Operation Pink Herring

TGIF this

It's a quarter to five, and I should be happy, but it's hard to be happy when your head is trying to implode on itself.  Joel is going to see the Ocean Race sailboats that are docked in the harbor, but I'm just going home to work on PAPERS PAPERS PAPERS.  Or bang my head against our trendy, modern, exposed bricks wall.  Whichever.

You have to admit Kelly's songs aren't bad

A few years ago, my friends and I got into this discussion of what would be the best superhero power to have, if you could have only one.  I can't remember the context or how it came up, but I think there might have been alcohol involved. I vaguely remember it being from a Cosmo article about "great questions to discuss with your man and then use our clever decoder box to analyze the answers and determine if he's going to pop the question before your high school reunion" or something of the sort, which may have been our inspiration for this discussion.  In any case, it's pretty interesting to think about, what a person would pick can tell you a lot about them -- so if Cosmo hasn't previously run that article after all, I'll have to be the first to suggest it.

For example, the two powers that we couldn't decide between were being able to eat anything and everything and not gain weight, and  teleportation/ability to fly/ other method of free, fast travel.  Screw x-ray vision.  I want to be able to eat pepperoni pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and not have to go to the gym.  Of course, excellent health is also implied in the superpower. 

As a converted X-men fan (movies, NOT the cartoon), I realize that some "super" powers aren't all fun and games.  I wouldn't want to be able to read minds, because then I'd be forced to hear EVERYTHING and it would drive me crazy.   Nor would I want to know the future, because then I'd be stuck trying to save everybody like that guy in Early Edition (why is that show off the air but BattleStar Gallactica is still on?). 

Because I'm a little weird, I think about this question quite a bit.  Sometimes I think it would be awesome to not have to sleep, and have all that extra time to clean the house, catch up on all the Nip/Tuck DVDs I've had out from Netflix for a month, read a book I actually enjoy, or maybe even work on the two papers that are due next week.  Other days I think it would be great to be able to read at superspeed and retain all the information, like that robot kid in the movie with the dad from Growing Pains.

But today, I think I would like to be able to sing really well.  I love singing, and I suck at it.  To make things worse, I am cursed by remembering all the lyrics to every song I've ever heard, so I can hardly help but sing along.  It's not exactly a "super"power, but I think it would be just awesome enough, without making me a freak.  And then Joel wouldn't cringe while we're in the car and Kelly Clarkson comes on the radio.

And would you believe I've never even watched a full episode of American Idol?  It's because I'm afraid.  Afraid to be chained to my TV anymore than I already am. 

Desperate times call for measures, and I am not ashamed

Since the jerk who has "The flaneur" (the only book in print that is actually dedicated to the subject my paper is supposed to cover) checked out of the library has opted to ignore my recall request and NOT comply with his obligation to RETURN that book to the library so that I can plagiarize from it, I had to resort to ordering it from Barnes and Noble and paying a whopping $41.95.  For that price, I think that I should be able to just photocopy the first 20 pages, write my name at the top and hand it in for an A+.

Since I was already getting raped by the library's failure to enforce it's own return policy, I decided to reward myself by adding Shakira's Oral Fixation Volume 2 to the order for the low, low price of $13.98. The joy that I will receive from listening to "Hips Don't Lie" on repeat for the rest of the decade is a steal for $13.98, compared to the satisfaction (or complete lack thereof) I will get from reading a $40 book dedicated to the 1860s European equivalent of a metrosexual.

At this point, I'm considering typing Shakira lyrics for 20 pages and handing it in.  Do you think that would be a little to reminiscent of "The Shining"?  Considering that the following are actual sentences that I have started typing, I think something along the lines of "Never really knew that she could dance like this, she makes a man want to speak Spanish" would be infinitely better.

"History is full of characters and moments when you don’t..."

(Monday - No idea where I was going with this one)

"Intro about the impressionist period, and how it was a time of change"

(Tuesday - Just gave up and watched NCIS -- great episode, by the by)

"The Impressionist period was certainly a period of change, and"

(Kill me now)

If I had paid more attention in class this semester, maybe I would know how to manipulate relativity to fast forward time to 12 days from now

Although I am sorry for my professor's loss of his mother, I have to admit that I am just a wee bit happy that class tonight has been canceled.  Again.  That makes two weeks in a row, for those who are keeping track.  And that means only ONE MORE WEEK OF CLASSES!

Theoretically, this cancellation frees up my evening to work on my paper about the Parisian flaneur during the Impressionist Era.  In reality, it allows me to watch NCIS tonight, because I have completely given up caring about anything related to school.  This lack of care has, so far, been greatly rewarded.  For example, last week we were supposed to read half that nice purple book on the sidebar.   I didn't do it because I just didn't want to, and class ended up being canceled.  This week, we were supposed to have it finished, and again, I didn't feel inspired enough by the breathtaking beauty of particle physics to pick up the book.  Again, class canceled.  Works for me.

The fact that I was so stressed out about school a few weeks ago that I literally could not sleep at night has now been replaced with a complete absence of emotion with regard to anything academic.   It's a little strange, since there are now 7 days until my paper on Maya astronomy is due, and I haven't even opened the document in over three weeks.  Similarly, there are 11 days until the flanuer paper is due, and all I have done so far is look in the index of our textbook and compulsively order books from the library.   I also decided to return a few books that I was sick of looking at, and now my account says I only have a mere 33 books checked out.  I have read about 1/2 of one of them.  And I just can't make myself care.

What's the worst that can happen?  I could actually fail both of these classes, and then I'd owe Hopkins for all the tuition, which would suck a lot, because I could think of better ways to spend $3,000.  More realistically, I will get a B, or even --gasp -- a C.  Which would be the first C of my life.  But, so what?  Who cares? Not me.  And not Agent Gibbs.  And certainly not Detectives Tutoula and Munch.  I know, because I have a date with them at 6pm.

The Day in Numbers

Times I hit the snooze button this morning: 4

Times Max vomited before I left for work: 2

Catcalls received on way to work: 0

Hours worked at work: 8.5

Hours worked on papers: .5

Catcalls received on my way home from work: 2

Pounds of cat food purchased: 10

Quantity of feline antidepressants purchased: 30

Flowers planted: 5

Gardening accidents: 0

Piles of cat vomit stepped in: 1

Additional piles of cat vomit found throughout the house: 4

Times Max decided not to use the litterbox: 1

Value of that rubber-backed mat: its weight in gold

************************************************************************************

And because 24 is a number, and so totally fits in with this theme (and I didn't even plan it!):

I'm saying this here as my time-stamped record -- I'm beginning to think that Audrey Raines is involved in this terrorist business.  I can't say how just yet, but there's something fishy going on Ms. Raines... how many times is she going to say "MAKE SURE YOU GET THAT RECORDING, JACK"??  She's in on it.  And I'd be willing to bet she's sleeping with Logan too.  She looks like that kind of girl.

And yet, I still have no answer to my question from last week: WHERE IS AARON PIERCE?  I don't feel all too reassured with the unstable Martha Logan on the case. 

Max's dental work is on hold, in case you were wondering

As someone who was raised with the mantra "No doctor, no problem!", I guess it is somewhat unsurprising (at least from the psychoanalytic view that I favor) that now as an adult, the complete opposite is true.  I am pretty sure that Max has been to the doctor more times during the two years and three months that he has resided with me than I, the precious firstborn, did from ages 2-18.

I'm not at all trying to imply that I was neglected as a child, even though my 12 o'clock curfew was strictly enforced and I wasn't "allowed" to buy a car.  I just think my luck with the doctors has run out, and now I'm making up for lost time. 

I may be a little bit of a hypochondriac, but most of my doctor visits (and all of Max's, for the record) have been very much warranted.  There was the one time last year that I was convinced I had a brain tumor because I was having these really intense, localized, throbbing headaches, and I went to the doctor and he laughed at me.  But I don't usually get headaches unless vodka is involved, and they were really, really bad (like, blinding) headaches, so I think my concern was less than ridiculous, although I'll admit that the brain tumor self-diagnosis does sound a bit melodramatic now.  But that episode is surely balanced out by the unfortunate gardening incident that resulted in a very rusty, very dirty nail impaling my shoe and penetrating half an inch into my foot.  When it happened, I calmly pulled the nail out of my foot, hopped through the house and onto the back deck, turned off the gas grill so my chicken wouldn't burn, and then refused to see a doctor until 48 hours later when I was informed that tetanus can actually kill you, and I hadn't had a booster shot since I was 8 years old.

That being said, this year alone, I have been to eight different doctor visits, and innumerable physical therapy appointments.  I'm not talking about my hamstring/back problem, partly because it would take too long, partly because it would be boring, and partly because I still sort of want to cry/strangle someone when I think about it.  So now I'm focusing on a battle that (I think) I can win: the war against acne.

I started getting zits around the normal pre-teen time, and my skin was probably about average throughout high school.  But then, in college, when the hormones settled down and most people's skin started to clear up, mine got worse.  Looking at some of the pictures from back then is actually painful for me, not just because of how awful my skin was, but because I remember how much I hated it and everything I unsuccessfully tried to make it better.   I bought all the overpriced clearasil creams that promised clearer skin in three days, but all they did for me was bleach load after load of laundry.  I bought all the expensive Neutrogena facewashes and creams... nada.  When I went to Spain, I thought I had finally found the solution.  My friends with great skin swore by Differin, which was sold OTC in Europe.  I stocked up and started using it with high hopes, but all it did was make my skin scaly and flaky, on top of the horrible acne.  That was probably the worst period of my acne career, although it was one of the best times of my life.  I miss Spain.

Looking at my compulsively organized pictures from the time after that, when I came back to the states and was in the end of my junior year of college, I can see the visible changes in my skin over a period of about six months.  I didn't find the magic cure.  I didn't take Jessica Simpson's advice and use ProActive.  My skin just cleared up, all on it's own.  And it was beautiful.  No, really it was, and I'm not just saying that because I'm conceited or glorifying the past.  In fact, I actually didn't notice until one day, a girl came up to me in the grocery store while I was reading the labels on the back of a box of Nature Valley granola bars and told me that I had "beautiful skin".  My first reaction was, are you making fun of me because I'm so pale?  Is this some kind of racial slur?  Am I on Candid Camera?  I just looked at her, stunned, and I think I said "thanks" or "huh?", and she smiled and walked away.  I was left thinking, hmmm, she sure didn't seem like a mean racist bitch.  No one is jumping out from behind the granola bars with a video camera.  Maybe she was just delusional?  A Sheppard Pratt escapee, perhaps?  Or maybe this was some sort of social psychology experiment, like when Ly-Lan walked around with pen on her face all day to see who would tell her and who would pretend it wasn't there?

But when I went home, I looked in the mirror and realized, holy shit, I hadn't even realized that I hadn't had any painful, exploding zits taking over my face for awhile.  In fact, I couldn't remember the last one.  Hallelujah, I was officially no longer an adolescent, and officially Over My Acne at 21 years old.  It was about time.  Let's celebrate with couple of vodka shots. 

I started to take it for granted that I no longer had to wash my face before bed without fail, or be guaranteed at least two zits upon waking up in the morning.  It was a really glorious 18 months, where I thought that all those people who with naturally gorgeous skin who said obnoxious things like "you'll just grow out of it sweetie" (the same people who said "your growth spurt will come this year for sure!") might have actually been right.  About the acne. Not about the growth spurt.  Still waiting on that one, 15 years later.

And then, about two years ago, I got a zit.  A really, really big zit, different than the hundreds of little ones I used to get.  That sucker nearly took over my face, and shit, was it embarrassing.  It was such a shock that I actually thought that maybe that urban legend about a spider laying eggs in your face was true, but I didn't go to the doctor or anything, because I am NOT A HYPOCHONDRIAC. Eventually it went away, but it was followed by another... and another.. and then they started double-teaming... it never got as bad as it used to be, apparently this was mature, "adult" acne, not the pubescent "adolescent" acne of my olden days. 

I just dealt with it for about a year, hoping it was just a phase, or something in the air, or a rare contagious disease that would go away on it's own.  But it didn't.  In fact, it got worse.  And instead of resigning myself to who-knows-how-many more years of adult acne, I decided to fight back, with the help of my trusty employer-paid group insurance.  In January, I went to a dermatologist.  It was at a satellite Hopkins campus just north of Baltimore, which is also where the Hopkins Cosmetic Surgery Center is.  It was really sort of fun to sit in the waiting room and look around at all the nose job and liposuction follow ups and wonder who had what done.   I was a little nervous that the doctor would think I was totally vain for coming in for such an insignificant problem, since I'm sure she sees about a dozen cancer patients and people with strange rashes all over their bodies (me, two years ago, right before I was about to go on vacation, which was actually my first-ever visit to a dermatologist) (It was nothing) (I'm not a hypochondriac!!), but when I got my 10 minutes of doctor face-time, I told her straight up that sick of having zits, especially after being teased with naturally nice skin for a year and a half, so tell me what my options are.  Oh, and can I have a full body cancer screening while I"m here?  I have a few spots I'm worried about.  She sent me on my way (cancer-free) with a prescription for some heavy strength facewash and stridex-like pads. 

For the first few days, they dried my skin out so that I actually had to use moisturizer on my face, which was a first for me, barring a few massive sunburns, and also a violation of my nothing-greasy-on-my-face-not-even-sunscreen policy.  And then my face really cleared up!  I was filled with false hope.  But that would have been too easy, and really an unfulfilling, less than satisfying end to my long battle with my own body.  I started getting zits again, one or two at a time, and they were BIG mothers.  Painful, oozing, disgusting zits.  Needless to say, I was not pleased.  Three days before my follow up appointment with the dermatologist, my skin cleared up perfectly, on cue.

I was afraid that I might be accused of exaggerating my plight at the follow-up, but I had my "aftermarks" as proof.  For those who may not have had the pleasure of enduring acne, aftermarks are temporary scars that zits leave after they're gone, which fade in about a year, or as little as nine months if you scrub your face everyday with exfoliator (not that I do, of course).  To my surprise, the doctor was completely on my side (which was quite a shock, after my past experiences with orthopedists for my leg... but I can't really talk about it without throwing something through a window or breaking down into tears).  She suggested we step up the game:  Oral antibiotics plus some superstregnth creams for morning and night.    

It's been almost three days, and so far, I'm hesitantly optimistic.  She told me I should only use the nighttime cream once every three days to begin with, because it can be really drying.  Knowing that my skin can produce more oil than Texas, and because I am one impatient person, I ignored that advice and have been using it every day.  So far, no dryness.  Before you think I'm an idiot for ignoring sound medical advice, let me assure you that I am heeding her warning to take the antibiotics with a full meal, because I already have a mini-ulcer from the 15 ibuprofen I used to take to get through each day (resisting urge to throw computer out the window) and I have no desire to wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I am giving birth to a 25-pound porcupine again (resisting urge to cry).  So far, the skin seems to be looking better.  Another 9.5 weeks go to before the final word is in.

I never in my life thought I would be grateful to an insurance company, but when I saw the pricetag on these three new prescriptions, I almost kissed the pharmacists as I handed over my $10 copays.  I guess grateful isn't really what I'm feeling... it's more like satisfied.  Like I'm sticking it to the man, getting them back for all the people (including me, in the past) that they rip off every day to make their fatcat CEOs rich.  My brain knows that things don't work like that, and I'm not even with the same insurance company that screwed me over so many times, and is still screwing my family over.  I'm not making the world a better place, and in fact, I also feel pretty shallow for writing such a long essay about my acne, which isn't even that bad, when people have real problems like cancer and kidney transplants and ACL surgeries (think good thoughts for my mom!).  But, the fact is, I feel like I'm getting my money's worth somehow.  And clearing up my skin in the process.  Hopefully.

Photographic Evidence: I survived the MILLENIUM

I assume it's getting boring hearing about how I'm soooo stressed out and I can't waaaaait until school is over, blah blah, [insert picture of cat here], so I decided that today, instead of listing the titles of the 43 books I currently have checked out of the library, I would comply with Joke's demand for photos of the wonderful New Year's party she planned (give a girl some credit, better 6.5 years late than never) for THE MILLENNIUM. 

I know that I have a lot more actual pictures somewhere, but I suspect they are hidden under the floorboards or in the chimney in my mom's house in New Jersey house.  I'm sure that they aren't in my house, because my photos are organized by date and subject (see what I mean about the compulsive organizing thing) and they start with the summer of 2001, so all my pictures (and there are a lot of them) before that point are somewhere -- I just don't know where.  I'll have to scour the attic the next time I go to NJ.  For now, we'll have to content ourselves with the few that made it into my photo album from that period. 

The only problem is that this photo album is from an unfortunate period of my life when I thought it was cool to cut pictures and make a weird kind of photo collage.  Um, and I guess I was afraid I would get, like, totally old, and, like, forget, like, my friend's names.  And my own name.  So everything is labeled. 

So, without further ado, I give you New Year's Eve, millennium style.  Click for the full size, if you dare.

Um, I also liked to doodle back then.  Actually, I still do.  But I don't cut pictures anymore.

I'm going to blame it on the MILLENNIUM fever, but those glasses were really awesome at the time.  And look!  Joke's delicious jalapeno poppers made it into my photo album!   And so did a crescent moon and some stars.  Because it was the MILLENNIUM (and also nighttime)!

It is sort of painful for me to look at this page.  I am sort of thinking I shouldn't be showing this to the internet.  The red face.... oh god... and these were the "good" pictures that actually made the album.

Lessons learned: STOP UNNECESSARILY CUTTING PICTURES, buy a photo album whose pages don't turn yellow, don't put paper glasses on a vodka bottle, don't put paper glasses on yourself, don't drink from a vodka bottle wearing paper glasses.

Now that we have that out of the way, let's fast forward one year to New Year's Eve 2001, which had pictures properly archived in my photo box.

Try not to be jealous of my mad photography skills:

Can you believe I've never even taken a photography class? It's all natural talent.

And sadly, there aren't any pictures of the red, white, and blue sequined thong in my possession.  This is the closes thing I have.

I'll leave it up to your imaginations and memories.

This picture reminds me that although it may not seem like it at times, I AM winning the battle with adult acne.  I do not know what that orange thing in my teeth is.  I'm hoping that it was actually a goober on the photo, not actual food in my teeth.  Likelihood: 50/50.

THE END.  At least of the pictures (thankfully).

AND NOW! For my next trick...

... I will attempt to saw my fluffy-tailed assistant in half!

Did that bamboozle you into not realizing that I just put up a picture of my cat instead of posting anything?  No?  Well, I need to save my brainpower for comprehending LOST tonight.  And I'm also sort of hypnotized by the fluffiness of that tail.  I swear that when we got him he was a nice short-haired kitten.  Now it's more like a maniacal ball of fluff with claws.  SHARP CLAWS.    

It's unanimous -- Jack Bauer is the most desired man on the planet

I saw this on Post Secret today.  Rock on, Jack.  If only you were real.

And I'd like to retract what I said about Audrey Raines a few days ago.  Audrey, you GO GIRL.  You took that slash to the brachial artery like a champ.  I actually hope that you survive. 

On that note, WHAT HAPPENED TO MY DEAR, SWEET AGENT PIERCE?? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM, EVIL TERRORIST PRESIDENT?? 

Give me my flowers back, jerks

I'd like to issue an open letter to the person who cut down my tulips in front of the house on Saturday.   Maybe you didn't know that those tulips were carefully planted and fertilized by a person who is trying, year after year, to defy her black thumb and successfully grow something in her meager planter box in the sidewalk.  Maybe you didn't know that last year I put down an entire bag of "all-natural fertilizer" on that little plot, and dealt with the stench of cow dung for two weeks just to make that soil cultivatable.  And then, I guess you wouldn't have any way to know that while I was slaving away in that little, square garden, planting those very tulip bulbs, I lost my balance and stepped backwards onto a rusty nail, which went right through my foam-bottomed JCrew flip-flop, piercing the bottom of my foot and required a very painful tetanus booster.  I'll assume that you didn't know any of that.  But even so -- what gives you the right to cut down tulips that were clearly planted for public enjoyment?  It was one thing last year, when someone just ripped up my tulips and threw them on the sidewalk to die, because I could at least tell myself an innocent, albeit badly behaved, child who didn't know any better must have pulled them out, and then dropped them on the sidewalk down the block when their mommy saw what they had done and smacked some manners and some RESPECT for other people's flower boxes into them. But when the stalks have clearly been cut with scissors, I either have to think that someone is letting their innocent child who doesn't know any  better wander the streets, with scissors, no less, or come to the conclusion that a perfectly rational adult saw my beautiful tulips, thought how nice I was to plant and lovingly cultivate them, and came back with scissors and cut them down.  I hope they made a really nice centerpiece for your Easter brunch, asshole.  Because I am officially DONE trying to beautify the block.  From now on, it's just ugly sidewalk and weeds around here.

Our 15 minutes of fame

So apparently most people have already heard the story about the cat trapped in the wall of a deli in New York.  Except for me, of course, because I don't watch "news" and I don't really care about "current events" (can you see why the master's in government didn't work out?).  I just saw on the TV that the finally got the poor cat out... yup, party animals, we're watching the news at 10:33 on a Saturday night, and only because there's nothing else on. 

Joel's first reaction was this: "Hey, we could have been famous.  Put Madison back in that hole."

What hole, you're wondering?  Well, this one.

Remember the holes in the walls?  The ones that are still there?  When we knocked the first hole, we were stupid enough to leave it unattended for 15 seconds while we were taking pictures of the water damage for the insurance company.  The next thing we knew, Madison had squeezed himself through the hole in the floorboards next to the bathtub, and jumped down onto the fiberglass insulation underneath.  The fiberglass sunk down under his weight, and he couldn't get back out, which pissed him off and made him start running around under the floors crying and scratching things -- what he does best.  All we could do was try to coax him out by dangling toys, strings, and treats down the hole, but every time he would reappear, he'd try to jump out, fail, get upset and take another lap under the floor. 

Those were the most stressful two hours of my life.  I was imagining us tearing up out 100 year old floors to pull him out -- which would most certainly be the last straw for Joel, and I would never see him again.  Or, we would never get him out and Madison would die down there, and I know what a dead animal under the floors smells like, because our escaped hamster died behind the walls, and it STUNK.  Madison kept coming to the hole, crying to be rescued, and Joel would reach in and grab him to pull him up, but the problem was that he didn't really fit through that hole -- we have no idea how he got through it in the first place.  So in the middle of being pulled through, he would start to panic and scratch the hell out of Joel's arm and hand, and then run off under the floor again.

Finally Joel put on some really thick work gloves, grabbed Mads by the collar, and wrenched him through the hole.  Madison had fiberglass in both his eyes and stuck in his fur.  He was gagging from being choked by the collar on the way up, but other than that, he was OK.

Two seconds later, he tried to jump through the hole again. We now have it blocked off by a defunct laptop docking station, supported by a 30lb box of Arm and Hammer cat litter.

Happy freakin Easter

At some point, my friends and I started inserting "freakin" into every holiday greeting. Merry freakin Christmas!  Happy freaking birthday!  Happy freakin Kwanzaa!  We think it's funny.  Every time I get a text message that says "happy freakin something", I laugh, and the little part of me that dies every day when I hear the alarm go off before 10am comes back to life, at least for a moment.

This strange tradition started after New Years Eve, 2000.  As usual, there wasn't much going on in our little town with two bars and zero entertainment, and none of us was crazy enough to go into the city and stand around freezing in Times Square -- mostly because I am deathly afraid of crowds, especially drunken, cold crowds.  2000 was shaping up to be another New Years Eve spent sitting on Kristen's couch watching Dick Clark's rocking New Years Eve and pretending not to be jealous of the burgeoning social lives of her younger siblings, listening to Jenny complain about not having anyone to kiss when the ball dropped, and falling asleep on the impossibly comfortable Miller family couches by 11:30pm. If you think I'm exaggerating, let me remind you of this picture:

This is where we lived.

But just when we were staring to resign ourselves to another boring holiday celebration, our friend told us that his brother was having a big New Year's party, and it was too bad that he was going to be on a cruise with his parents, so we couldn't come to his house and party with them.

Too bad indeed -- too bad for him that he missed what is universally know among our friends as the best New Years Eve that any of us ever experienced, when we rudely (but our desperation was certainly justification enough) crashed his brother's party, which was fully stocked with the alcohol that was so difficult to get back then, when we hadn't yet figured out that we could get fake Connecticut non-driver IDs that said we were born in 1970 in the Village for $15 bucks.

I wish I had a scanner, so that I could show you what a good time that night was.    I have about 2 rolls of pictures, all of which were taken before 11pm, because that is when I passed out and hit my head on the corner of the countertop and lost all my memories of that celebration, and also because we felt the need to photographically document ever second leading up to midnight, because if you'll remember, a large part of the population was convinced that the world was going to blow up the second the clock read 2000.  It was the millennium!

Everything after that New Year's Eve party that we totally were not invited to has been a let-down.  The next New Year Eve, when Kristen's parents went away and we spent the night getting drunk on her insanely comfortable couches and then passing out, our friend of questionable sanity (who is now in medical school becoming a doctor, by the way) treated us to the sight of himself wearing nothing but a red, white, and blue sequined thong around 11pm.  It was supposed to be a surprise for midnight, but he got excited (and drunk) and couldn't wait.   As he spastically ran around the living room naked, Beth broke into song and began belting out "God Bless America" at the top of her lungs.  Jenny, my rival for the most cynical of our group, gave me one of her most priceless looks and said "Happy FREAKIN New Year.  Fifteen minutes later, we were all passed out.  Happy freakin New year, indeed.

We have long ago accepted that 2000 was the best New Years Eve (and probably the best holiday, period) that any of us will ever experience, and in recognition of that fact, we began adding "freakin" to every holiday phrase.  It really sums up the disillusion that accompanies holidays after your 12th birthday.  There is no Santa.  There is no tooth fairy.  There is no Easter bunny, and to make it even worse, chocolate ruins your diet and gives you adult acne.  My family is at home hiking and making their family brownies with the "secret ingredient" and I'm sitting in a coffee shop with no air conditioning writing papers that I am so sick of looking at that I feel like throwing Joel's laptop under the next taxi that drives by.  So happy freakin Easter.  Don't eat too much chocolate -- bathing suit season is coming up.

Did I mention that Clive Owen is DEAD SEXY?

Sometimes I wonder how I can write a blog, because have you noticed?  I lead a fairly boring life.  Fairly boring, as in not even extremely boring, which would be something to write about in itself.  Most of the time it's boring.  Sometimes I do stupid things, which can cause a blip on the interesting-radar, but for the most part it's just me, my boredom, my stress level, my procrastination skillz, and me talking about/taking pictures of my cats.  Not exactly fodder for the tabloids. 

So anyway, last night, as I was lying in bed completely alert, waiting for the dyphenhydramine to kick in, I said to Joel "I think I'm going to have to cancel the blog idea.  I don't have anything else to write about.  Oh well, it was fun while it lasted."  I'm pretty sure Joel was already asleep, and it would have been funny if he answered in a foreign language, or by saying something completely unrelated, which is apt to happen when I insist on talking to him while he's sleeping (not my fault that he falls asleep within literally 30 seconds of hitting the sheets).  But instead of saying something like "goodlycel  starkonige bakalakalaka muhammed jihad", or "Just put it right there, I'll make sure to paint that oar purple in the morning", he said something rational, and in English: "When you are about to open your mouth and tell me a story just as I'm about to fall asleep, you should write about it in your blog instead."  Brilliant!

So, check this out: on Sunday we went to the movies and saw Inside Man (I will resist the urge to go on about how goddamn sexy Clive Owen is**) and as we were watching the previews, I had this great idea.  It's based in part on America's Funniest Home videos, back when it was awesome and Bob Sagat was the host.  Remember those voting buttons the audience had, and at the end of the show, they would replay 3 or 4 videos and the audience would rank them to determine the winner?  Ok, well as we were watching the previews, as usual, I took the liberty of making comments on each one:

Mission: Impossible: 3

Me (whispering): Just so you know, there is no way we are gonig to see that.

Joel (whispering): Why not?

Me (no longer whispering): Because I refuse to support the endeavors of that cradle-robbing scientologist!  Just look at him [clip where Tom dives behind a car door to narrowly escape being hit by a cruise missle] How could you take him seriously? [Speaking in Tom Cruise voice] Hello, I'm Tom Cruise, I knocked up a 16 year old and now I'm forcing her into a silent birth on a boat! (nearly shouting by this point)  (back to a whisper): I forbid either of us to spend money that will support that man in anyway.

Joel: She's older than 16.

Me: Whatever.

The Breakup:

Me: Man, Jennifer Aniston is way too good for Brad Pitt.  And VInce Vaughn is kind of cute even though he's sort of fat, and I heard he's encouraging Jen to stop watching everything she eats and gain a few pounds.  She should totally have his baby. 

The Da Vinci code:

Me: Oh CRAP. Here we go, more Dan Brown hype (vomits).  I'm think I'm going to have to actually read that book, just so I can properly deride it when I'm standing on my soapbox handing out "Death to Dan Brown" flyers in front of the movie theater.  If it is written by the same guy as Angels and Demons though, I'm pretty confident that it's going to suck ALOT.

Silent Hill:

Me: I'm scared.  Hold my hand.

The Sentinel:

Me: OH MY GOD!  It's 24, the full-length feature film!!  And look, Eva Longoria is in it too.  She's hot.  Oh Jesus, 2 hours of Keifer Sutherland smackdown?  THIS IS SO COOL.

And by the time the coming attractions were over, and it was time for the clever reminders to turn off your cell phone (the While Marsh Lowes has a good one, where these scientists in biohazard suits are carefully working to contain a deadly virus, and then a big cell phone crashes down and breaks the whole apparatus.  I think it be better if they just had the sound of a cell phone ringing break the silence and cause them to flinch and therefore kill the world, but that's just my opinion), I had completely forgotten what we had come to see in the first place.  Now I wanted to see watch Keifer Sutherland kick some traitor ass, or at least watch Jennifer Aniston walking around looking cute.  And that's when I had my brilliant idea. 

When you go to the movies, each seat should come equipped with a voting machine, like they used to have on AFHV so that the audience could rank each movie's trailer.  There would be some sort of complicated weighted system, and the one that won out would be the movie that played.  I think this would cash in on the need for instant gratification, and it would also solve the problem of going to the movies with your boyfriend, when he wants to see Lucky Number Slevin and you want to see She's the Man.  You wouldn't have to argue about it and then storm off in a huff and slam the door and refuse to have sex with him for a week -- you'd just go to the movies, cast your vote, and whoever wins, wins. 

I think I have put half of the marriage counselors in the nation's jobs in jeapoardy.  Pardon me, but I must be off to the patent office.   

**Except for the stuff I've already put in the sidebar, of course.

This might be better than The Lizzy McGuire movie... maybe.

God Bless America!

You didn't type in the wrong web addess and accidentally find some incredibly patriotic person who looks just like me.  Nor did I undergo a lobotomy last night -- yet still, I said it: God Bless America!   Yup, I'm the same person who doesn't believe in God and who, in the not-so-distant past has been known to say that I hate America and all the McDonald's loving, SUV-driving, "America is the best because that's what the propaganda told me to think", war-mongering people in it.  That hasn't changed.

I still hate politicians, Democrats and Republicans alike (although I probably do hate Republicans a little teensy bit more).  I still think that Team America: World Police should have won at least 12 Oscars.  But anyone who's not feeling a tad bit patriotic after last night's episode of 24 is clearly a terrorist.

Forget G.I. Joe -- Jack Bauer is like the lovechild of a drunken, one night stand between James Bond, MacGyver, and Chuck Norris.   He picks locks, commandeers police vehicles, shoots bad guys (but not to kill), programs cell-phones to self-destruct, AND he's popular with the ladies.  He's not afraid to shoot your wife in the leg to get the information he needs.  He doesn't work for CTU, heck, officially he's not even alive... and he doesn't follow anyone's rules but his own. 

It's true, I am a little bit obsessed with Jack Bauer.  But even more than Kiefer's sexy lead man, with his backstory of possibly being a deadbeat dad to his incredibly hot daughter (who is now sleeping with her pedophile psychotherapist as a result) and his home-wrecking with the Secretary of Defense's daughter, I think I am in love with Aaron Pierce.  Talk about your all-around good guy.  He may not have a trendy man-bag of tricks like Jack, but he also doesn't need Chloe to re-adjust 19 different satellites and upload the schematics for every building in the Los Angeles metro area to his PDA in order to get anything done.  When you can't trust anyone, who can you call? Aaron Pierce.  When you're driving damning evidence to the White House and you're ambushed by a van full of commandos, who will save your ass? Aaron Pierce. When President Logan issues a bogus warrant for your arrest, who will warn you? Aaron Pierce.  And to top it all off, he can keep his mouth shut about all the intrigue in order to remain close to that backstabbing President and spy on him some more.  And he's sort of hot, in that mature, pattern baldness, forehead sweat kind of way. 

I salute you, Agent Pierce, for your selfless, heroic contributions to American entertainment, in your understated, yet still kick-ass sort of way.  If things don't work out with that romantic chemistry they've been not-so-subtley writing in between you and First Lady Logan, I would be delighted to bear your children.  Call me.

*****************************************************************************************************************

UPDATE: I have just been informed by my news-hungry significant other that Kiefer has just signed a contract commiting to THREE MORE SEASONS of 24.  Maybe there is a God after all!

This is the highlight of my Sunday

One of the wonderful things about our little Baltimore rowhouse is that the washing machine and dryer are on the second floor.  Right there in the hallway!  It's absolutely glorious, seeing as before we moved into this house, I have had to do all of the following in the pursuit of clean clothing: 

1. Freshman year of college: Attempt to shove 4+ weeks of dirty clothing into a cute "dorm sized" laundry basket, carry said laundry basket outside to another building, dropping underwear and tshirts along the way, only to find that every single dryer is either in use or out of order.

2. Sophomore year of college: See #1, except in this apartment, there was actually a dryer within the building.  Except there were only five washing machines for the entire 16-floor building, and if you left a load unattended, without fail, half of your clothing would be gone when your returned.  Stolen, sold, burned, trashed, who knows.  GONE. 

3. In a dormitory in Spain:   Fill out a card listing the week's rationed amount of laundry, write the number "370" on every last sock and bra, and lug it down the basement to the Spanish washerwomen, who had an unusual talent for shrinking everything, and liked to make comments like "these jeans sure are dirty." Then wait 5 days until the clean items could be picked up, between the hours of 8 and 10am ONLY. If you were lucky enough to arrive during the designated time to retrieve your clothing, you had to watch as they counted each folded pair of underwear and checked it off the list you'd turned in. **all items in excess of the rationed amount had to be handwashed in the bathroom sink.

4. In our post-college, shithole apartment, which had no laundry facilities: Put everything in boxes and bags, drag it down two flights of steps to the car, drive to the laundromat, doublepark while hauling it into the laundromat, use up all the quarters I'd hoarded, and usually end up with a parking ticket and someone throwing all of my clean socks on the floor.

So, after 20-some years of laundry being an ordeal, having a washing machine and dryer next to the living room was one of the big selling points on this house.  The only problem is (besides the dilemma of getting a stacked washer and dryer into a "closet" that is only allowed for 2 inches of space on either side) that it can be pretty loud when you're in the living room studiously doing research for school, or, you know, watching an intense episode of Law and Order, and gallons of water are being suctioned out of a the washer and funneled down a two-story pipe.   This was partially remedied when we FINALLY put a door on our little laundry center, but certain cycles of the washing machine are still pretty loud, and somehow they always seem to coincide with the moment when Ice-T is just about to get the suspect to admit to killing all those people and burying them in a vacant lot.  The only solution is to shut the living room door.  And therein lies the real fun.

The cats go nuts over closed doors.  Doesn't matter what's going on, or if they were both soundly snoring just a moment ago when the door was open. The second that door clicks shut, they are certain that a big chunk of delicious turkey must be on the other side, and they will do anything to get to it.  Since there is at least an inch of space under all the doors in our house, this often gets interesting.

In the past we've been entertained for hours by the sight of Madison's face, half visible under the door as he lies on his side and makes every effort to squeeze himself under it.  When that fails, he usually resorts to sticking one paw under the door, as far as he can fit it, and wildly swatting around, probably in hopes that he will get lucky and hook Joel's leg, which would then force Joel to open the door to extract the claws from his flesh, thus allowing him passage to the other side.   If the two cats happen to be on opposite sides of the shut door, they usually crouch down and engage in a staring contest of frightening intensity.  Today, Madison got locked on the outside in the hallway, while Max happened to to be in the living room at the time the door was shut.  As Madison was swinging his paw left and right, claws fully extended, by chance he hooked the tail of the fake furry mouse that he'd left for dead earlier in the day on the living room floor.  Ecstatic, he tried to pull it through to his side, where surely he would be able to ransom it in exchange for the opening of the door.  But Max, who always watches Madison's antics with a look that is a mixture of pity and disgust, was planning to use that mouse as a character witness to testify about his lack of involvement in some fresh scratchmarks on the rug, and was not about to let it join the other unfortunate cat toys just out of reach under the oven.  Before Madison could wrestle it under the door, Max planted his paw firmly on the mouse's head, and leaned on it with all of his sixteen pounds. 

The fake furry mouse is now the unfortunate subject of an intense feline tug of war.   Incidentally, the real mouse was running around in the walls all night last night, but that didn't seem to interest either of these stealthy hunters.

Ay amor, me duele tanto

In the past, I've mocked my mother's ability to listen to the same five songs over and over and over again.  I have also mocked her poor taste in music and movies. 

I nearly went crazy when I went to Italy last year, and was awakened before my flight by "You fill up my seeeeeenses... like a light in the forest..." and then had that song stuck in my head for eight days straight in Europe.

I have resisted getting an IPod because "I don't like listening to the same songs over and over."

Then, this morning I had a frightening revelation, as my new Shakira CD was playing all the way through for the fifth consecutive time.  I was considering alternating it with The Emancipation of Mimi, which had been playing on repeat until I bought Oral Fijacion Vol. 1 a few weeks ago.  Hmmmm, I thought.  Mariah is good.  But I still feel like listening to La Tortura some more. Then it hit me -- OH MY GOD.  I'm doing it.  Except that instead of John Denver, I'm obsessed with Selena's heir to Spanish pop and the artist who thought Glitter was a good idea for a movie.

Oh well.  So be it.  I'm the only one in the office today, so I can sing along too.

Unfortunately, my office does not condone "Dress Up Like Shakira Fridays." 

And the award for celebrity recognition goes to.... ME!

Was anyone else super excited to spot Senator Kelly from X-Men 2 AND Harry, Charlotte's bald, Jewish husband from Sex and the City on Lost last night?!

No?  Just me?  Well after nearly 4 years of Joel's training to be able to recognize actors (it's vital skill, apparently) I think I deserve a gold star.  And maybe a free pizza.

I know I didn't just hear someone mumble that they don't watch Lost.  Get off my website.

Weekend in NJ, Part Two

I had grand plans for the post I was going to write about Sunday, since Sunday was actually really sort of interesting for a change and filled with parties and even some drama.  But then Monday came and I had to drive all the way back to Maryland.  And I got a little lost, which stressed me out.  And then I was almost late for my academic advising appointment, in which I needed to be granted permission to graduate this summer.  And then it started to hail.  And then I walked into the house and noticed that Max had peed on the rug because Joel didn't clean out the literbox once while I was away.  Then I was informed that Madison ran away not once, but twice this weekend.

But that was all OK, luckily I have a nice mat with rubber backing down on Max's favorite pee spot, so it didn't leak through to the rug.  And Joel managed to recover Madison after both escapes.  We went to the grocery store and watched 24, and then I collapsed into bed....  and started worrying about all the homework and papers that are now one more week closer to being due.  And all the emails that came in on Monday that I need to respond to.  And the next thing I know, it's 2am and I'm watching some horrendous movie with JLo and Vince Vaughn, where Jennifer is this psychologist who uses this machine that looked suspiciously like the one that the Pre-Cogs used in Minority Report, and then all of a sudden a horse is getting chopped up. 

So at this point I have given up on writing the great post I had planned, with backstory on growing up in New Jersey and playing games like No Brake Neutral and Captains Breaking Training Rules.  That will have to wait for another time.

Let's flash back for a moment to Saturday night.  I've safely arrived at home in New Jersey, eaten my fifth meal of the day, and am relaxing on the couch with my geriatric cat, watching New York's finest on USA.  My mom asks if I wanted to go hiking in the morning, before the shower (which was the actual reason that I came to NJ this weekend, which somehow has escaped mention up to now).  I said sure, and we agreed to go at 9am.  An hour later, an argument ensues about whether going hiking at 9am meant leaving the house at 9am, or waking up at 9am (my position was the latter).  We agreed that I would wake up at 9am and we'd leave the house no later than 9:30. 

Saturday was Daylight Savings Day, which I forgot about, despite the fact that it is my favorite non-holiday holiday of the year and I've been counting down to it for months.  Mother conspicuously "forgot" to remind me about it, so when I agreed to wake up at 9am, I was really agreeing to wake up at 8am.  As our family friend Dr. Phil would say, "this is not OK."

I also forgot that my room in NJ has no door, so I wake up whenever the first person in the house wakes up and starts banging around in the kitchen, loudly resetting all the clocks. So I ended up waking up at 7:30am.  NOT OK.

After the hike, my mom convinced me to shower (as in bathe) and we got ready for Joke's bridal shower (as in party), which was lovely.  I ate lots of delicious vegetarian food and chatted with people I hadn't seen in ages.  Everything was wonderful, and I'll leave Joke to write a properly detailed synopsis of the event.  I have only been to one bachelorette party/bridal shower before, and that one involved putting condoms on bananas and drinking out of plastic straws shaped like penises.  There were no prophylactics or plasticwear shaped like reproductive organs at this shower. 

Me and my best-friend-since pre-K (and sister of the bride), Kirsten.  Kirsten is such a great friend that she instinctively bends down in pictures so I don't look like a midget. 

A little closer to our true height difference.  I may or may not be standing on a stack of phone books. (Note: please do not click for the full sized image, and if you do, please do not look at my one half-opened eye and its intense red color.  My eyes are blue.  I am not possessed by the devil, just an OCD need to organze things.)

After the shower, to continue my weekend of eating, I went out to dinner with my Dad.  In a bold and dangerous move, we went to TGIFriday's.  What could be dangerous out Friday's, you're wondering.  Well, clearly you did not grow up in a New Jersey town where Friday's holds one of the two town bars, and so on any given night about half of the people from your high school that have ended up living with their parents (a high percentage) will be there and force you to engage in meaningless chit chat.  By pure luck, we ate our chicken quesadillas (me) and plain hamburger (Daddy) in peace, and made our escape without being trapped into any impromptu high school reunions.

Feeling lucky after this uneventful and pleasant dinner, I proposed that my lone friend living in Boonton Township at the moment come to Starbucks with me so we could catch up.  I picked her up and we drove to the Starbucks -- as in the ONLY Starbucks within 20 miles.  And here my luck ran out. 

As we walked in, I thought I spotted a girl that we used to work with in our glory days of lifeguarding at the Deer Lake Club.  I put my hand in front of my face and prepared to run back to the car and speed away, but upon closer inspection, it was just someone who bore a mild resemblance to her.  We ordered our caffeinated overpriced beverages and sat down to discuss how godawful it would have been to have run into this girl, who was once a close friend, but who we now hate because of multiple transgressions committed by her and my ex-boyfriend during the Days of Drama at DLC.  Phew!  That was a close one.

Five minutes later, in walks you-know-who.  Awkward chit-chat through clenched teeth ensues, with "it's so great to see yous" interspersed.  She begrudginly introduces us to her boyfriend.  I repress the urge to say something snide like, "Oh, how nice that you have a boyfriend of your very own now.  Does that mean that you won't be having sex with mine anymore?" 

Wow, that makes me sound bitter.  And really, I'm not.  I WAS, but it was such a long time ago and honestly, I don't care anymore.  But that's what returning to New Jersey can do to you -- make you feel like you never left and you're still in high school, being a bitchy drama queen.  Not to say that I was a bitchy drama queen in high school.  I wasn't.  But you know what I mean.  Right?

After what seems like hours, the Starbucks employees finally finish making her frappachino, and she runs out of there faster than we ever ran to save a child pretending to drown.

Ten minutes after that, a Random High School Acquaintance walks in and begins milling about by the sugars.   I accidentally exceed the staring time limit and am forced to say "Hey, Random High School Acquaintance, is that you?"  "Oh my god!  Casey!  You look so great, he replies."  More awkward chit-chat ensues after I tell him that while Casey is a very nice name, it is not mine. We briefly tell him what we are doing with our lives.  He reciprocates by telling us an extremely sketchy story about living with his parents and "running a couple of businesses out of the house."  He asks for our phone numbers and emails so that he can catch up with us later, because he has to run right now.  He leaves without buying anything and the Starbucks employees glare at him.

I realize that I must leave New Jersey immediately.

So, bright and early (10:30am) on Monday morning, I get in my car and begin my exodus.  I was planning to stop by Brother #2's apartment to get lunch on the way, and I even had directions.  His directions failed to mention a triple traffic circle in the middle of ghetto South Jerz, but since every true NJ-native is born knowing how to successfully navigate traffic circles, I arrive at his apartment at the planned time.  I get a tour of his apartment, which is pretty much what you'd expect from an all-male college apartment.  Empty beer cans, dirty dishes, a finger painted mural, and multiple holes in the walls.  I begin to feel better about the horrid state of my own house.

After we have lunch (in a nice clean restaurant nearby) I set off for Baltimore.   I've been lost in this area before (I've been lost in just about every area I've ever been to at one time or another), so I knew that getting home was going to be tricky.  The last time I was at his school, I was trying to continue North, and foolishly got on 295 North for this purpose.  Then 295 North all of a sudden changed into 95 South and I was shocked to find myself back in Delaware an hour later.  I was hoping this trick would work again, so I took 295 North, and viola!  An hour later I was in Delaware.  There is a wrinkle in the space-time continuum in South Jersey.

I made it back to Baltimore without incident.  I was 20 minutes early to my Academic Advising appointment, and now I think that I have permission to graduate this summer.  That is, if I don't worry myself to death before then.  July 15th (my projected graduation date) is seeming mighty far away right now.   

Weekend in NJ, Part One

Hello from Boonton Township!

What, you've never seen a llama crossing sign before?

Saturday: the trip home.

9:15am: In a display of love and support, I arrive at Joel's crew regatta.  Joel is already out on the water. 

Vroom.

I spend approximately three hours trying to determine which boats are his and who is winning, to no avail.  I am again amazed that people do this sport for fun.  Besides the waking up at ungodly hours of the morning, crew also involves carrying (what seem like heavy) boats to and from the water, washing said boats when the race is over, and coming dangerously close to the brackish waters of Baltimore, and wearing spandex unitards.  On any given day, I would be equally unsurprised to see a beer can, a hypodermic needle, a dead human body , or a used condom floating in the Baltimore harbor. 

Ew.

I suspect that the same strange addiction that compelled me to run 50 miles a week until my hamstring gave out forces these people to engage in this hellish behavior.  To each his own.

10:30am: I befriend some nice mallard ducks by sharing my vanilla Powerbar Protein Plus (lunch #1).  Ducks need their protein too. 

Quack.

12:00 pm: It comes to my attention that I have contracted a nice sunburn, as I am the whitest little Irish/German girl to ever see the light of day.

12:15pm: Regatta ends and I observe the medal ceremony, another strange rowing practice. Joel's team gets a lot of medals.  I experience a moment of panic when I wonder if the winning coach is also awarded medals, which would be a clear violation of my No More Junk Policy.  Thankfully, Joel does not receive any medals.  We all eat Panera bread sandwiches (lunch #2)

1:00pm: I depart.

1:10pm: I arrive at WashWorks to have my car washed and vacuumed before my dad sees it.   Approximately 30 Hispanic men storm my vehicle.  Fifteen minutes later, my car is sparkling clean, looking not a mile over 100,000.  I depart for New Jersey. 

1:15pm: I reach for my water bottle and realize that the overzealous cleaning gentlemen took the liberty of throwing it away.  I begin to hyperventilate at the idea of not having any water on a three hour car ride. 

1:35pm: I screech to a halt at the Maryland House rest stop and purchase a 1.5 liter bottle of water, a 20oz Diet Sprite, and a tall Frappachino.  One can never have too many drinks on a solo car ride.

3:30pm: I meet my brother Kristopher at Vito's Pizza in Vorhees.  I eat lunch #3 with K and his girlfriend.  We discuss the tragedies of working for a living, and commiserate over our collective job situations.

4:00pm: I continue on my way.

6:00pm:  I arrive in Boonton Township, and realize that I never got around to taking off the long expired NJ registration sticker on my windshield, despite the fact that I have already been pulled over by the ever-vigilant BTPD once to explain that, yes, my registration is current, and no, it's no longer registered in New Jersey, and yes, I have been meaning to take that sticker off for three years. 

6:10 pm: I arrive in my mother's driveway without incident.  I am greeted by my 19-year-old semi-paralyzed cat's yowls. 

Meow.

It's good to be home.

To be continued....