lacochran's bloggery

"'Cause I don't believe you" --Crack the Sky

2012-01-25T00:40:00.001Z

I've seen some pretty unbelievable things in movies. Flying monkeys, wealthy Richard Gere falling in love with hooker Julia Roberts, all those mother-effin snakes on a plane... suffice to say that Hollywood has stretched my acceptance of what is possible until my brain is as rubbery as Newt Gingrich's wedding vows.

But last night... *shakes head in disgust* ...last night, we watched The Emperor's Club. This is a mediocre movie in which Kevin Kline plays a teacher at an exclusive boys prep school. That I can buy, despite the very distracting fact that Kevin Kline has no lips. This is almost as distracting as the fact that Whoopi Goldberg has no eyebrows. See? Check it. None.

Just a line where his lips are supposed to be. When he kisses you, is it like kissing grandpa without his teeth in? Do you get enveloped by nose, chin and cheek?

Regardless, Kevin Kline, teacher, prep school--check.

What I can't buy, no matter what anybody says, is the time lapse in the film that shows this:

becoming this:

In what universe does dorky Jesse Eisenberg grow up to be sex symbol Patrick Dempsey? Who the heck was in charge of this casting? Stevie Wonder?

Question du jour: What's the absolute stupidest thing you've ever seen in a movie?

Oh, and just because it's my blog and I can, here's another gratuitous shot of Patrick Dempsey:

You're welcome.

"Something familiar, something peculiar..." --Stephen Sondheim

2012-01-04T19:51:00.002Z

On Monday, I was off from Job 1 but worked Job 2. During my luxurious 1/2 hour for lunch, I ran the two blocks to a little French cafe. There, I ordered vegetable soup, a tuna melt and a drink and sat down, trying not to tap my foot impatiently. Five minutes later, the waitress brought my lemonade and a lovely crock of vegetable soup and told me the tuna melt was on the way, which, happily, it was. The soup looked nice. The soup smelled lovely. The soup tasted... well, it tasted good. And quite familiar. It was Progresso.

I don't mean it tasted like canned soup.

I mean, this French cafe opened a can of Progresso vegetable soup, poured a small amount in a small crock, nuked it for a minute, and charged me $3.50 for the pleasure. Had I wandered into a scene from European Vacation?

Now, I am not anti-Progresso. I am pro-Progresso. If I were any more pro-Progresso I might go pro. (I'm progressive that way.) I recognized the soup because I have Progresso soups at home in the pantry for when I am sickly and weak and want a quick bowl of soup with truly minimal effort. So, I wasn't put off, per se. It just got me to wondering how often a restaurant dish is actually the result of opening a can or boxed frozen entree?

So I am taking my wondering to the vast knowledge of the interwebs. Questions du jour: Have you ever "recognized" a portion of your meal? Is there anything wrong with a restaurant doing this? What percentage of your average restaurant (not fast food) meal do you think is completely pre-made?

"Working for the man every night and day" --Tina Turner

2011-12-28T22:00:00.002Z

So, in some misguided attempt to prepare for a job I thought I might like to do in retirement, I took a second job.

5 Reasons I'm Grateful I'm Now Working a Second Job

1. It's humbling. Where I know a whole lot about Job 1 or have been faking it so long everyone thinks I do, EVERYTHING about Job 2 is new. This means I'm making mistakes and saying "Um, I don't know but let me find out" A LOT. Plus, a few Urkel-worthy Did I do that??s. Really, this is amazingly good for me because 'groveling, obsequious idiot' is much preferable to 'snotty, condescending jackass'.

2. It's making me appreciative. Suddenly, Job 1's perks look a lot perkier.

3. Lack of boredom or insomnia. Working 7 days a week means never having to wonder what to do with all that pesky free time. Sometimes I fall asleep in the middle of a sent

4. I don't take my husband for granted.* Sometimes I get to see Hubs for a few hours and it's quite delightful! No, really! I still remember what he looks like so I can pick him out in a crowd. So, you know... that's nice.

5. Extra cash. I didn't take this job for the money, and it's a good thing since the pay stinks, but on top of Job 1's salary, it's really nice to get a second paycheck. PLUS, I'm making commissions and I even got a holiday bonus for the first time EVAH! Ca-ching!

On the downside, it means I don't get to hang out with my friends much and blogging has evaporated. I miss them. And it. And you. But, in about a month, I'll stop working Sundays and maybe get to luxuriate in activities like doing laundry.

Which brings us to the question du jour: Fabric softener: Manna from heaven or the devil's plaything? Discuss.

Wishing you a joyful 2012,

L A Cochran

* As much.

"Don't know much" --Aaron Neville and Linda Ronstadt

2011-11-03T23:24:00.001Z

A few months ago I had purchased half-price tickets for a guided tour. I realized the tickets were expiring in March 2012, and, fearing the weather would only get worse between now and March, booked the tour for the two of us for this past Saturday, October 29th. Fall is perfect for tours, no?

Er, no. It snowed. And sleeted. And was quite cold. The. Entire. Time.

To make matters worse, the tour guide was terrible. Here are the highlights or maybe I should say lowlights from the tour:

*passing Pentagon*
Participant: Excuse me, isn't that the Pentagon?
Tour Guide, looking around, in a blase voice: Oh,... yeah. That's the Pentagon.

*at Arlington cemetery, out in the snow/sleet, which by the way, only added to the feeling that this place is the most depressing, deathiest place I've ever been*
Tour Guide: There are now 50 different insignias that you can get on your headstone if you are buried here. Even Wiccan! Wiccan is a male witch.
Hubs: What? No, Wiccan is someone who practices Wicca, regardless of gender. A warlock is a male witch.
Tour Guide: That's right. I knew that.

*still at the cemetery, sopping wet and still getting snowed on*
Tour Guide points to three stones at a distance: Those are the memorials for the three NASA disasters.
Me, thinking THREE NASA disasters? Challenger... Columbia... Did they do something Apollo related?: Really?
Tour Guide: Yeah, the shuttle disasters.
I walk over to see these. Sure enough, the ones on the left and right are memorials to Challenger and Columbia. The one in the middle? Well, here, look:

After walking back to the Tour Guide, disgusted, I say: The middle one has nothing to do with NASA. Go look!
Tour Guide, not looking: Oh, I guess I was wrong.

*driving near Iwo Jima*

Tour Guide: I don't know why the carillion isn't sounding. That's really strange.

Maybe because there's no such thing as a carillion? It's a carillon, fergawdssake.

After 5 of the 9 people cut their losses and took a cab home, they decided to cut the tour a bit short. Best decision ever. I can't believe I paid for this--even half price.

Which all leads to my question of the day: Do tour guides agree to be tour guides thinking that they don't have to actually know anything about what they're touring because people who go on tours will just assume the guide is right? Grrrrr.

"There's someone in my head but it's not me" --Pink Floyd

2011-10-24T21:58:00.000+01:00

...when the waitress asked me what I wanted, I heard myself saying "Pancakes." The words sounded so strange coming out of my mouth, mainly because I never eat out, and when I'm at home I never say the name of the food I'm going to eat before I eat it. I don't sit down to a nice bowl of soup, pause, and say "Soup" to myself before I eat it. That would be crazy. Not that I don't have the urge to, because, honestly, I almost always do. But once you start actually doing the abnormal things your brain suggests, and not merely thinking them it's only a short slide to shuffling aimlessly through the streets, wearing empty tissue boxes as slippers. --from FOOP! by Chris Genoa

This I love. It makes so much sense to me. The difference for most of us between crazy and not crazy is whether we give in to those weird impulses that are always shooting through our brains. Right?

*blink*

We all get all sorts of weird impulses, right?

*blink* *blink*

Hello?

*cough*

Like, um, posting to a blog about weird impulses. That's a pretty weird impulse.

Yeah. *scuffs tissue boxes* That's what I meant.

Question du jour: What weird impulse are you willing to admit to thinking that you have so far resisted doing?

Equal and opposite question du jour: What weird impulse are you really glad you followed?

"We are beautiful in every single way" --Christina Aguilera

2011-10-13T17:20:00.002+01:00

What's wrong with this picture? Take a minute and look. I'll wait.

I mean besides the fact that one of these guys is actually named Poindexter.

See something strange here? Ye-ah. That's right. These guys want to carve you up in the interest of making you the best-looking you you can be.

These guys.

With the too big ears. And the too large tummy. And the uneven smiles. And the saggy eyes. And the deep indents around the mouth. And... do I need to go on?

Mmm, no. Just--no. And don't ask to be my personal shopper or my tanning consultant, either.

"But I say No, No, No" --Amy Winehouse

2011-10-08T19:12:00.001+01:00

So, Thursday, I bid Steve Jobs adieu and paid him a sideways tribute by honoring Dan Shechtman.* Today, not so much. Try not to get whiplash.

The thing is, I've seen all these tributes to Jobs and so many people quoting him, especially this quote:

“Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don’t settle.”

This is a lovely strive-for-excellence-anybody-can-be-president-of-course-you're-as-special-as-you-always-secretly-knew-you-were kind of quote that inspires people. And to be fair, this quote was taken from a 2005 Stanford commencement speech, where a speaker would be expected to deliver a lofty challenge.

It's good advice... if you are a visionary like Steve Jobs. ...or if you are of demonstrated high potential, like the Stanford grads he was addressing. (In national university rankings, Stanford comes in tied for 5th place. Which makes them like the "Respect" of songs in the 500 greatest songs of all time**)

But for most people (dare I say 99%?), and in today's recession/depression, I think it's lousy advice. There are 14 million people who are counted as unemployed. Fact. It seems beyond naive and more than a little sadistic to tell someone: Ignore the hundreds of people queued up to interview at Denny's. You hold out for your dream job.

Why take a job you don't love? A colleague of mine refers to her job this way: "I've developed a nasty habit. I like to sleep indoors. ...I also like to eat."

It isn't just complete drudgery for her. She's good at what she does. If she were truly miserable, she'd seek different employment because work IS a large part of life. But there's a big difference between finding work you can tolerate/do reasonably well and not settling until you find your one true calling. There's got to be a balance between "you're a god!" and "you're worthless, be glad if you can get a job picking up poo."

Which leads us to the inevitable question: Should "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse really be #194? Discuss.

* Yeah, that guy from Ghostbusters.

** Zamfir, and his pan flute, got shut out. Oh, the injustice.

"Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!" --Barbra Streisand

2011-10-06T16:20:00.002+01:00

I am doing a little end zone dance. I've never done one before, so forgive me if it looks more like the chicken dance. Still, here I am, dancing. For Dan Shechtman.

I don't know Dan. Dan lives half way 'round the world. According to the news, in 1982--yes, that's nearly 30 years ago now--Dan discovered quasicrystals. Apparently, this so-called discovery was not well received. Nope. Dan was criticized and shunned by his fellow chemistry nerds. In the course of defending his findings, he was asked to leave. Leave! Take your cockamamie crystals and get out! And take your effin' Yoplait out of the fridge, too! We don't need your kind around here.

[Pause for dramatic effect]

Yesterday, Dan received the Nobel Prize in chemistry for his discovery.

BOO-YAH! In your face, people who claim to be researchers but can't wrap your minds around a new concept! HA!!!

Here's to you, Dan Shechtman, and to all the people who have endured pain for daring to think in new and interesting ways.*

* Rest in peace, Steve Jobs.

"Girl, if you can do better than me, go" --Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

2011-09-06T15:59:00.001+01:00

We went here:

for two weeks.

Okay, now that you hate me*, we can get on with today's post.

I am not the most open-minded person. I could give you some nonsense about how I'm working on it and we're all in development and awareness is the first step. Sure. Or, I can embrace my inner-snark because, truthfully, often I have uncharitable thoughts. They come, unbidden and unwelcome, much like The Examiner.

While we were at this place (Sandals Halcyon in St. Lucia), we saw every manner of couple. And it was shocking. And disturbing. I almost had to put down my fancy rum drinks.**

I'm not talking about the mixed race couples. (yawn) Nor the homosexual couples. (also yawn) I'm talking about the shocking number of pretty/ugly pairings we saw.

It wasn't just a game of "look who married up". We'd see the most astounding mixes of buff-gorgeous-model with flabby-ugly-gargoyle. To the point of thinking, How? How do these people get together? HOW??

Is the icky one rich? Are they extraordinarily good in bed? Are they powerful? Are they someone famous I just don't recognize? Did they hire this exquisite escort to hang all over their hideous body for two weeks? HOW??!? Why is this 10 here with this 2? WHY?!!!

(Picture this times a million.)

I don't mind seeing unattractive people. Or attractive people.

And we saw plenty of both types. But when they're mixed together it just seems... against nature.

Question du jour: Does the mixing of leagues bother you?

* No worries. I even hate myself at this point.

** Almost.

"Don't go changing to try to please me" --Billy Joel

2011-07-25T22:23:00.018+01:00

[Sometimes it's hard to find the right way to connect.]

Hello.

*blink*

I've been feeling a little disconnected with this here blog lately.

Which, unfortunately, means I'm feeling a little disconnected from you.

Because, as you know, *leans in and whispers* it's all about you. Yes, there are one or two other readers but you and I both know that it's YOU that's important. So, I thought I'd write you a personal message so you understand how much you mean to me, even if I haven't posted anything for your consumption lately. Yeah, a personal message through the blog. That's always a good idea. What better way to keep a personal connection than with a public but oh-so-specific note, right?

But, just so other people don't feel ostracized and icky (nobody wants that, right?), just pick the choice in the parentheses that you know is intended for you.

Dear You,

I like what you're doing with your [ear/chest/toe/special] hair these days. It really suits you. And I've always thought your [smile/smell of chickpeas/left eyelid] was unusually compelling. Plus, I've been meaning to tell you for what seems like years that when you said what you said about [Lindsay Lohan/chitlins/commodity based derivatives] I felt like: FINALLY! Someone really gets it! But that's just how you are. You cut through all the nonsense and let people know what's on your [mind/emergency preparedness plan/anti-itch shelf]. You're special. I know people say that all the time but I really mean it. Nobody else has your [peanut butter licking skills/1930s style/way with a ball peen hammer].

Never change.

Hoping to hear back from you soon!

Yours in [friendship/inappropriate looks/class action settlement partnering],

L. A. Cochran

Assorted Flotsam

2011-06-15T23:06:00.014+01:00

Hey! I think I may have discovered what ever happened to Jimmie "J.J." Walker.

Apparently, whatever he's doing involves driving a minivan in Virginia. Dy-no-sad!

Saw this at an airport during some recent travels:

Yeah, shorts, flip-flops, and a classic blue blazer. I'm thinking: semi-formal clam bake?

In other news, I've been on Sensa for the last 5 weeks and lost 7.5 pounds.

I am LOVING it. No work at all, all natural, and I'm losing weight. It's nothing short of revolutionary. It really does curb my appetite. Freaky! And best of all for the people around me, I am not a huge crank-monster like I usually am when trying to lose weight. Huzzah!

Finally, I am seeing this ad for McDonald's which takes place in someone's home. It is a person calling a family together for dinner and then providing McNuggets. And you see them gathering excitedly and opening the tiny boxes and dipping sauces. Now, I have eaten a lot of McDonald's in my time but I can't remember ever taking it home. Either I ate it in the McDonald's or I ate it in the car. Let's face it, that stuff congeals pretty quickly. For me, fast food only works while it's hot. Once things start to cool... ugh.
Am I wrong? Am I missing an important bonding experience with my family?

"Say my name, say my name" --Destiny's Child

2011-06-02T10:20:00.003+01:00

So, yeah, Sean Combs has changed his name again. This time for just one week. Do I care? Aside from the general absurdity of changing your name for one week, mmmnotsomuch.

On a more personal note, I know people that have changed their names for various reasons. Some of them legal even.

I have a distant relative who, in his 50s, decided that he no longer wanted to be known by his given name: Sol. He changed his name to David because he said it was a name people trusted. Forget that multiple heads already swiveled when the name David was called in our family. Most everyone made the effort to call him David. But I know one relative, let's call him Joe, who insisted on continuing to call this guy Sol or Sol-David.

I have another distant relative who changed her name in her twenties from something very ordinary to something truly strange sounding. I won't tell you what because even though there's probably still three or four Sols in the world, I'm pretty sure there's only one of these. Suffice to say it went from something like "Sue" to something like "Elbownee" because it translated to "unique form" in Urdu. Joe insists that this woman is Sue and will always be Sue no matter what she wants to be called.

Now, if someone wants to change their name to Butthead, maybe I have a problem with it. But these changes? I can honor. Am I wrong? Is Joe wrong?

Which leads us to the question du jour: If someone asks you to call them something else besides what you've always known them as, what do you do?

"If you steal my sunshine" --Len

2011-05-23T14:54:00.027+01:00

Congrats on not ascending. You heathen, you. Maybe we all didn't ascend because of this woman...

I was at a nail salon this weekend. I was led to a pedicure chair (sans fish) and noticed the woman next to me because: A) she had her knock-off designer purse on the little table part attached to MY chair and it was sticking out over MY arm rest, B) she was muttering into her cell phone the entire hour she was there and C) she had arrived in three inch, leopard print pumps.

On A): you know I pushed that sucker way over to her side and off my arm rest without even making eye contact.

On B): Eh. I think it's rude to the technician but I guess it's no worse than reading a magazine. Plus, muttering is preferable to shouting.

On C): I have nothing against leopard print pumps but time and place, People. Who goes to get a pedicure in pumps? You go in sandals and shorts! This is widely known. But, apparently, not to this woman.

So, as luck would have it, when my mani/pedi (which always sounds like "maxipad" to me) was done, I was guided to a drying station chair right next to this woman. The dryers ran. Then her technician came over and sprayed her toes with drying spray and walked away. I heard her say into the phone "I'm not going to put on my shoes because I don't think the polish is dry yet." With that, she got up, carrying her pumps, paid at the counter and walked out IN THE FLIP-FLOPS THE SALON PUT ON HER FEET!

I looked around to see if anyone else had watched this theft transpire besides me... nope. I considered calling to one of the technicians. But... I did nothing. After all, maybe you're allowed to take those minipad (hey, we're working a theme here)-thin flip-flops even though there's a return bin for them at the drying station. Maybe she's worked out a deal to bring them back next time. Or... maybe she's just a selfish bitch.

Which leads us to multiple questions du jour: Are those flip-flops yours to take? Should I have said something? If so, to whom? Am I an accessory? Don't tase me, Bro!

Assorted Flotsam

2011-05-17T21:56:00.034+01:00

Assorted flotsam: the hate edition.

We know Blogger screwed up and blew away all but one comment on my last post and that this general screwing up happened to a lot of people. If people comment and the comments disappear, does a tree fall in a forest? And if Blogger is at the heart of deforestation, should we be angrier about that or about Canada foisting Celine Dion on us?

It was the 10 year mark so we had no choice. We sent our passports in for renewal. It'll likely take about 6 weeks. Meanwhile we have no passports. And I hate this. HATE this. Suppose I want to do some crimes and flee the country? Then what? There is no box on the renewal form that has "I'm keeping the old passport until you send me the new one because I may want to do some crimes and flee the country" and this is what's wrong with the U.S. today. The terrorists have won.

Can I tell you how much I hate the mylife.com commercial where the lady says "Seven people?!" *giggle* "...looking for ME?!" *giggle*giggle* Yuh, because I want to be hassled by more people. Right. Lady, people looking for you isn't always a good thing. Sure, it could be that sweet Jimmy who picked a daisy for you in third grade but more likely it's that weird guy from Accounting who always stares at your breasts. Is the mylife.com target demographic the same demographic that asks telemarketers to put them on a "please call" list?

Yeah, okay. I'm embracing my inner-curmudgeon. Tomorrow, unicorns and double rainbows.

Maybe unicorns barfing double rainbows. Baby steps.

"She's super-freaky, yow!" --Rick James

2011-05-11T18:23:00.000+01:00

First question du jour: Is it wrong to pay to watch freaks do their freakiness?*

Yeah, that's what I've been doing of late.

We pay for Dish satellite service and I've been watching Extreme Couponing on TLC. Have you seen this stuff?!

I'm all for getting a good deal buuuuut...

As near as I can tell, this is not about getting half off a product you'd buy anyway. This is about setting up a room that is Armageddon-worthy and filling it with items that can be gotten for free or nearly free, whether they are needed or not. These people hoard. With a capital Holy Moly. There was one woman who had hundreds of packages of diapers but no children. Okay, so diapers don't go bad but who needs 400 bags of Doritos?** It's freaky, I tell ya.

And, yet... I can not stop watching. It is amazing to see these people, invariably sweating as they see the purchases ring up to hundreds--sometimes thousands!--of dollars and, then, they hand over the stack of coupons and the total steadily drops down to $28.52.

Additional questions du jour: Do you clip coupons? Are you annoyed when you see the person in front of you has a lot of coupons? Have you ever passed a bad coupon?***

* Thank god reading blogs is still free. You freaks, you.

** Mike, put your hand down.

*** You may want to respond in code to that last one--the coupon police are everywhere.

A Quickie

2011-04-22T17:04:00.007+01:00

Me: Happy Earth Day! I got you dirt.

Him: Thank you! It's also Good Friday. I got you a dead messiah.

Me: Ooo! I hope it fits in with the living room colors.

"May you find some comfort here" --Sarah McLachlan

2011-04-20T20:03:00.032+01:00

As long as we're discussing bathroom-related stuff... I'd thought I'd share these recent bathroom oddities:

In a conference facility bathroom, I saw this.*

What's this? A standard flush toilet. But there's a sign...

Huh? Like an idiot, I looked around. No button anywhere. Guess I was lucky, there was that high-tech handle.

And in a local restaurant, I found a toilet with guest seating:

How... *perplexed look* ...gracious?

Despite the stereotype, I do not need girlfriends to accompany me to the Ladies Room.*** Especially, not into the same stall. Call me un-share-y if you must. I guess the chair comes in handy if you need to take a child in with you and you don't have one of these...

[Brilliant, right?!]

But I've never known a child to just wait patiently in a chair while Mom uses the facilities. Most toddlers spend their time stooping down to play "peek-a-boo" with the person in the next stall. Which brings me to the question du jour:

What is the protocol for responding to this? Is a discrete kick out of the question?

* I almost wrote "In a conference facility bathroom, I came upon this." but thought better of it.**

** In other news, I'm eight.

***What do these ladies do when they're alone? Hold it?

"Oo--oo, that smell... Can't you smell that smell?" --Lynyrd Skynyrd

2011-04-13T17:03:00.038+01:00

Can we talk towels?* (Anyone can talk turkey, amIright?)

I have had the experience of being in a guy's bathroom and smelling an odor. And, because sometimes I am too curious for my own good, I tracked that odor to its source: the towels. Ever smell someone's towels and think "Ew!"? This particular Ew! smell was of the musty, moldy sort. And, since everything else appeared to be reasonably clean/non-smelly, I realized this person must have been using these towels, sans washing, since Balki was telling cousin Larry, "Well, of courz nut, don be reedeeculous!"

I wondered if I got close to this reusing towel guy**, would he also have that smell? (Ew!) Did he not smell the smell? Did he smell it and like it? Did he just not care? None of these were good options so I never broached the subject with him. I, also, gratefully never found need to stay at his place. On rare visits that included a bathroom break, I dried my hands on my pants.

On the other end of the towelly spectrum, we have sometimes stayed with folks who provided us with fresh towels every day. EVERY. DAY. Even the fancy hotels try to avoid that nowadays, citing environmental concerns.

My folks never covered this topic with me and I don't really want to learn it on the streets. So, I'm asking you (answers to any or all are appreciated):

How often do you change your own bath towel?
Do you have separate "guest" towels?
When you are in a bathroom and there are paper "guest" towels (aka printed napkins) and regular (terry) hand towels, which do you go for?
What's your clean towel frequency expectation when staying with someone else?
Am I the only one that loves those new public restroom high-powered hand dryers that nearly blow your skin off?

* Because you count on me to take on the important topics of the day. Tomorrow... Butterfinger versus Chunky Singles: Which candy has the best porn name?

** And, no, he was not Vince, of ShamWow! fame.

Assorted Flotsam

2011-03-28T12:01:00.000+01:00

I don't see myself ziplining. I'm not afraid of heights or even hurtling along a narrow wire. But I am afraid of looking bunchy. Okay, make that even more bunchy than usual. Have you seen pictures of people in those zipline harnesses? Definitely NOT a fashion statement. If you've always wondered how you'd look in Depends, have at it.

Over the last coupla weeks, I've been hearing about the horror playing out in Japan and, of late, the comment that the US will stop importing fruits, vegetables and milk from Japan. Um, were we really getting a lot of our fruits and vegetables all the way from Japan, anyway? Really? And MILK? From Japan?! Color me skeptical. Now, if you want to cut off the Kobe beef, that I can swallow. Wait...

I have a confession. I don't like Bill Maher. I think I should like Bill Maher since I think he's brilliant and I agree with 99% of his positions. But I don't like him. He's mean. Not just snarky, but mean. He delights in trampling on people's dearly held beliefs and that bothers me. I know a key part of his shtick is to be controversial but he seems angry and nasty and condescending. And, let's face it, that's what blogging's for.

We saw District 9 a few nights ago and it's really stayed with me. It goes way beyond sci-fi. If you haven't seen it, I recommend it as a very impressive technical achievement but also from a "get you thinking about the way we treat each other" viewpoint.

ObligatoryCharlieSheenReference: Charlie Sheen.

Question du jour: Is there a famous person you think you should like and don't?

"Photograph... I don't want your photograph" --Def Leppard

2011-03-13T18:18:00.001Z

Back in the dark ages, I was invited to the house of a friend (let's call her Mildred) for dinner and to view pictures of her and her husband (let's call him Ernesto)'s honeymoon. Honeymoon pictures... wouldn't you go?

It was a free gourmet dinner with pleasant people. And, yeah, I was curious what I was in for, picture-wise. For better or worse, it didn't play out as you might imagine. And, really, I'm having a hard time thinking of friends I'd want to see in flagrante. This was perhaps especially true of Mildred and Ernesto. So, I guess I got lucky... not seeing them get lucky.

But seeing other people's vacation photos? Usually, anywhere from incredibly dull to depressing, right? Post them on Facebook and move on. Alas, this was pre-Facebook.

We had a perfectly pleasant dinner and then Ernesto set up the slide show and we settled in.

*click* (picture of sign)

Mildred: Here's a shot of the "Welcome to Maine" sign.

Me: Ah.

Mildred: We just loved Maine!

*click* (picture of cabin)

Mildred: This is the cabin we rented for the week. It was so great!

Me: That looks nice...

*click* (picture of living room)

Mildred: Here's the living room in the cabin.

Me, thinking it's going to be a loooong evening: Pretty...

*click* (picture of vista)

Mildred: Here's the view from the cabin.

Me: OOOooo, very nice.

Mildred: Yeah, it was pretty amazing.

*click* (picture of Ernesto in a Captain Morgan-like pose on boulders with a scarf tied pirate style on his head)

Me: Hahaha! Look at you, Ernesto! A pirate! Hahaha! That's great!

Mildred: *pause* We went hiking. It was really nice there. Some great trails.

*click* (picture of Ernesto still with the same scarf on, in front of a rocky bluff)

[Ernesto may or may not have looked exactly like this]

Me: Arrr, Matey! Hahaha!

Mildred:

Ernesto:

Me: Hahaha!

Mildred:

Ernesto:

*click* (Yet another picture of Ernesto in the scarf.)

Me: Ha...ha...*cough*

It was at this point that it occurred to me that Ernesto was not trying to be a pirate so much as cover his balding head in what he perceived as a fashion forward way.

Awkward. With a capital AWK.

Which brings us to the question du jour: Is it appropriate to show other people your vacation photos?

"I miss you since I've been away" --Scorpions

2011-03-03T15:27:00.012Z

You know how you hate those self-indulgent bloggers that post videos of music because they LOVE THAT SONG and they're way too crazy busy to write a decent post and they somehow feel that if you just hear this brilliant song, that they had absolutely nothing to do with, that you'll feel way closer to them and totally GET them and blahblahBLAHDIblah?

No? You like that sort of thing?

I did not see that coming. You are full of surprises! *chucks you under chin*

Okay, then, for you: Here's the clean version of Pink's latest with pink outlined lyrics, just to make it a little more precious.

And?

You

are

perfect

to

me.

"Takin what they're givin 'cause I'm workin for a living" --Huey Lewis and the News

2011-02-16T21:35:00.038Z

"I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do."

"They don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure."

These are the two thoughts that are constantly playing out in my brain when I am at work.*

Constantly. With no middle ground.

It's as if someone said to you, "I'm going to pay you $500 for every comment you write on blogs." Would you take the job? Sure! But what if they neglected to mention that while you were typing in those comments there would be a turkey pecking you in the side while a recorded message played of someone shouting, "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU!!!"10,000 times per hour? Would you keep the job? And if you did, wouldn't you be toggling between "I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do" and "They don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure" constantly?

This has been going on with me for 25 years. It's staggering. Seriously. This past month marked TWENTY. FIVE. YEARS. And I never, at any point, imagined I'd be with my organization for more than 5 years, tops. Because they don't pay me anywhere near enough for the aggravation I have to endure. Yet, I can't believe they pay me as much as they do for the amount of work I do.

Compound question du jour for the worker bees: Can you believe how much they pay you for the work that you do? Or is it no where near enough for the aggravation you have to endure? Or both?

While the turkey was on break (Wonder how much he makes? Probably nowhere near enough for the aggravation he has to endure...), I snuck off to happy hour last week. And it was an epic happy hour!** In addition to a few non-bloggy friends, there were former bloggers: Just JP, A Jersey Kid, and Gilahi, and a number of current bloggy friends were in attendance:

LiLu
Brutalism
Malnurtured Snay
Blond with a bullet...
Always a drunk, never a bride

Eleven of us cozied up around a table at Vapiano's and it was lovely. My thanks to those that made the trek from hither and yon. Great time! You people are tops!

*Well, that, and the eternal Gilligan's Island question. Yup... Who names their child Gilligan?

**The kids still say "epic", right? And "groovy"?

"I should have left my phone at home 'cause this is a disaster" --Lady Gaga

2011-02-09T20:13:00.031Z

A few months back, I took one of these:
and did this sort of thing to it:I wish I could tell you I was in a Naomi Campbell rage and flung it at my assistant. But, alas, I just knocked it off a counter onto a hard floor.* Damn that gravity thing. I thought about living with it for 30 seconds--the broken smart phone, I mean, I'm still not keen on gravity.** Spiderweb effects are nice, doncha think? All Halloweeny. But I kinda wanted to use my smart phone without tweezering chips of glass out of my fingertip. Hey, if I'm gonna get into cutting, I'll do it on my terms.

I had insurance on the phone and, fifty dollars later *gulp*, got a beautiful replacement phone.

So, fast forward to this past Sunday. I wake up and it occurs to me that I should probably charge my phone. I was using it the night before on the way to my car after a party. I seek. I no find. I check the purse. The coat. The desk. The refrigerator. The car. Under the sofa. My jeans. The bathroom. Basically, everywhere I can think of to look, whether it makes sense or not.

It is nowhere. ARGGGHHHH! I don't want to spend another $50.

Hubs and I play this game for a while:

Him: I'll just call it.
Me: The ringer isn't on.
Him:
Me: Too much noise.
Him:
Me:
Him:
Me: You know what? Go ahead. Call. Good idea.

We take a drive into the city and take a lovely morning walk along the four blocks between where I parked my car Saturday night and where the party was. No phone.

We go home and search all those same places again. Because, it'll totally be there this time. Not.

And then the Hubs has a brilliant idea. GPS! We can locate it via satellite! Sure enough, we fire up the computer and pull up the app and enter the phone number. It brings up a lovely circle centered on the front of our house. Huzzah! The phone isn't downtown! It's right here! ...Somewhere.

We redouble our search efforts. We check the bushes between the garage and the front door. We look behind curtains. (The great and powerful Oz doesn't know where my phone is, either.)

Hubs to the rescue once again: Take the car. I'll check the app. If it follows you, we know the phone is in the car.

So I did. And he did. And it did. And it was! Turns out, the phone was wedged way under the passenger seat. Luckily, it's black, which blends in very well down there.

Happy ending. I get to keep my fifty bucks and my phone this time. ***

Something sort of related that I've been wondering for a while: Is it reasonable to store a cell phone in your cleavage?

* Plus, Hubs isn't into titles.

** Did I mention I turn 49 next month?

*** I went ahead and turned the ringer on. *shrug* ****

**** On the lowest setting. Shh. Don't tell Hubs.

"You don't care" --Leona Lewis

2011-01-31T21:19:00.044Z

This is a long one. You may want to get some RingDings.

Barnes & Noble is acting like it's my obnoxious teenager. You know, the one that proposes doing chores for money and gets the money and then only does a half-assed job delivering until you say "Give me back my money." And, then, they're all "What? I'm doing the chores!"

Here's the back story: Late December, I received a B&N gift card. Nice! I promptly got online and ordered up some old favorite movies: The Four Seasons (funny, well acted, and you have to love the Vivaldi soundtrack), Eye of the Needle (a well crafted adaptation of Follett's WWII spy thriller), Bagdad Cafe (I love everything about this quirky friendship movie), Sex, Lies & Videotape (an interesting little story of, well, sex, lies and videotape, and have I mentioned my thing for James Spader? My, my, my. No, not bloated, Shatner-wannabe, Boston Legal James Spader now:

I'm talking about James Spader then:

Le sigh.)

1) On December 27th, I place my order. B&N confirms. ("Mom, thanks for saying you'll pay me if I shovel the walk! Can I get that money up front?")

2) I get three of the four movies promptly. ("Look, Mom! I shoveled three quarters of the walk!")

3) On January 19th I get a message from B&N saying there's a delay in sending Eye of the Needle but they'll ship it within 5 business days. ("But, Mom, I'm in the middle of a game here. I'll finish shoveling the walk after, I swear.")

4) I sit down to enjoy the eye candy--er, quality flicks I've received.

*calendar pages flutter by*

5) On January 25th, I get a message saying EotN has been further delayed and it could take another 30 days and do I still want it? ("Mom, I'm busy. Stop nagging me!")

6) So, I think about this. Do I want to wait two months for what should be a simple DVD burn? No. I'll get it elsewhere. I click the link and cancel the order. I try to log on to the B&N account to confirm that I've gotten a credit but it won't let me log in. I hit the "send password" request and get... NOTHING. No email. (*puts earbuds in and rolls eyes*)

But I know they have my email address because they send me messages and I know I've typed it in correctly and this should be an automated thing to send me my password, yes? I go back on the site and find the customer service page. I send a message to them basically explaining that I used a gift card and now I've canceled the order and I can't get my password sent to me so I can log on and check that I've got the credit. Can they help?

7) On Jan. 26, customer service sends me the following form email:

Dear Customer,

Thank you for contacting Barnes & Noble.

When you place an order through our website, your credit card is
authorized for the amount of the order, which puts the funds on reserve.
The charges are not made until the order ships. If your order is
cancelled for any reason prior to shipment, we immediately release the
authorization. However, depending on the bank that issues your card, it
may take 2 to 5 days for the funds to be unreserved, a process over
which BarnesandNoble.com has no control. Please accept our apology for
any confusion or inconvenience in this matter.

Sincerely,

Julie
Customer Service Representative
Barnes & Noble

("I already did my homework. And you might want to rethink that hairstyle. Just sayin...")

Huh? Notice there's no mention of a gift card credit or a password being sent.

I respond with "Please read the message I sent so your response will be appropriate. Thank you."

8) On Jan. 28, I dig until I find a B&N Customer Service phone number. I call them during standard business hours. I go through the automated phone tree. I get put on hold and told that they are experiencing extended wait times. ("Mom, I'm in the bathroom. We'll talk about it later.") I can wait. After waiting on hold for a while I suddenly get switched to a message that says what their holiday hours are and then disconnects. (*climbs out bathroom window*) Holiday hours? On January 27th? Is it Feast of St. Smithens or something? An online check tells me it is "National Chocolate Cake Day". Really, B&N? REALLY?*

9) I am at a loss. Email strike 1 and 2. Phone strike 3. And then...

10) On Jan. 29, I get an email from B&N telling me "Your B&N Order is on its way!" They claim they have shipped EotN. They make no mention of my cancellation of said order or my email messages. ("I did the effing walk, Mom. Are you happy now? Cheeze! I'm going over to Boner's house." *slam*)

So, maybe, just maybe I'll get the 4th DVD I ordered. If I don't, I 'm going down to B&N Headquarters and camp out. With chocolate cake. And a James Spader movie.

Question #1: How is it possible that B&N is running Borders into bankruptcy?

Question #2: Can customer service get any worse?

Question #3: Chocolate cake deserves its own national holiday.**

* In the interest of full disclosure, I would happily celebrate this holiday by taking off work and devouring chocolate cake with wild abandon, maybe while watching young James Spader, if I'd only been made aware.

** Okay, that wasn't a question. It's a fact.

"Nothin from nothin leaves nothin" --Billy Preston

2011-01-20T10:36:00.001Z

I can distinctly remember, when I was in my 20s, standing in Rumors, telling a guy that I wasn't going to go out with him. Why? Because he lived with his folks and he didn't have a car.

You just called me a snob, didn't you? Wow. It's like that, is it?

Here was my thinking at the time. It wasn't this huge deal that he lived with his folks or that he didn't have a car but it was a deal-breaker. I appreciated that he had a plan to eventually move out of his folks' place/buy a car. And I hoped that he wound up very successful. I understood that not everyone had the same advantages as I had and I didn't think less of him. I just didn't want to start something with him.

I was gainfully employed (back when most people were), living on my own, in possession of my own car (well, me and the bank) and I wasn't going to waste my time with someone who wasn't in the same financial position as me. He wasn't interested in being my friend. I wasn't interested in dating someone who couldn't afford the same activities/interests as me. It wasn't going to work. Brutal? Maybe.

I wasn't looking for a sugar daddy. Just someone who didn't pull his pocket linings out when we'd be out doing something.

I don't believe you have to make the same amount of money as your partner. I DO believe it helps if you are on roughly equal footing, though. Am I a nut case? A jerk? A bourgeois elitist?

Question du jour: Would you rather be on equal financial footing, the other person make more, or you make more?

"Head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes)" --Learning Station

2011-01-10T20:06:00.047Z

It being January and all, and in my continuing quest to be the best darn lemming I can be, I have invested in new exercise DVDs and equipment.* This time I have jumped on the kettlebell craze. I am already reaping the benefits. The main benefit being that I can now say the word "kettlebell" indiscriminately and with vigor. And I do!

Kettlebell.

See? I guess I could have all along, but now--now--it feels like I have purpose!

I say it a good 20-30 times a day. Kettlebell. It's fun! Try it! Kettlebell. I've even taken to calling the husband "Kettlebell", which he seems to think is a nice change up from what I was calling him since our last flight, two weeks ago: "Hammacher Schlemmer...with extra schlemmer."**

Questions du jour: Do you exercise more in January? Would you consider "Kettlebell" a term of endearment?

* *Casually sidles left, blocking view of older, dust-topped equipment*

** Who buys from Sky Mall? Who? Who says, "Yes! On the ground I was bogged down with silly concerns but now that I'm 30,000 feet up, it makes perfect sense to order the voice activated R2D2 for a mere $199.95!"***

***Available from Hammacher Schlemmer. ****

**** Extra schlemmer not included. *****

***** Kettlebell.

"That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up four wheel drive" -- Carrie Underwood

2011-01-06T15:07:00.010Z

Elizabeth Edwards leaves husband John out of will

– 1 hr 7 mins ago

HILLSBOROUGH, N.C. – The will Elizabeth Edwards signed days before her death last month makes no mention of her estranged husband and two-time presidential candidate John Edwards.

The News & Observer of Raleigh reported Thursday that Elizabeth Edwards left all her possessions to her three surviving children.

Her last will and testament names as the executor of her estate her eldest child, lawyer Cate Edwards.

Elizabeth Edwards died Dec. 7, six days after she signed the will filed in Orange County Superior Court in North Carolina.

The Edwardses separated early last year after 32 years of marriage. John Edwards admitted he fathered a child during an affair with a former campaign worker.

Is it wrong that when I heard this story this morning on the radio, I smiled?

"Oh, I don't want a lot for Christmas" --Mariah Carey

2011-01-03T16:17:00.023Z

For the holidays, Hubby received a book he didn't want. Luckily, the gift receipt was pressed between the pages of the book. As there were plenty of books he did want, he high-tailed it over to the book-selling chain to return the book. The cashier took one look at the book and gift receipt and apologized that she could not honor the return. The receipt, and the book, were two years old. Shocked, he looked more closely at the receipt. Sure enough, it was dated 2008!

It put me in mind of another awkward but true gift situation: Years ago, a girlfriend gave me a cheese board. It was one of those boards with a wire cutter device to neatly slice the cheese. It looked something like this: I opened the present and was delighted. I love cheese and all cheese-related gewgaws. Here my friend was, inviting me to cut the cheese in new and exciting ways! Then, I pulled the board out of the generic looking box and lifted the wire to check out the cutting motion. There were bits of cheese on the wire. Cheddar, by the looks of it. After an awkward pause, girlfriend said "I tried it out to make sure it worked."

Um, yeah. Or you bought it at a yard sale and didn't bother to check if it was clean.

Now, I've re-gifted but I hope I've never hit these kinds of lows.

Questions du jour: Ever receive an OBVIOUS re-gift? Is re-gifting a smart thing or a tacky thing?

"Who's with me?" --Bluto, Animal House

2010-12-27T19:02:00.019Z

So many bloggers take this time of year to sum up; to review. This year is no exception. I've seen a number of bloggers wax on about the year they've had--the ups, the downs, and what's made the most impact on them in 2010. I keep replaying the year and one word comes back to me, over and over again. One word haunts me like a Justin Bieber melody. One word, People:

Sharktopus.

How is it that this SyFy channel original didn't make any of the top 10 movie lists for the year? It's a shammockery! We must get that do-nothing congress and that fetching but lackadaisical supreme court to take action on this promptly. This will not stand!

Who's with me? Loud and proud now:

(to the tune of "At-ti-ca! At-ti-ca!...")

Sharktopus! Sharktopus!...

"I'm sick but I'm pretty, Baby" --Alanis Morissette

2010-12-02T16:50:00.036Z

Hi there. I'm writing you from bed. Because I'm waaaay sexy that way.

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm sick.

Why are you holding a bowl of mashed potatoes and a cat o' nine tails?

No, I don't mean sick. *perverted hand gesture* I mean sick. *pathetic face* *

I have a cold. I've had all the popular symptoms: the clogged ear, the scratchy throat, the muzzy eyes, the sneezing, the nose like a faucet, and now the congestion and low-grade fever. Niiiiice. Happy Chanukah to me.

Speaking of Chanukah, I'm not sure Walmart is clear on the concept...

I have to get rid of this cold toot sweet as we've booked a trip to St. Thomas for a friend's wedding and it is fast approaching. At least, thanks to Pardis Parker, I feel secure...

I've taken a few security classes through the years (both cyber and personal) and one of the key things they stress is the illusion of safety. The idea is that you can't plan for all possible threats but you can put in some safeguards and provide the appearance that you're paying attention.

Which brings us to the question du jour: Do you feel safer thanks to the TSA?

* Awwww, you're adorable when you pout. And you get extra points for keeping the potatoes warm.

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" --Perry Como

2010-11-15T16:03:00.008Z

For you: Truvia Christmas tree.

How many people would create a Christmas tree out of the dregs of Truvia in a glass and take a picture of it for you?

One.

Me.

For you.

Because that's what life is. Unexpectedly beautiful. And residuey (residewy?). And often requires scrubbing.

"All you ever give me is baby talk" --Richard Thompson

2010-11-06T20:55:00.031Z

Are you my shweetie pie? My pookie-ookums? My gweat big bwog weaduh?*

My father used to laugh about a married couple he knew and imitate the wife calling her husband "Shnookles" in a whiny voice.... "But, Shnooooklessss..."

I'm not a fan of the baby talk. Not with sweethearts. Not even with babies.

I can remember a coworker bringing his toddler in to the office one day and talking to her in a ridiculously loud, repetitive, and silly voice of the "WHO'S DADDY'S GWEAT BIG GIRL? YOU ARE! YESH YOU ARE, WOOGUMS! YESH, YOU ARE!!" variety. Yeech. It's the kind of thing where you wish the child would haul off and bitch slap the father.

I can't imagine that this kind of patterning helps with the child's speech development. And I find that loud parents beget loud children. And, nobody wants that. But I imagine when you have a small child you have to find something to do to entertain yourself.

A lot of people drop into baby talk with their animals and, 'though still goofy, I find this slightly more tolerable. With babies and with animals, at least one can make the case that the change in voice might be getting the baby's or animal's attention.

But, enlighten me: Why do adults do this with each other? Do you do this? Do you know sweethearts that do this in front of you? Are speech impediments way sexy?

* Well, are you?

"Take out the papers and the trash" --The Coasters

2010-11-03T21:02:00.019Z

So, yeah, I voted. And the person I voted for won. I'm totally taking credit for that. *insert Rocky theme here* *dances around with fists raised*

Sadly, I could not vote in every state in the nation. Let's just say that, overall, and I hope I'm not being too analytical here, I found the broader election results "poopy." Yeah, "poopy" covers it.

Anyway, I got to thinking about a campaign commercial from years ago for a county councilman who was running for re-election. The commercial tells a story/endorsement in the voice of a citizen. The citizen talks about calling the councilman's office on a weekend to report that the trash people have left a mess and ask if something can be done. The citizen expresses his shock when, not only does someone promptly show up to pick up the trash strewn on his lawn, but it is none other than the councilman, himself, picking it up. This was the reason that the citizen was going to vote to re-elect the councilman.

First off, +5 points to the councilman for fixing the problem and doing it quickly.

Second, -2 points that the councilman had to do it himself. What kind of effective politician doesn't have staff to call on to solve problems?

Third, -25 points to the citizen for bothering the councilman because there was trash on his lawn. Why not call the trash collection people? Or write it off as the bummer it is and pick up the damn trash yourself?

All this got me thinking (anything to avoid work!)... I've signed petitions and sent emails to representatives to express my desire for them to take action on important causes. I've never contacted one to solve a problem that I'm having personally.

Which leads me to the question du jour: Would you call your elected representative (at any level) to solve a problem that affects you and nobody else?

"Can't you feel the sunshine telling you to hold tight, things will be all right" --Rob Thomas

2010-11-02T07:05:00.003Z

[A few of the thousands of signs, and me, with mine.]

Seven Things I learned at the Rally to Restore Sanity:

1. Cell phones only work when 200,000 people aren't trying to use them simultaneously in the same location. Note to self: Learn smoke signals for the apocalypse.

Although, we had made arrangements to meet friends at the rally via cell phone, our phones were not working at the rally. Maybe because everyone at the rally was trying to text/call/update their Facebook status simultaneously. My lovely droid was useless except as a camera/watch. We had to get about five blocks from the rally before we could start to use our phones and, then, it was still very spotty. So, I didn't get to see some friends I'd planned to see but I did run into another friend who I didn't even know was planning to go. So, yay, for that!

2. A rally crowd will sloooowly let you out but they will not let you back in.

At some point you have to go to the bathroom. Even if it's to a port-o-john. You will find the sea of humanity that just a few moments ago held a very small spot in reserve for you, is on that spot quicker than Charlie Sheen is on a hooker.

3. Using a port-o-john? Icky. Using a port-o-john when someone decides to climb on top of it? Scary.

Oh, yes, people! These port-o-johns, with their fancy extra doodads like toilet paper (huzzah!) and hand sanitizer, had white plastic tops that let some level of light in. They looked pretty flimsy to me and felt even flimsier as someone climbed up there. I reeeeeaally didn't want someone cannonballing into my lap.

4. Sometimes leaving a rally is more crowded than being at the rally.

As crowded as the rally was, it wasn't until we were trying to leave that we understood just how crowded it could get. It is a very strange feeling to see no space anywhere--just people in all directions, as far as the eye can see. Like being in a packed elevator but inching forward... for miles.

5. Standing in one spot for hours is much harder on the feet than moving for the same number of hours.

And it doesn't get any easier when the 9 inches of precious space you have in front of you is periodically invaded by the chick in front of you who insists on doing a reverse head butt every time she laughs.

6. Having a sign at a rally is great--for the first 30 minutes.

After that, it's just dead weight with dangerous points.

7. It was still totally worth it.

Stewart, Colbert, Mavis Staples, Yusaf Islam, Ozzie, The Roots, Father Guido Sarducci, John Legend, Cheryl Crow, and on and on. It was a great party!

Plus, one of my favorite moments of the day came before the rally, riding on the Metro. We got on at one end of a Metro line so the four of us had seats. By the third stop, the train was FULL but we kept going and we kept stopping at each station and people kept trying to get on. The Metro announcer was getting more and more agitated with each stop... "Do NOT overcrowd the train! DO NOT overcrowd the train! If you lean against the doors, the doors will malfunction! If you try to force the doors they will MALFUNCTION! Do NOT overcrowd the train!" and so on. After the fifth tirade like this, someone in our car pretended to be the announcer, in full parent mode, "I will TURN THIS TRAIN AROUND!"

"I don't want to work, I just want to bang on the drum all day" --Todd Rundgren

2010-10-28T01:12:00.001+01:00

Busybusybusy. The little squirrel in my brain is freaking out over the volume of work lately. She's shaking her furry fist at the world and downing a few too many acorn martinis. Worse, she can't seem to focus long enough to crank out a blog post.*

So, more flotsam:

Speaking of squirrels, the black squirrels are finally showing up in my neighborhood. Way cool, right?! So far? A very peaceful integration.

Really? Sara Rue losing 50 pounds isn't significant enough? They have to enlarge her 'before' picture cut-out such that she looks short next to her former self? Please.

Is it wrong to love an appliance? Ew, not like that, people. No! We got a new refrigerator and it's sooooo purty! And, unlike the old one, it doesn't make ominous noises like a Wes Craven movie. It just quietly cools. Mmmmm.

Speaking of annoying television (redundant much?) , have you seen this commercial?

Literally? Literally? That would be: no. I begin to think people have no effin' clue as to what that word means. And stuff like this? Not so helpful. As the Hubs says, it's kind of like a company that makes educational toys intentionally misspelling their name: PlaySkool. Not so helpful.

Bazillion dollar idea: Wine pairings with junk food. They already pair wine with chocolate. And dessert wines with...well... your fancy type desserts. But which Eiswein goes with Twinkies? Which Zinfandel stands up to your First Degree Burn Doritos Jalapeno Flavored chips? Which box of Chardonnay is going to truly bring out the flavor of your Sour Patch Kids? THIS is what America needs to know.

* Why are you looking at me? *points back to squirrel*

"These are things that I don't understand" --Coldplay

2010-10-18T18:58:00.018+01:00

[Men at work.]

Today, I was walking to my car in a parking lot. This is where, if this were a TV after-school special (do they still have those?) or a Lifetime movie (can I tell you how much I hate Lifetime movies? They should call Lifetime the Victim channel), the menacing music would kick in. But, no, it was a bright, sunny day. No ominous soundtrack.

As I walked, I noticed that there were a couple clusters of men on break from a construction project. They were sitting in two clumps, on the grass, in the shade, chatting. (Question du jour #1: Do men chat? Or is that strictly a female word? Like "gossip", "bitch", "fallopian"...*rolls eyes*)

All but two guys, that is. Two guys, that matched the group in work outfit and general demeanor, were sort of meandering through the parking lot, a few cars away from each other. They were checking doors and trunks on various cars, and finding them locked. I paused and watched them for a moment. They didn't seem to notice/care that I was watching.

Questions du jour #2 & 3: What would you assume these guys were doing? What would you do if you saw this behavior?

Assorted Flotsam

2010-09-29T00:11:00.031+01:00

Not long ago, we tried a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant near home. It had zero atmosphere, unless you count the Chinese TV channel that was blaring some teen dance contest or the woman shucking peas at one of the 10 simple tables. In the front window they had a poster asking people to vote for this restaurant as the top Chinese restaurant in the country. Seriously. Wonder why they stopped at country. Why not go for "top Chinese restaurant in the universe"? Well, I may not know my mu-shu from Uranus but I found the website and voted for them. I did! Not because I'm an authority on Chinese restaurants in the U.S. but because the meal they provided was surprisingly tasty and... they asked. There was something wonderful about simply asking to be voted #1. Like us? Vote for us! Beautiful. Takes me back to fifth grade elections when all you needed was a few poster-boards and a magic marker to be elected class president. This is how all elections should be run. Okay, maybe I'm being a little simplistic. They can use glitter and glue, too.

Things I've tried and thought I wouldn't ever do again: sift, iron, bake bread. Well, I still hold by the first two. I don't sift flour. I don't iron clothes. And I don't care if you think less of me for it. I no longer say that I don't bake bread thanks to the amazing:

combined with the glorious:
People, it's unreal. I make the most gorgeous, delicious, professional-looking, artisinal boules now! And it's a NO KNEAD recipe! Crazy, but true! We will never buy bread again! Bonus: I get to say boule!

Me: Allow me to present Robert.

Sister: Robert?

Me, unveiling bread: Robert Boule!

And still more things I thought I'd never do... You know how you drive down the road and see some idiot running in the pouring rain? And you mutter to yourself, smugly, "Idiot!"? Yeah, that was me, running in the rain last week. I was training for a 5K which I completed, by golly! I finished. Without the need of a stretcher. So, you know, that's something.

Never say "never", people.*

Question du jour: Ever do something you thought you'd never, ever do? Share.**

* Unless it's sifting or ironing.

**Especially the naughty bits.***

*** It's just between us. Scouts honor.****

**** I was never a scout. I heard they make you iron.

"Baby, baby, don't get hooked on me" --Mac Davis

2010-09-28T18:03:00.014+01:00

So, hypothetically, of course...

You're amongst people you know. In the room, there are, among others, a young couple and their few-month-old baby. The baby has a good disposition and is generally the star in the room. Lots of 'oo'-ing and 'aa'-ing and you do a bit of "aww, isn't that sweet" yourself. Eventually, the baby gets offered up for holding. People clamor to hold the baby. Eventually, Young Parent turns to you, expectantly, and says "Would you like to hold the baby?"

Thoughts that come to mind:

No.

Not really.

This outfit isn't drool-resistant.

Why? I've been watching it for the last hour. It doesn't do much.

I'm fine without that responsibility, thanks.

and similarly (apparently) inappropriate things. It isn't that you have a problem with the baby, you just have no desire to hold it.

Question #1: Does this make you a mean or cold person?

Question #2: What do you say to Young Parent?

and, finally, Question #3: Is it rude to not hold the baby?

"I just want your extra time and your..." --Prince

2010-09-21T14:30:00.020+01:00

Last weekend, we canceled our plans with friends because Hubs suggested some time in bed would be much preferable. Sexy, no?

Well, not exactly. He came down with a cold.

My mother: Stay away from him!

She's very compassionate that way.

Luckily, Dish was featuring a free preview weekend for HBO. In between bringing him juice and tissues, I took advantage of his weakened state to check out a bunch of chick flicks: (500) Days of Summer, Crush, The Time Traveler's Wife, and Love Happens. And in at least one of these--who can remember which--someone wakes up someone else and kisses them. You see it all the time in movies. "Good morning!" followed by a big ol' smooch. And every time I see this, I think Bleah! Morning breath! In the morning, my mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died.* But it doesn't seem to phase them a bit. Not even squinky faces. Ah, Hollywood.

Which brings us to the question of the day: Kissing before brushing of the teeth--sexy or gross? Or both?

* TMI? You know you still want me.

"There you are sitting in the garden, clutching my coffee, calling me sugar, you called me sugar" --Pink

2010-09-16T16:58:00.014+01:00

A story:

At the end of a week-long singing workshop at Omega, we (about 35 of us) were sitting in a somewhat random clump on the hardwood floor and the workshop leader invited us to share whatever we wanted to share. We went around the clump and comments ranged dramatically.

There were people that simply said "It's been a great week. Thanks!" and others who told very personal stories and burst into tears in the telling. Honestly, I remember none of these people specifically.

The bit of sharing that stays with me through the years--and I can still see this woman's face in my mind--was this: A 20-something woman said that she was embarrassed to say she'd spent the week worrying about her legs. She hated her legs. They were too thin, she said. And it was hot and she wanted to wear shorts but she didn't wear shorts all week because she hated her legs and she didn't want people to see them. Then she unfolded her legs in front of her, pulled up her pants legs, and said, "Here. These are my legs. I can't believe I spent the week worrying about them."

They were perfectly ordinary looking legs.

We obsess. Over things that don't matter to anyone but us. Over things that shouldn't matter to us, even. Meanwhile, the world goes by. People wonder what our problem is and make faulty assumptions because they see our behavior and have no idea that we're acting strangely because we "don't want to show our legs."

It's crazy. And it happens all the time.

"We are not capable of understanding each other and that is the main source of human suffering." -Thick Nhat Hahn

"I want to be high, so high" --Lionel Richie

2010-09-07T14:52:00.029+01:00

I am a live-and-let-live kind of person when it comes to sexual proclivities. If it involves consenting adults, and the penguin enjoys it, I say, fine. However, there is one particular act that I can't wrap my head around. I can accept that other people do it but I just can't figure out why. I speak, of course, of the Mile High Club.

I understand the intense desire to be with someone right now! I get the idea of wanting to whisk that someone off to a private place. And I know you can only peruse the Sky Mall catalog so many times. But, really, is there any place less sexy than an airplane bathroom?

6 Reasons Why I Won't be Joining the Mile High Club:

The line. There are always people waiting to use the bathroom and they're often standing in the aisle. Do you really want to be in there shagging while little Billy is just outside screaming that he HAS TO POO?
The lack of turning radius. The space is hard enough to maneuver in if you are one average-sized person, much less two people trying to do the hokey pokey.
Push handles. The push handles on the sink mean you're likely to have more than one unintended wet spot.
Dinging lights. You know that every time you go into one of those bathrooms, the "return to seat" light flashes and dings because there's turbulence. Clarence may be getting his wings but do you really need these kinds of distractions when you've just, uh, made a tight connection?
The smell. 'Nuff said.
Talk about "sticking the dismount." Do you really want to exit the lavatory to thunderous applause?

Questions du jour: What am I missing here? Is the Mile High Club a sexy thing or not? And, are you a member or would you consider joining?

"These are the good old days" --Carly Simon

2010-08-31T19:25:00.033+01:00

[There was nothing in the dress code about ruffles.]

Went bowling last night with a bunch of bloggers, former bloggers, and blogger wannabes* at the hipster hangout, Lucky Strike. It was a lot of fun. I gave myself the designation of "team anchor" as my score was way lower than anybody else'. I bowl like Roseanne Barr sings.. or like Paris Hilton... what does Paris Hilton do? Anyway, still, gobs of fun. This was a group that wasn't consumed with performance anxiety and I like that.

Next to us was a woman who was bowling alone, in a long, clingy dress. Did I mention Lucky Strike has a dress code? Yes, a bowling alley with a dress code ...and a proper bar ... and real food choices... but I digress. The woman was friendly and a good bowler and even offered me some advice, which took me from a Captain Hook-level-scary-assed hook into the gutter to a much less cantankerous hook ...into the gutter. Not her fault. What she said made sense.

Anyway, it got me thinking... I don't think I'd go bowling on my own. She had no trouble with it and was garnering some attention from a number of gentlemen but it didn't slow her down one bit. She was there to bowl. Maybe she was practicing for a league she was in. Maybe she'd heard there'd be bloggers around and wanted to be near us.***

I'll eat a meal on my own, though pretty much only at a few casual places. But I don't think I'd go to a movie alone or bowl alone. I'd feel like people were staring at me. But, then, maybe they're staring because they sense I'm a blogger.****

So, thanks to all the wonderful peeps who made last night so fun! I am practicing my "knock those wobbly pins over" lane dance as we speak, because my dancing? Not quite up to par with my bowling.

And now for the questions du jour: Would you bowl alone? Eat at a fancy restaurant alone? Go to a movie alone? What public activities would you be willing to do alone?

And also? It's been around awhile but I still love it:

* In my mind, everyone secretly wants to be a blogger.**

** Of course, in my mind, there's dancing purple hippos. Pretty!

*** Careful... You don't really want to be known as an illusion shatterer, do you?

**** Say 'when.'

"The Internet is for porn" --Avenue Q

2010-08-24T18:13:00.015+01:00

So, porn.

(Catchy opening, no?)

Back in the 80s, I went to Munich on business trips several times. At one hotel we stayed at, I flipped the channels on the TV and found soft core porn. Just there; no payment required. But it was soft, soft stuff. It consisted of five minute vignettes of women starting to undress. That was it. You'd see a woman in a silk robe and she'd flirt with the camera and slide the robe over one shoulder and back up. Eventually she'd drop the robe and she'd be in a bustier. Maybe you'd get to see her unhook her stockings or twirl her necklace before it switched to a different vignette. Um, okay. If that's the kind of thing that does it for you, I've got an old Sears catalog you're going to love.

These days, with porn so readily available on the Interwebs, I worry for the mom and pop porn shops.

Okay, maybe not.

Tangential questions: Do porn shops get handed down, generation to generation? What does teacher say when Billy's mummy or daddy comes in for career day and talks about the porn shop they run?

It's amazing that porn shops still exist but they do. Every city has them. The sketchy newsstand shops with the "no one under 18" back room. The movie rental stores with the blacked in windows. The lingerie stores with the back rooms, the front rooms, the display cases, the outfits, the gear. (What? I hear things.) The stripper bars. If anything, this is a growth industry, pulsing with life.*

Which brings us to the question of the day... Since we've been hanging out together for a while, tell me: How comfortable are you walking into a porn-related establishment?

* "heaving with possibility"? "exploding with potential"? Fine. Be that way.

"It's the end of the world as we know it" --R.E.M.

2010-08-11T11:30:00.003+01:00

I can't make this stuff up.

About a mile from our house, on a busy corner that I pass every day, stands a house. Originally, it was a small stone house and it was fine. Charming, even.

Then, the owners decided to build a house two to three times the size of the original house, right next to the original house, and attach the two. They didn't actually match the two houses in any way. Because attached to a small stone cottage, you want a great big, wood-sided, Aspen style, ski lodge of a house. Niiiiiice.

Grandma and Grandpa moved into the small stone portion of the... *insert Kathy Griffin suspicious look and tone here* ...family compound.

They cleared the front yard except for a half-dozen, four foot diameter boulders which they put on the corner. Different!

They made half of the front yard a driving pad. Whatever, right?

In the process of clearing the front yard, they left half a tree in the front, center. A four foot stump. Pretty!

To the four foot stump they attached a placard advertising a Christian radio station. I'll bet their neighbors were really loving them at this point.

Then, they put up chain link fencing... but not around the house. Not even up to the house. Not these people. They created a rectangular enclosure on the grass part of the front yard around the stump/sign post. It's maybe 20 feet by 10 feet. I imagined that maybe it was a space for a puppy. Nope, a chain link "play area" for their toddler. They moved molded plastic toys into the enclosure and placed them on wooden pallets instead of just on the grass. The kind of wooden pallets you'd expect to see on a loading dock. Fancy!

Then, they moved the Christian radio station sign from the stump out to the fence and affixed two more identical signs to other parts of the fence.

I try hard not to rank on people for poor taste because, lets face it, I've been known to wear quite a few regrettable outfits. But every time I drove by, I couldn't help but wonder, "Don't they care how their place looks?"

And, then, the other day, I got my answer. They don't care.

They now have an SUV parked on their driving pad, positioned for optimal viewing. It is painted/has a skin with depictions of skulls and fire and other Armageddon-like images. It also has the following printed in great big letters:

"The End of the World is Almost Here!"

Underneath that it says:

"Holy God will Bring Judgment Day on May 21, 2011"

Because we wouldn't want to wait all the way to 2012 for the end of the world, with those goofy Mayans, right?

Amazing, no? No wonder these people don't care how their house looks. End of the world? Higher priority.

Here's the kicker:
One of their other vehicles is an official Homeland Security vehicle. I kid you not. Isn't it comforting to know that the folks who are keeping us safe are of the belief that the world is coming to an end in 2011?!

I called Homeland Security to report it. I'm very Agnes Kravitz, that way.

They asked me why I was calling. I explained the two vehicles. They asked, again, why I was calling. I said I thought they might like to know that one of their employees believed the world was coming to an end and I was concerned said employee might do something strange (like, oh, I dunno, create a doomsday scenario themselves?) or at the very least they might require psychiatric evaluation. The call taker said they would look into it. I never heard back from them.

So, in the interest of blogging--I mean keeping America safe--I called Homeland Security back to find out what happened. They hedged. They gave me a website where I could submit a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request and then they would provide information on the case. According to the website, by just submitting the request, I agree to pay as much as $25 for the information.

So, um, no.

Consider this your warning that we may have less than a year here. So, considering the short time we have: screw work. You may as well spend the rest of your time reading and commenting on blogs, right?

Questions du jour: What do people who think the world is going to end on a particular day do when that day comes and goes (hopefully) without incident? And--long shot here--should we be invited, what is the appropriate hostess gift for an "end of the world" party?

Assorted Flotsam

2010-08-09T13:48:00.003+01:00

Quick, what color is a yield sign here in the US?

Go ahead. Think on it.
*taps foot and hums Jeopardy theme song*

Got your answer? Good!

Did you say yellow? Me, too! *joins in happy dance*

And we're both wrong! Yield signs used to be yellow twenty-nine years ago! Now, they're red and white.

How do these mass delusions happen?

Makes you wonder what else we've been missing, hm?
____

You know how every exercise program advises people to consult their physician before they start it? And they never do? I think it's because they're afraid of what they might hear: "Yes! Exercise! Start immediately! I didn't know how to broach the topic but it's such a relief to hear you admit you're in terrible shape! This is exactly what you need. Can you do more than one program?"
____

We saw two movies in the theater in three weeks' time! This is so rare this may be a sign of the apocalypse. Best stock up on Dr. Pepper and Cheetos, just in case. Speaking of Dr. Pepper, we did the "upgrade" on popcorn and soda that was "only 50 cents more" and wound up with a soda so large I couldn't hold it in one hand. I'm serious. I could either lift it with both hands or leave it in the cupholder, lean in, and suck.*

We saw Inception and Dinner for Schmucks. No worries, no spoilers here. Suffice to say that Inception was interesting and visually stunning and hard to follow. Which is why it amazed me that multiple kids were texting during it. I know this because their screens were bright beacons in the otherwise dark theater. If you need additional entertainment during Inception, there's something very wrong with you.

Dinner for Schmucks had heart. It was sweet and funny and predictable and not an "important" movie at all. Also, if you plan to see it, sit through all the credits. We were the only ones in the theater who did. There's another 30 seconds of story after the credits finish. Which, I gotta say, I love. A little bonus!

Question du jour: Do you usually stay through the credits?
____

Also? We bought a gorgeous painting from a wonderful blogger who is exhibiting at the Maris Elaine Gallery at National Harbor. I also bought two pairs of earrings at the gallery and we will probably go back around the holidays as there are great gift options there that are reasonably priced. If you're in the area, check 'em out.

Disclaimer: I am not on the payroll for Judith or the gallery... just impressed!
____

When we were in Georgia last month, we ate at a Mexican restaurant that had a "Dirty Sanchez" listed as a menu option. Really? Really?? You know who ever got that past the owner is having a good snicker.
____

* As god intended.

"It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore" --Crosby, Stills, Nash and sometimes Young

2010-08-03T19:17:00.013+01:00

I've been stressed about work lately which means I wake up in a panic a few times a night. This means evenings look something like this...

without the lilting piano music. It's all I can do to stay awake much less be any fun anymore. I sit, googly-eyed, grateful for the comforting touch of the Hubs...

It's not pretty.

I'm feeling the need to do something to get me out of my rut. Maybe join a kickball league. You know, something to get my bad ass moving again and tire me out enough so maybe I'll sleep better. Or at least be a more toned corpse. I need a little play in my life.

Questions du jour: Does anyone as decrepit as me join kickball leagues? If I started a team, would any of you locals be interested in joining in? Have I lost my mind? And, finally, what do you do when you're feeling a need for play?

"Feel like making love to you" --Bad Company

2010-07-27T14:59:00.045+01:00

Back in the 80s, before I knew Hubs, there was Boyfriend. And Boyfriend worked with Jim. And Jim was seeing Betty. And we were in our twenties and thought we'd be all grown up and go out to a nice restaurant on a double date.

So we did.

And Betty got drunk off her ass on two drinks at dinner. She was slurring. She was staggering. It happens.*

After dinner, we all went back to my place. Once inside, Betty fell over the arm of the couch. Luckily, she landed somewhat on the couch.

Jim, looking embarrassed, explained that Betty was a bit of a lightweight, and gently but firmly righted her. Boyfriend and I played it down. I asked if they wanted some soda.

It was at this point that Betty spotted the CD rack. She went over and promptly found Anita Baker's Rapture, which was hugely popular at the time.

Betty: Ooooo, Anita Baker! Can we play it?

Me: Sure! I can put it on--

Jim: No, I don't think that's a good idea.

Betty, now holding the CD, throws her arms around Jim and almost misses: Come oooOOOoonnnn! Swee-et love, hear me calling out your na-a-ame, I feel no shame, I'm in love...

Jim, looking more awkward by the minute: Betty, honey, not here.

It became abundantly clear to Boyfriend and me that Betty and Jim had employed Rapture for, well, rapture. Jim managed to get Betty out the door and into his car, thank us, apologize again to us, and get them on their way in the blink of an eye.

Not for nothing did that album sell eight million copies. ;)

Take your pick...

Tangential question du jour: Are double dates a good idea or the work of the devil?

Direct question du jour: What music says sexy time to you?

* Sometimes to other people, even.

"Sometimes I wish, oft times I wish, that I never never knew..." --Carly Simon

2010-07-20T12:36:00.018+01:00

*links arms*

Walk with me. Talk with me. Let's visit the land of hypothetical, hmm?

Let's say you have three friends: Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Assign any genders you like. You count all three of them as friends but you're not tight with any of them.

One night you are out with Huey and Dewey and they start telling you a story about Louie. It's not a complimentary story. They're not saying Louie is a child molester, mind you. It's more like Louie threw a pie at each of them.

You express surprise. You've never even seen Louie with a pie. Maybe Louie ate a piece of cake in front of you, but pie? No. They are adamant that they had to spend hours getting the whipped cream out of their hair and, OMG, the dry cleaning bills!

You ask them what they said to Louie. Turns out they said nothing. They're still hanging out with Louie. Just less. And not within pie throwing distance.

So, now you have this information. What do you do with it?

" You stand in the line just to hit a new low" --Daniel Powter

2010-07-14T12:43:00.045+01:00

[Grocery cart FAIL.]

The scene: A (non-Piggly Wiggly) grocery store

The players: Me, Hubs, and someone I'll call Clark the Clerk

We have a dozen items and make the fateful decision to go "self checkout".

The view: It is set up such that four self checkout stations are positioned behind one clerk station, should there be questions. *insert ominous foreshadow music here* The next free station happens to be close to the clerk. Husband takes the scanning part, I take the bagging part. The station appears to have two scanners, one in the scale/base and one perpendicular to this. It's also got one of those bag carousel doohickeys, where it's clear the bags are having more fun than we are.

All right, you've got enough information. On with the show.

Hubs scans the first item. To do this, he goes through the following:

1. Run item over base scanner, nothing happens.
2. Run item over base scanner again, nothing happens.
3. Run item in front of perpendicular scanner, nothing happens.
4. Curse.
5. Run item slowly over base scanner, nothing happens.
6. Wave the item in a variety of indiscriminate directions as if shaking a box of marbles.
7. Item and price come up on screen.

Hubs hands me the item which I place in a bag.

Screen reads: "Wait for attendant."

Hubs: What?! What happened? I scanned one item. What's wrong with this thing?

Me, turning to Clark the Clerk: Hi. It's saying "Wait for attendant." Do you know what's wrong with it?

Clark, not moving from his station: Yeah. It's messed up.

Me, animatedly: Honey, the gentleman here knows what's wrong with it. He says, "It's messed up."

Hubs:

Me:

Hubs: Maybe self check-out was a bad idea. How do I cancel out of this?

Screen no longer reads "Wait for attendant."

Hubs: Wait, it cleared.

Hubs scans three more items. I bag three more items.

Screen reads "Wait for attendant."

Hubs: #%!#$!

Clark, still not moving from his station: She's leaning on the bag carousel. That messes it up.

Me, jumping back faster than Mel Gibson's press rep.: I was? Oh. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have done it.

Clark: Yeah.

Hubs:

Me:

Hubs scans more items. I bag more items.

Hubs puts a bag of apricots on the scanner/scale base. It says to enter the PLU but there is no PLU. There is no search option on the screen. We turn to Clark.

Clark: Yeah, I can look that up. What have you got there?

Me: Apricots.

Clark: What?

Hubs, lifting bag for Clark to see: Apricots.

Clark: Paper cuts?

Yeah, we were low on paper cuts so we thought we'd stock up.

Me, slowly: A-pri-cots.

Clark, scanning laminated list in front of him: How do you spell that?

Me and hubs simultaneously: A, P, R, I, C, O, T, S.

Clark, lifting his finger from the middle of the list and heading back to the As: Oh, Apricots.

Hubs: Yes.

Clark: It's 4039.

Me: 4039. Thank you.

Hubs types in 4039.

Clark: I was all like duh.

Yes, you were exactly all like duh.

Me: Well... thanks.

Annnnnd, scene.

Questions du jour: Do you self checkout?* Does self checkout ever work for you without a problem?**

* I am not talking about what you do in the shower.

** I'm still not talking about what you do in the shower.***

*** You really should rinse everything down after that, you know.

"I said yeah! yeah! yeah! Atlanta, got to get back to you" --Little Feat

2010-07-12T18:30:00.038+01:00

What up, Blog Monkeys?

I've missed you. My bad.*

Just came back from a trip to Georgia. A few thoughts from the trip.

My latest conspiracy theory...

Am I the only one that thinks the airlines pump drugs through the air system to keep us docile on flights? Think about it. Much like the surgeon will chat about meaningless stuff with you while you're slowly losing consciousness, the stews talk to you about flight safety while the drugs are kicking in. As if flight safety was a real thing. *derisive snort* Totally filler, right? Just a distraction until your eyelids get to that appropriate droop. And then, then! towards the end of the flight, there's always that sudden whoosh of air through those nozzles and your fog starts to clear. What were they pumping through before that? Hmmmm? See what I mean? I'm not complaining, mind you. It helps with the tedium. Plus, I like the talking squirrels. I'm just waiting to see how they'll charge us for it.

On Southern pleasantries...

Me: You know they greet you when you walk into stores here.
Hubs: Yes.
Me: It's like they're letting you know they see you; they're watching you.
Hubs: Don't try anything.
Me: Exactly.

Because, carpet-bagging, fast-talking, northernish type that I am, I wouldn't just assume they're being friendly. Even though, that's probably exactly what they're doing.

Just to throw me off.

Question du jour uno: Ever start a rumor just to see how far it'll go?

Question du jour dos: Is Piggly Wiggly the best name for a store ever?

* I'd explain how I've been wanting to post lately but haven't had time but then I'd be one of those lame bloggers who posts about not having time to post. We hate those people, right?

Just time for a WOOT!

2010-07-06T14:43:00.003+01:00

Congrats to Felisa of Girl Uninterrupted who has won the $100 gift card! WOOT!

"I know I'd go from rags to riches..." --Carmine "The Big Ragu" Ragusa

2010-06-27T18:06:00.062+01:00

I am not a National Merit Scholarship recipient.

There. I've said it. Now you know my secret.*

It's true, my PSAT scores were the stuff of legends. They'd talk about 'em 'round the campfire. My scores were scrawled on the bathroom wall. People would whisper them as terms of endearment while frantically undressing at make out point.** If they were putting images of people on cakes back then, you can bet my face would have been on 9 out of 10 cakes bought.*** Parents would point to me and elbow their kids, saying, "Why can't you be more like L.A.?" Yes, I was both hated and revered. And those PSAT scores were enough to get me in the running for a scholarship of 2500 smackeroos.

But "in the running" does not a scholarship make. You had to submit an application. With an essay. And I... I... well... the truth is, I couldn't be bothered. I had more important things to do. Laverne & Shirley was probably coming on. That Squiggy... *wipes eye and shakes head* ...he kills me.

[True story: Two unpopular girls in my high school performed the L & S theme song, "Make All Our Dreams Come True", for the annual talent show. Not only did they not win, this made them even less popular. When people say, "Oh, go ahead. What have you got to lose?" they have no idea.]

Let's face it, if I had gotten my butt in gear, I could have written the essay to beat all essays. Or at least to beat out the other 49,999 applicants that year. I might have gotten into a fancier shmancier college and had a totally different life. One with a wine refrigerator and a fire pit.

But, no. I took the Boo Boo Kitty route. I was lame.****

Not this time people. I've learned from my mistakes.

CSN Stores has offered to sponsor another giveaway and I'm not gonna squander this opportunity. What kind of vile, disgusting creature would I have to be to throw an opportunity like that away? (*door flies open* "Hello!"--A. Squigman)

Yes, the people that can set you up with a fab vanity are at it again. They're ponying up a $100 gift card which can be used for a vanity... or a fire pit... or a wine refrigerator ... or kids toys ... or fitness equipment ...or so much more! Irritated that you didn't win that All Clad pan I gave away a while back? Don't be hatin'. You win this, you can get one of your very own! You can use the gift card at any of their websites.

But, L.A., you say, I'm right in the middle of a rerun of Saved By The Bell. Don't make me work to get all the dreamy things I so richly deserve.

You know I can't resist you when you whine. Okay, just leave a comment on this post no later than July 4th, 2010. Need a topic? Here: Under what circumstances would you drink milk and Pepsi mixed together?

* Wait, have I mentioned this before? Am I repeating? After four years of blogging, who can tell? Next I'll be talking about standardizing car horns and reviewing Last Holiday.

** Cars with bench seats, people. That's all I'm saying.

*** Even I can't compete with Fudgie the Whale.

**** Were Shirley Feeney and Laverne De Fazio the original Al "Macarena" Gore and George W.? I mean, you knew Shirley was a better influence but you'd rather have a beer with Laverne, am I right? Of course, they both worked at the brewery so they probably both got free beer. Hmmm.

"With love from me to you" --The Beatles

2010-06-20T15:04:00.019+01:00

[Now that's love.]

Green Canary writes about finding her beau's love notes from a previous relationship. Since work is driving me right around the bend, I thought I'd glom onto her topic because, let's face it, originality is so 2009.

So, tell me, purveyors of internet truth:

Should you keep or get rid of old love letters and smoochy cards from ex-canoodlers?

What about stuffed animals? Boudoir outfits? Kitchen appliances? Jewelry? Cars? STDs?

"Give a little bit... give a little bit of your love to me" --Supertramp

2010-06-15T15:08:00.036+01:00

As the economy gets worse and we start to shoot each other over three piece chicken dinners*, I've been giving some thought to one-on-one giving...

In Jamaica
We usually try to buy souvenirs to support the local economy when we travel, particularly where the standard of living is no where near that of home. We did buy some things in Ocho Rios. We did not buy anything but a photograph at Dunn's River Falls. WAY too pushy.

When we were at the falls, we had a wonderful time climbing them, bought a picture of ourselves with shocked expressions as we were pushed into the freezing water, and then worked our way through a designated labyrinth of lean to shops that we were shepherded into, to get back to the bus that brought us there. It was work. Because it was far from obvious how to get out of the maze and in every direction there was someone calling for you to look at their chotchkies, pulling at you, offering you ganja. It was downright claustrophobic. One effective gambit was this:

Vendor, with carved wooden cup in hand: Hey, welcome to Jamaica. Are you having a good time?

Tourist: Fantastic!

Vendor: Beautiful lady/Big guy, what's your name?

Tourist: [provides name]

Vendor, already carving the name into the front of the cup: Good to meet you, [name]. That's [name] with an A, right?

Of course, once the name was carved into the cup (mere seconds), the tourist felt obligated to buy it.

New Orleans
When we were in New Orleans, we were walking down a street when one of four reasonably dressed, college aged boys asked if he could please have a dollar so he could get beer. I laughed, then gave him a dollar. At least he was honest.

Washington, DC
Here, I'll sometimes pay street musicians and sometimes pay beggars. I find there's a correlation between how happy I am and whether I'll give. The more fortunate I feel, the more likely I am to give. I've noticed the same thing with donations to charitable organizations.

I have grudgingly paid belligerent squeegee guys (the people who stand in the median and start cleaning your windshield while you are stuck at a light even though you didn't ask for this service) not because I wanted to but because I couldn't avoid the confrontation.

And a confession: At times, I've left change in public places, hoping that someone would be happy to come across it.

Which brings us to the questions du jour: Would you give money under any of these circumstances? Would you rather pay someone a) for a service (be it squeegee, music, carving or some other un-asked for thing), b) simply because they need it, or c) not at all?

*Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

A Quickie

2010-06-06T22:29:00.011+01:00

We attend a party on Saturday playing throwback music. On the boombox (yes, boombox) we hear Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Friend: Can you believe he's playing "Come on Irene"?

Hubs: Actually, that's "Eileen". "Come on Eileen". I knew things were going downhill earlier when he started playing "She Blinded Me with Silence".

Me: Actually, that's "Science". "She Blinded Me with Science". I blind you with silence.

Hubs: I wish you did.

"Just walk away" --Kelly Clarkson

2010-06-01T11:13:00.022+01:00

[Who doesn't want helpful advice?*]

It is a long holiday weekend and we are lazy for 90% of it but on Sunday we decide to take a run at Holly GoHeavy, the two-story holly in our front yard. We decide that we will prune her two feet in in all directions. Well, all but the roots. They can stay.

We get the ladder out. We get the loppers out. We get the shears out. We get the heavy duty gloves out. And we go to town. Which is to say, the Hubs gets down to work and I do my usual impeccable job of supervising and picking up debris.

All goes well for 15 minutes. But, alas, we are in the front yard. Read: in clear view of the neighbors. And they are helpful neighbors. Very helpful neighbors. They all have tools to help, which is great! And they can't bring them over fast enough, which is great, I guess... And they all want to stick around... and supervise... which is terrible. How many obnoxious overseers does one job need?**

How does one say, politely, "Please, just go away!"? I wouldn't dream of going into someone's yard and telling them how they should prune their shrubs, much less taking tools out of someone's hand to do it. Oh, yes. It was like that. I finally went inside and left the menfolk to sort out just how fluffy Holly should be. This was totally unfair to the Hubs but necessary in order to avoid a neighbor having a terrible accident with a lopper, if you catch my drift.

Which brings us to the question du jour: What do you do when your neighbors are TOO helpful?

* That would be me.

** That would be one. Yup, still me.

"And it opened up my eyes" --Ace of Base

2010-05-16T21:52:00.020+01:00

A few weeks back, a colleague is standing in front of my desk, where I am sitting. We have the following conversation:

Her: I missed the 10:00 meeting. Were you there?

Me: Yes. I can fill you in...

Her: That would be great.

Me, looking at my meeting notes in my notebook: They went over the Shnorkins spreadsheet again. And they said the report on Blexurg is due on the 17th.

Her: The 17th? That's good to know.

Me: And, then a lot of the meeting was spent on the new Gwibble protocol but they don't have enough information about it yet to really know how to implement it.

Her: Oh. What about the XLC project?

Me: Huh! They did talk about XLC. Funny you should mention it!

Her: I read it in your notebook.

Me: *blink* Oh.

I go on to tell her about the XLC project but all the time I'm thinking, "You're reading my notes? Upside down? And you're telling me you're doing it? How often do you read my notes? What have I written before?"

I know that the mind processes things, sometimes unbidden. If there's words we might read them unintentionally, even upside down. But... still...

Questions du jour: Do you read other people's notes? Would you tell someone you're reading their notes? Should I write "[colleague] is a jackass" in my notes?

"Island Girl" --Elton John

2010-05-14T10:00:00.001+01:00

Ah, Antigua. I miss you already. I admit that, at first, I was just after you for your looks. You can't blame me... Your intoxicating vistas. Your sensuous curves. Your bold colors. Your lush landscape. And, oh, god, to feel your heat! But the truth is, you are so much more that stunningly beautiful. You are friendly and welcoming and interesting and, oh my god, your luscious mangoes!!

*blush*

Moving on...

Sigh... Yes, I am back. There were a few things of note on my journey:

The woman in the row in front of me on the plane from Antigua had a regulation-sized can of Pringles and likewise a Hershey bar. She alternated a Pringle and a bite of chocolate, Pringle, chocolate. This I can accept but can someone explain to me why she washed it down with a Diet Coke?

I made a startling discovery while I was away: you do not have to have Vietnamese jabbered all around you to have a successful manicure or pedicure. I know! I was shocked, too. Our room came with a sizable spa credit so I got a manicure and a pedicure and an even shorter and sassier haircut (this one people are actually complimenting me on!) and it was sooooo relaxing. Oh course, to maintain this do, I'll have to fly back to Antigua about once a month. Oh well. Price of beauty blah blah.

Our departure from Miami back to DC was delayed an hour, so, instead of leaving at 10 PM we left at 11 PM. As they packed the plane with standbys, it was completely full. The stews were tired and nudging people to sit down so we could go already and possibly land in DC by 1 AM. The 30-something woman in the aisle seat across from me seemed to think she might die if she didn't get to sit next to the man she came on board with. She repeatedly harangued the stew about the possibility of changing seats. The flight was full. Why would anyone change seats? She wasn't a child, after all. For the love of god, we're talking about a two hour flight! Suck it up, Woman! Meanwhile, the man who was her entire world, took his seat in the back of the plane and promptly fell sleep.

At the resort, there were plenty of young newlyweds. In fact the demographic broke pretty cleanly between just married 20-somethings and your 40-plusses. One recent bride sported a tramp stamp that read: DAD. That's right. A tramp stamp that read DAD. I've heard of being a Daddy's girl but... ew. I guess I would have understood it more if it had read "Daddy", as in "Who's your..." Anybody want to venture an explanation for this? I am at a loss.

At least Barbie got it right.

"Big ol' jet airliner, don't carry me too far away" --Steve Miller Band

2010-04-29T20:00:00.033+01:00

Here's the thing: Why do I always want to start every blog post with the phrase "Here's the thing"? Things? They get to me. And, life? Chock full of things. More things than should be allowed under the legal limit. I'm just saying, please eliminate three.

Maybe I should just re-title my blog: "Here's the thing."

So, anyway, none of that was actually the thing. Here's the thing: I'm going on vacation. Off to the beach.*

I've earned it. I cut way back on the cheesy tots (I heard you gasp!), exercised 27 times in the last 29 days (I KNOW, right? I'm the buffest 80-something you'll ever meet), saved my pennies, actually completed a few things at work, and now? I'm done. Outta here. Sayonara. Bedee-bedee-bedee, that's all folks!

What can I leave you with to chew on?

How about Five Truths About Air Travel:

The person in front of you in line at the ticket/baggage counter will have 40 bags, and will speak no English. They will not understand what the agent is saying, with increasing volume, about additional charges and weight limits.

No matter what seat you choose while waiting at the gate, there will be someone facing directly at you, barking into their cell phone. They will have nothing of consequence or interest to say. Yet, they will say it. For half an hour. They will pretend you are not giving them the "I hope you don't make it to the future" stare.

On the plane, a passenger will come along and open the already closed overhead bin above your head. "Just to check."

Upon landing, when the stewardess asks everyone to keep their seat-belts on until the plane has come to a full stop and the captain indicates that it's safe to move about the cabin, there will be the sound of tiny clicks all over the cabin as every single person unfastens his/her seat-belt.

After taxiing, there will be some idiot that leaps up as soon as the bell dings and runs to the front of the aisle, only to wait another fifteen minutes with everyone else until the door opens.****

Question du jour: Aisle or window? Show your work.

Miss me! Of course, I will be spending every minute of vacation trying to think of clever things to blog about for you.

*slow-mo wavey-wave*

* Please don't rob me.**

** If you do come by, be sure and give Brucie, our pit bull, a big hug from us. He loves to snuggle.***

*** Oh, and if you have to take something, please, please, please don't take the highly-valuable-via-resale-on-Ebay rock CDs from the early 70s that my husband--er, we love so.

They're in the family room.

On the right.

Next to the TV.

Top two shelves.

Don't take those.

****That idiot might be me.

"Are you what you are--or what?" --Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians

2010-04-27T12:43:00.032+01:00

Last Friday, I met a novelist.

I was at a happy hour drinking free, bad Chardonnay*, and I was introduced to someone who described herself as a novelist. That's not something you hear every day. She might as well have said, "I'm a rodeo clown" because she got the same reaction.

Then, so many questions. No, she wasn't yet published. Yes, she was working as a temp to support herself while she wrote. Yes, she had recently completed her first novel and was in the process of revising it. No, she was not self-publishing; she was going for the real deal. And so on.

She could have said she was a temp. She could have said she was an aspiring novelist. Instead, she embraced the title of novelist.

When does a novelist become a novelist? When they start to write a book? When they finish a draft of a book? When they get published? When they get annihilated by a critic? Really, rodeo clown is a lot better defined.

I envied her ability to believe that she was a novelist. I did. At the same time, it was like speaking to a five-year-old that tells you, "I'm going to be President." You smile broadly and say, "That's great!" because who's to say they're not? Yet, a part of you--that smarmy, dream-killing part, who maybe has witnessed their attempts to work a room with armpit fart noises and found their efforts subdued and watery, at best--says, snidely, "Yeah, good luck with that."

Everybody has a dream of being something grand. At some point, most of us let those dreams go. But there is that small segment... 2% maybe? ... that continues to believe, to strive, to embrace the dream. Maybe they give themselves a time limit--"if I'm not on Broadway in seven years, I'll quit acting." But they go for it. And I salute them. Even as I cock my head funny at them.

Question du jour: Are dreams life's way of encouraging us or some twisted joke?

* You know how everything tastes better when it's free? Not even the fact that it was free could help the taste of this wine. So, sad.**

** Big surprise, I drank it anyway.***

*** Also, can somebody please kill the Chardonnay trend already? Bleah.

"She thinks my tractor's sexy" --Kenny Chesney

2010-04-20T10:00:00.000+01:00

[I googled funny sexy and that's what I got.]

First, let me take care of business and announce the winner of the All-Clad. My lovely assistant will reveal the name chosen via a random number generator and hermetically sealed in a mayonnaise jar on Funk & Wagnall's porch since noon*...

Oh my gosh! How exciting! Congratulations, Bethany! Send me your address at lacochran812@gmail.com to claim that fantastic prize from CSN Stores!

And now on to today's topic...

Hubby and I are watching a movie.

Hubby, noticing how engrossed I am: Do you think he's good looking?

Me, considering: Not particularly, no. ...But I do think he's sexy.

From my vantage, there are good looking people and there are sexy people and there are good looking, sexy people and then, there's everyone at the DMV. You know, all those tragically creepy people that wind up in line with you at the DMV and you think "Yeah, that's plenty close enough."

Clearly, it helps to be attractive if you're going for the sexy card, but, to my way of thinking, sexy is more about confidence and intensity. There are plenty of pretty, pretty princes and princesses that aren't the least bit sexy to me. In fact, if they're too pretty, I think it detracts. Your Bond players display this beautifully. Most people opt for Sean Connery or Daniel Craig over prettier but less intense Pierce Brosnan or Timothy Dalton.

But these are just my thoughts. Questions du jour: Are attractive and sexy the same to you? Is there such a thing as too pretty?

* 5 shiny blog points to whomever gets the reference.

Assorted Flotsam

2010-04-16T18:44:00.028+01:00

Can we all agree that Whitney Houston sang the National Anthem better than anyone ever has or ever will, and for anyone else to sing it is a crime? No, really. It should be illegal. Everyone else, at best, falls pathetically short and, more often, butchers it. I say, from now on, at baseball games, they just project Whitney on the Jumbotron. Done. Who's with me?

There are long yellow lights in these parts but they're not infinite. Why is it that when we wind up running a red light, we feel better when someone runs it worse behind us? And, around here, 90% of the time, someone does. As if our illegal behavior is somehow less illegal than theirs.

One of the local places to see big names in music has been renamed. It was bad enough when you were going to see someone perform at the Nissan Pavilion but, now, you have the honor of having friendship-ending conversations like this one:

Friend: They're awesome! I saw them two years ago at Madison Square Garden.

You: I know! I just saw them! They were amazing!

Friend: Really? Where did you see them?

You: *mumble**cough**mumble*

Friend: What did you say?

You, unable to make eye contact: I saw them at Jiffy Lube Live.

Ex-friend: *turns and walks away*

There are two kinds of Scrabble players in the world. Those that time their moves, memorize the Scrabble dictionary, and hoard "u"s and those that don't. The two types should never, ever play together. Nothing. Not even hopscotch.

Here's the scenario. You're trying to eat reasonably healthy. This may be because you know you will be on a tropical beach in a few weeks wearing very little. You order a sandwich and instead of the chips that come with it, you pay the extra money for a small salad. Your order comes. There, in your order, is the bag of chips. You complain that you were supposed to get a small salad in place of the chips. The clerk tells you he's given you both. Do you a) keep and eat the chips? b) keep the chips but do not eat them? c) politely give the chips back? or d) have the biggest hissy-fit Atlanta Bread Company has ever seen?

And remember: blahblahGiveawayblahblah.

"All I've got is a photograph" --Def Leppard

2010-04-14T19:50:00.027+01:00

I heard on the radio this morning that a primary reason people friend you on social media sites is to have photos with which to... um... get busy. The story goes that people, well, guys, find something thrilling about having a picture of someone they know personally and that that is sufficient to... um... help the process, as it were.

The DJs went on to take calls from people who verified this. Turns out it doesn't even have to be that shot of you in your swimsuit at the beach. You can be fully clothed, standing next to the mall's Easter Bunny.

So, if creepy Wendell from Accounting wants to friend you, it may be to up more than his friend stats.

Lovely.

Now, I'll admit to being a voyeur. You post pictures of yourself, I'll probably take a peek. Saucy pictures? A longer peek. But, I have to say, I didn't see this coming.

*insert rim shot here*

*insert joke about rimming here*

*try to figure out how to get out of this reference chain here*

Question du jour to the Facebook/MySpace/TwitPic denizens: Do you care what is done with/to the pictures you post? Will knowing this tidbit affect what you post and/or who you accept as a friend?

PSA: Don't forget, if you want a chance to win that spectacular giveaway prize, leave a comment here (not here) by April 19th. But, by all means, comment here, too. Just don't expect a prize.

I'm giving it away. You know you want it.

2010-04-13T13:00:00.002+01:00

[Editor's note: The giveaway is now closed.]

*psssttt* I have something for you.

Did you just put your hand on my ass?! Jeez, it's not even Saturday night and you already have your mind in the gutter!*

No, I have something really good for you. I'm talking pot extraordinaire! This is the good stuff. The finest quality!

Why are you shushing me? What? Cops?! Oh, forheavenssakes. Just read on...

CSN Stores, who bring you such wonderful options as corner tv stands, and are also the folks behind www.cookware.com, have offered to sponsor a giveaway. My thought: Now, this is fabulous! After all, who better to receive a gift than one of you, my favorite cheeky monkeys?

*insert drumroll*

So, I am proud to announce the first ever L A Cochran's Bloggery Giveaway! One lucky winner will be the recipient of an All-Clad Stainless 1.5 Quart Saucepan With Lid:

Isn't she purty? There's something to put your hands on!

When I saw All-Clad cookware was included in the list of things I could give away, I jumped at it. We have All-Clad and love it. For real.

When we were getting married we decided to put a few All-Clad pots and pans on the registry. They were pricey but we thought we might get one and it would be nice to have a quality pot/pan. Instead of getting one, we received a whole set from a dear and very generous relative!

It has truly changed our lives. Not only do we enjoy cooking and eating more now, I think it makes us better looking and more sophisticated. No? Well, they're still damn good pots and pans. Such a difference from the cheap stuff we'd been using.

So, what do you have to do to get your mitts on this gorgeous hunk of cooking stuff? Leave a comment before April 19th on this post. I will do a random pull** and choose the recipient. Note: You will have to supply an actual address to get the prize mailed to you from CSN but we can work that privately via email.

Come on. You know you want it.

*I knew there was something I liked about you.

**TWSS.

"In the fast lane and I won't change" --Fergie

2010-04-11T13:00:00.001+01:00

On Wednesday, I zip in to the dry cleaners and I find myself parked between two average cars, both with tinted windows. And I can't help but think: Why the tint? Planning on committing a few crimes later in the day?

On Thursday, I pull up at a traffic light and notice the pickup truck next to me. I notice it because, where I am idling behind the car in front of me, they, in the "fast lane", are idling behind two-and-a-half car lengths of nothing, which is behind the car in front of them.

I look over. They're just sitting and staring straight ahead as if this is normal. It's not like the car ahead of them is spewing clouds of vileness. So, why the gap? Why?

Anyway, I'm staring at this pickup wondering WTF? (as well as WTG?) and I notice under the passenger-side window is the word "FABULOUS" in 3 inch letters. Just the one word. Like someone saw it in a magazine, cut it out, and glued it to the cab door. Really, that's what it looks like. I tilt my head, doggy style*, and look at this FABULOUS couple.

These have to be the least FABULOUS people I've ever seen. I mean it. They're middle-aged, lumpish, unattractive, and sloppy. It's not even like they're glamming it up in hopes of achieving FABULOUS with the limited gifts god gave them.

And, yet... there's that word... FABULOUS.

But then, as I watch, as if to disprove my thoughts, AND I SWEAR THIS IS TRUE, the woman in the passenger seat, who has no makeup on and an expression that screams Tampax, takes out a small mirror and a pair of tweezers. She starts plucking hairs from her chin in the bright sunshiny, rush hour traffic.

I think: Fabulous.

Then, I think: Clearly, I've misjudged them. She, at least, cares enough to pluck the hairiness.**

And, finally: Why don't THESE people have tinted windows?

Which brings us to the questions du jour... Please educate me: 1) Why do average people tint their car windows? 2) Why do people refuse to snug up in traffic? 3) Why would someone put the word FABULOUS on their vehicle door?

I'd ask what is too ridiculous in terms of grooming in cars but this story kinda says it all.

* That's what that means, right?

* The original but rejected Hallmark slogan.

"Don't you know I had a dream last night that you were here with me" --Jim Croce

2010-04-05T16:39:00.013+01:00

During a time when I was single but dating, I worked with an attractive, married man that one day chose to tell me he'd had a dream about me the night before. Not only did he dream about me, but, he confided, I was scantily clad in the dream. I was in a teddy, he went on, chuckling and blushing. "Can you believe it?", he asked, sounding incredulous and laughing it off. "You were really something," he added, almost wistfully, and then, laughed and blushed, again.

I'm sure I stood there, blinking... even more slowly than I usually do at work. What does one say to this?

I knew he loved his wife, who was a very attractive woman, and based on the way he was conveying it, I knew he wasn't angling to make his dream come true. Yet, I had to wonder why he told me. Perhaps, he figured, if he just blurted it out, it would diffuse the tension he was feeling and he might be able to let go of the images that were apparently still cluttering his brain. And, then, we could just get on with our work and our lives, which, of course, we did.

Which brings us to the question of the day: If you had a dream about someone, would you tell them?