it with you!

All of this is what makes Thanksgiving for me. The big family gathering, the comings and goings, the turkey coma, the getting shitfaced the next night, the hungover, worthless Saturday, the always gracious and delicate extraction of myself for the drive home on Sunday with Christmas music in my CD player while stuck in traffic. These are the things that I was missing while I watched the snow fall from my window at work yesterday. It was the first snow of the season, and all I could think of was that it would have been so nice to be watching that snow fall from my cozy little apartment, with warm cooking smells and the parade on the TV in the background. That's simply how it's supposed to be.

I think next year, I'm taking the day off.

Like Agnes, Agatha, Jermaine, and Jack.

Well, tonight is officially the last night of my 20's. And while I would like to spout some "age ain't nuttin' but a number" bullshit, I have to admit that yes, it bothers me. I'm hardly the first of my friends to celebrate this particular birthday this year, and I've thought quite a bit about the inevitable mopey, self-indulgent blog post that I would eventually write about how I am very happy with where I am in life, but I'm still in debt, I'm still single and living in a basement, I worry about never finding someone who will love me and have my babies, blah blah blah.

But if there's one thing this blog doesn't need, it's mopey self-indulgence.

So instead, I am taking a birthday poll.

A friend of mine (who may or may not read this blog) sent me flowers at work yesterday. They caused quite a stir on the 4th floor. Damn near made Labmate's head explode.

Wait, I should back up - I was in a meeting with Fearless Leader when they arrived, and a technician from one of the other groups on our floor accepted the delivery. He brought them to Labmate, with the intent that she would make sure I got them, but Labmate just sees someone coming at her with a bouquet. Her thought process was as follows (and I swear I am not making this up - this is straight from the horse's mouth):

"Oh my gosh!!! Who could they be from???
I know they're not from Boyfriend, because he would never send me flowers!!!
MAYBE THEY'RE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER!!!
Oh... they're for Beth.
Now I REALLY need to know who they're from!!!"

Excessive punctuation has been added to reflect the psychotic glint present in Labmate's eyes when I came back from my meeting.

Meanwhile, I exit Fearless Leader's office, and the guy who sits at the desk directly facing mine is sitting out there, and asks some random question about the length of my meeting, then mumbles something about there being something on my desk. Ever the eloquent and sparkling conversationalist, I say:

"Huh?"

Guy #1: Nothing...

I walk around to put my laptop back in the hallway so that I can get back to work, and there's another guy from another neighboring group out there.

Guy #2: Your labmates are looking for you. There's, like, something wrong...with one of your experiments...or something.

Nice try. I haven't RUN any experiments today. Okay fine, I'll bite. I enter the lab. Am greeted by the aforementioned Labmate with the psychotic Need to Know. So I see the flowers, and figure out immediately who they are from, based purely on the location indicated on the delivery slip. So I'm trying to dig the card out of the bouquet without messing too much with the wrappings, because I'll need those relatively intact in order to get the flowers home safely.

I am apparently taking too long to do this. Apparently.

Labmate is now vibrating.

I open the card, and it confirms my suspicions.
Me: Aww...yep, that's what I thought.

Labmate: WHO ARE THEY FROM????

Me: They're from (name of friend who may or may not read this blog).

Labmate: Oh.

Still vibrating. Seriously, never seen this girl so excited about anything in the year I have known her. And she is a highly excitable individual.

I should add here that every pair of eyes in the surrounding area is currently focused on me. Including people who I have never seen before in my life, who I am convinced are only pretending to work at instruments so they can find out who the flower girl is and why. The flowers get put in a huge graduated cylinder because it's the only thing around with a big enough opening to hold them (vases are surprisingly hard to come by in a laboratory environment, but glassware is plentiful) and I go back out into the hall so I can work on my design in peace.

Sort of.

Chatty Nasal Girl from one of the other groups comes along and asks me about the flowers. Why they came...who they came from...I explain that they are from a friend. Just a friend. And yet, somehow I get the feeling she doesn't believe me. Maybe because she says so.

Now, as I'm trying to explain that yes, it is in fact possible for a friend to send me flowers just because it's my birthday, the VGLM happens to wander by. So I pose the question to him, for a male perspective:

Me: Hey! (VGLM)! What do you think? Is it possible for a guy to send a girl flowers without some sort of romantic motive?
VGLM: (thinking almost as hard about this as he did about whether or not he wanted to see Evil Dead: The Musical...which, contrary to what you may be thinking, is some serious contemplation indeed) ...It's...possible. But I wouldn't say likely.
Me: Kinda like a UFO. Or a yeti.
VGLM: Yes!

I find this whole thing fascinating. And so, I pose the question to you, my handful of beloved readers. You may answer as many times as you like. Feel free to expound in the comments, anonymously or otherwise. You will need a #2 pencil and a calculator.


And now, for the self-indulgent portion of the program: When I really think about it, the last decade of my life has encompassed higher highs and lower lows than I ever could have known were possible. Mistakes have definitely been made, but I think I can honestly say that I regret nothing. Okay, except maybe the unfortunate spending habits. And I can only hope that 10 years from now I can say the same, except with a big, fat retirement account and a good credit rating. Some of you have known me since I was a teenager, and I thank you for sticking with me this long. If you're still here, I guess that means you're stuck with me. Others have only known me a short while, or maybe even not at all, but who knows where we'll be in the next decade.

And to all those here, there, or somewhere in between, I say:

Salut!
Nosdrovya!
Cheers.
Here's to our Roaring 30's.
(clink)

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.

Continuing on with the general happiness theme, I present a few of my favorite things, as of this evening:

Victoria Beckham.

I started to rethink my stance on Posh a few months ago, but then the new Spice Girls single had pretty much killed that. Until I found out that she is doing a guest spot on Ugly Betty. Now she is getting dangerously close to can-do-no-wrong territory. I can almost forgive her for "2 Become 1." I hate myself a little for even typing that.

Reaper.

Seriously, kids. LOVE this show. Watch it. Kind of want to marry the lead character. Plus, Curtis Armstrong did a guest spot tonight. Anything that means Curtis Armstrong is employed is tops in my book. Oh, and Ray Wise is freakin' genius as the Devil.

A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.

Oh. My. God. Y'all know how much I love the trashy reality TV shows. And this is my new favorite. It took me until the third episode to write about it, but in all fairness, I started writing with the first one and my first attempt was lost when the power flashed out the other night. For those of you not familiar, Tila Tequila's primary (arguably, sole) claim to fame is that she has over two million friends on MySpace:

ok what the hell man? I know I have lots of friends on here but it's not like I can help it ok? I didn't join this thing thinking, "OMG I SOOOO HAVE TO GET A MILLION FRIENDS ON HERE!" Yea right! It was more like someone invited me to join and I was like k wutever....another stupid lame online community. Who would've known that my profile would turn into some kind of weird "Tila Phenomenon!" hahaha! What I'm trying to say is.....just because I have lots of friends on here and blah blah blah...that doesn't mean that I'm not a normal girl who wants to meet normal and down to earth people....BECAUSE I AM AND DO! So don't be afraid to write me...I will read them all, HOWEVER I may not write back to everyone because I honestly get a billion notes a day. If you are just writing to say..."ohohohoh fuck me you're hot!" I won't be able to write back ok? And don't get all bitter if I can't write you back....I'm not mad at your nor do I hate you ok?? All I'm asking is for some understanding...that's all....ummm what else?? OH YEA....AND PLEASE....I AM NOT SOME KIND OF ADVERTISING TOOL! DON'T FUCKEN TRY TO USE ME OK? Like I always have people writing me asking me to post up advertising bulletins for them since I can reach lots of people....dude...fuck off! I feel so fucken used! Also people keep asking me how to put music on their page, if they can use my server to put music up and blah blah blah....you know what?? I AM NOT A WEBMASTER NOR IS MY OFFICIAL WEBSITE A HOST FOR YOUR MUSIC FOR ONLINE COMMUNITIES! *breaths* Jesus....I think that is all for now...other than that...I love you guys. You gimme something to do when I am bored at 4 in the morning.....no seriously....you guys totally rock....just stop using me for stuff ok? Thanks...xoxoxoxox

And that, friends, is exactly why one of the rooms in my personal hell is simply labeled, "MySpace."
So, without further ado, I present my thoughts:

Bitch, you ain't bisexual. You are simply an attention whore. Exhibit A: In the first episode, the standings were as follows:

Boys you made out with: 1
Girls you made out with: 2

This, taken alone, does not seem like very definitive evidence. Until I add the fact that you met with the guys one-on-one. You did no such thing with the women. When you made out with a girl, it was with another girl sitting RIGHT NEXT TO YOU. Oh, and you have said, on more than one occasion, "I usually only date lipstick lesbians." That ain't bisexuality, that's exhibitionism.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #1:

Number of boys who claim they are virgins: 1
Number of girls who claim they are virgins: 1

Your response to both, "You're lying!" Okay, fair enough. However, you eventually used the virginity argument against the boy and eliminated him, even though he was adorable and sweet. You even denied him the chance to kiss you. As far as the girl is concerned? "All my dreams just came true." WTF???

Okay, Momma's boy: Seriously, you can stop reminding us that you live on your mom's couch. In this episode alone, I felt the need to start a tally. Number of times MB has mentioned sleeping on his mom's couch/working at a pizza parlor/riding to work on a bike instead of in a car: 4. That would be totally rad if you were, like, 12. I mean, for the love of God, man, when you got to the house and saw that everyone would be sharing one huge bed, your response was, "I'm not used to having a bed, so..." SERIOUSLY??? MY mama would've taught me not to publicly declare my losertude so much. In fact, she did. This is why I'm so vastly superior to you. I may be a tool, but at least I don't advertise.

Tila, honey. I'm already over your raspy giggle. It's the same EVERY FREAKING TIME. Dear God, make it stop. Get some Fisherman's Friend up in this joint. Repeat after me: Ahem.

Okay, now we come to the point I have been wanting to make for years. Ever since the advent of these Competitive Dating Shows, there has been a reason that they are not done in same-sex environs. And that reason is not, contrary to popular belief, homophobia. I mean, let's face it, this is TV. People will watch all sorts of shit that they don't feel comfortable with in real life as long as they can put a series of vacuum tubes between them and the thing they secretly can't look away from. This is the fundamental principle that keeps Jerry Springer on the air. The reason, dear friends, is that the gays ain't stupid. If you put them on Boy Meets Boy/Next/DisMissed/ElimiDate (not that I have ever watched any of these), they are not obtuse enough to ignore the laws of probability. They KNOW they have a better chance of hooking up with one of their "competitors" than they ever do of hooking up with the officially sanctioned object of their affection. And there is absolutely no reason, short of contractual obligation, not to do so! So does it really come as a surprise to anyone when the criminally narcissistic "target" on Next ends up alone while all the cuties are making out blissfully on the bus without him? I can respect anyone who has a logical grasp on statistics.

So, ever since I first saw a promo for this show, I have been wondering how long it would take before SOMEONE would hook up in the house.

Okay, so Tila's not a Complete Moron (tm). (For anyone keeping track, however, she IS still an Attention Whore (tm)). When the group moved in, she clearly stated the house rules. Of which there are apparently a sum total of one, which would be that there is to be no hooking up in the house.

That lasted all of 1/4 of one episode. I say that, because apparently that rule only holds in the house, and seriously, God only knows what kind of shit went on at whatever hotel they were putting the contestants up in before they moved in, because apparently the cameras were not allowed. Apparently. You KNOW there was MAD hooking up going on. I mean, everyone loves hotel sex. Especially when it's anonymous reality tv hotel sex. Not that I've ever had hotel sex. I'm just sayin'. It sounds like sexy. Not that I would know.

Number of people who have pronounced it "supposably": 2

Number of people wearing a t-shirt that says, "Vagitarian": 1. Unfortunately, yes, it was a boy. Unforgivable.

Tila sets up a "Country Fair" to entertain everyone. A direct quote from the boy from West Virginia:

"I used to love going to the state fair. I used to spray the poop off of the elephants - the carnies used to get me to do it."

Dude. You are SINGLEHANDEDLY JUSTIFYING EVERY WEST VIRGINIAN JOKE EVER TOLD.

Okay, so during the fair, the Vagitarian TOTALLY rats out the people who were doing...questionable? (bitch, this shit is on TAPE!) things under the covers in the Big Bed. Guy in question comes up to defend himself. Vag says, "I didn't say any name, right? So why is he here for?" (Vag is Italian, so the questionable English is excusable. In fact, he is referred to as "Little Italy" by some of his compatriots, which almost makes up for the fact that I must, henceforth, refer to him as Vag.) DUDE TOTALLY JUST SOLD HIMSELF OUT. FUCKIN' AWESOME.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #2:
Put everyone into one HUGE bed, and tell them NOT to hook up. Oh, and throw in a game of Spin the Bottle, a stripper pole, and LOTS of liquor. Like THAT'S gonna happen. You know, nothing says "trustworthy" like the words "club promoter." That's all I'm sayin'. The man has my utmost confidence.

Seriously, MTV, how am I supposed to blog with a straight face when you keep putting up that "The following program contains mature subject matter" disclaimer after every commercial break? This subject matter couldn't be less mature if it were Spongebob. My Super Sweet 16 is of a more mature nature than this piece of crap. Not that I've ever watched that. (I am, of course, referring to My Super Sweet 16. I TOTALLY watch Spongebob.)

So back to the big scandal. Tila says something to the group about how someone has broken the rules. So Rebecca says, "Well, yeah, I kissed Brandi, but..."

And Tila says, "That's not what they were talking about."
"Oh."

OOOOHHHHH! BUSTED!!! You did THAT in TILA'S HOUSE???

Wait, bitch, that ain't your house. It's whatever house MTV rented for this awful, AWFUL show. I should know. I saw that episode of My Super Sweet 16 where the girl throwing the party demonstrated how rich her family was by saying that VH1 rented their house to film I Love New York.

Um...not that I...oh, hell. I give up.

Tila Tequila's Lessons in Hypocrisy #3:
You claim to be bisexual, yet you expect all of your candidates to be either straight men, or full-on lesbian women. You're totally that girl who is going to convince someone you want to be monogamous, but insists it's not fair for them to expect you to be faithful, because you're attracted to both sexes. Honey, I'm attracted to a LOT of men. That doesn't mean that I get to DO all of them.

Mmmkay. So the competition for Alone Time (tm) in this episode was...
wait for it....
A pie-eating contest.
I swear to God I am not making this up.
Wanna bet who won?
The one butch girl left.
Of course she did.

The elimination ceremony:
Tila, I can totally see your nipples through that dress. Which is impressive, since it's not at all form-fitting. Mad props.
Mmmmkay. So, lemme get this straight (no pun intended). You kept the boy who did (questionable?) things under the covers with the (alleged) lesbian. You kept the girl who kissed the (alleged) lesbian. You dumped the (alleged) lesbian. YOU DUMPED THE (not just alleged) LESBIAN KRYSTAL???? YOU DUMPED TWO HOT BOYS BUT KEPT MOMMA'S BOY (hey, at least I can keep the tally going)???? YOU DUMPED THE BOY WHO WAS TEARING UP BUT KEPT THE VAG????

Bless me, reader, for I have SINNED. Hate the sinner, love the sin. Wait...

"You know why super villains are so unhappy, Arthur? They don't treasure the little things."

There is an Oscar Levant quote that goes, "Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember." I guess I'm an oddity then, because I am often well aware that I am experiencing happiness. As in, I will be walking down the street, or eating a meal, and thinking to myself, "Damn, this is making me happy right now!" And then I'll say something to that effect to whoever happens to be with me, and it's generally greeted with the old Smile&Nod (tm) treatment. And occasionally a pat on the head.

Today is one of those positively asstastic fall days. It's been gloomy and overcast all day....damp and chilly...the wind is picking up and apparently bringing rain and/or snow with it over the next 48 hrs or so...basically, a typical November day in Toronto. The kind that makes it easy for me to forget that fall is supposed to be my favorite season. So, in an attempt to brighten my own spirits (and avoid getting back to work on that AutoCAD drawing I'm supposed to be working on), I decided while I was walking back from lunch to make a list of things that have made me happy today.

(Regular readers of this blog should be well aware that it really takes very little. So I hope you're not expecting much.)

1. Wearing my new hat. It's goofy, and a wee bit ridiculous, but I do love it so and happen to find myself most adorable in it. Secretly, I'm a little bit happy about the chill and rain, because it allows me to walk around and have strangers look at me and think, "she looks sullen, yet I have this strange feeling she knows the way to the nearest haberdashery."

1 1/2. Using the word "haberdashery."

2. Dogs that walk themselves. As I left for lunch, I saw a guy walking a little white shaggy terrier kind of dog, and sort of teasing it with the leash. The dog caught the leash in his mouth, and happily trotted along, walking himself. I've known other dogs that do this, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets any less adorable. It's sort of the canine equivalent of holding your hand.

3. A Parking Enforcement officer....parking poorly. I mean, REALLY poorly. Seems like those responsible for enforcing good parking practices ought to lead by example.

4. There is nothing happy about the number 4. Or rather, there wouldn't be, if it existed.

5. Making "there is no #4" jokes.

6. Halloween in the Gay Village. Okay, now I'm cheating, and telling you about things that made me happy last week. All in all, it was a low-key evening on our end - we just wandered down to check out some of the costumes and take some pictures. My favorites: two guys dressed as the Yip Yips from Sesame Street. For those of you who weren't lucky enough to grow up with Sesame Street:

Totally made my whole night. Close second: a group of 5 or 6 guys dressed as sperm. White turtlenecks, white tights, bathing caps and goggles, and little curly white tails. The reason I enjoyed them so much was that they really committed to the character - they were SO EXCITED to have their pictures taken that they could barely stop milling around each other long enough to pose. Until, of course, another group of 5 or 6 guys came along dressed as Hooters girls. One of the sperm kept butting his head up against one of the "girls." Seriously adorable.
BTW, my friends and I have decided to do it properly next year by going in costume ourselves. Again, those who know me well know that I have, on occasion, taken up to a full year to plan a Halloween costume. So I am officially opening the floor for suggestions for next year's costume. Previous costumes have included Mr. Hat (the hand puppet from South Park), Thing (from the Addams Family), Smurfette, and a pimp. I told you Halloween makes me happy.

7. Ah hell, since I'm already cheating...Wine, cheese, and the Pontiac Quarterly, which also happened last week. Oh, and wearing my LOUD PANTS. The evening ran more than a little bit late by the time it was over, but I wholeheartedly enjoyed myself. One guy did an entirely deadpan lesson on the history and development of meat maps. I shit you not. I must thank Ian for allowing me to drag him to it, even though I was REALLY late for dinner. The LOUD PANTS really needed an evening out.

8. Steve Wilson. He is a local artist/illustrator whose work #1 and I discovered about a year ago when he had a piece on display at the Steam Whistle brewery. About a month or so ago I happened to run across one of his pieces again, figure out who he was, and find that he had just started a blog. He and another guy illustrate the Pontiac, live, and that's how I found out about it in the first place. Now I just need to get a loft with huge walls so I can buy one of the illustrations sometime.

So suck on it, Mr. Levant.