I discovered the wordpress app today for my motorola droid. Now I can easily blog anytime the mood strikes. Let the verbal diarrhea begin. By the way, speaking of diarrhea, I learned via webinar today that the bible makes mention of diarhea but calls it melting bowels. I prefer my friend’s verison…. holy poop.
What the world needs now may be love, sweet love… but what I really need is a vacation. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that the “real world” sucks. From the time you enter kindergarten all the way up through high school, you get summers off. You get that week off at Thanksgiving, then again between Christmas and New Year’s. Just when you think January couldn’t go any slower, February comes and along with it is winter break. I’m so glad that we had at least 2 important Presidents born in February and even more greatful that they were born close enough together to warrant an entire week off from school. March is exhaustingly long. April comes and you get another week off for Spring Break. May and June tend to drag out, but they throw you a bone with Memorial Day weekend, then if you can just hold on a little longer you get all of July and August off before returning starting all over again in September. Nex thing you know, its college. And what happens in college? LONGER BREAKS!!!!! All of June, July & August are off. An entire month between December and January! We’re supposed to be getting prepared for the real world, and our reward is even longer expanses of time off between responsibilities. Not to mention the fact that every weekend is a 3 day weekend, because once you’ve gotten past first semester freshman year no one in their right mind takes Friday classes! Then you graduate. You’re looked at cockeyed by “grown ups” if you don’t get a full time job that starts 2 days after your commencement ceremony. You’re plunged into a world of responsibility and maybe after a full year of working the powers that be toss you 5 vacation days and you smile from ear to ear.
I’ve been out of college for nearly 8 years. I haven’t had a summer or winter off in 9 years. My brain has still not accepted the fact that I don’t get those months off like I used to. It punishes me with distraction, making the work I have to do even more mentally exhausting than it normally is. I get that buisnesses, governments & other employers can’t shut down for weeks at a time, but seriously. All I want is a couple days off. Is that too much to ask?
Reasons why having a personal assistant would be awesome:
1) First and foremost, you can tell people “I have a personal assistant.”
2) I could cook whatever I wanted, but not have to clean up after myself.
3) Anytime I wanted something, but didn’t feel like going to get it, I could send my assistant.
4) By not having to do stupid things that I don’t want to do, I’ll have ample time to do things I do want to do.
I’m sure there are more, but for now, those will do.
I think I want someone like Alice from the Brady Bunch, but without her creepy references to Sam the Butcher.
I don’t think I could afford to pay to have a personal assistant, but I think I may be able to take on an unpaid intern. I will show them the ropes on what they need to do to assist someone, but I wouldn’t get mad at them if they messed up. After all, they’d be learning.
For those of you who live somewhere without basic necessities like cable, an iPod and indoor plumbing, PeaPod is a grocery delivery service. You browse their website online, select your groceries, then they drop them off at your home. This service is not free, but every now and then I get a coupon in the mail for free delivery. I have attempted at least a dozen times to complete a PeaPod order. After about 10 minutes of shopping all I have in my cart is a box of cereal and some Babybel cheese so I give up. At that pace it would take me 4 hours to pick out food for the week. I finally came to the conclusion the other day that I give up because its actually less effort to go to the grocery store and pick out the food in person.
You see, i’m not a list maker. The only time I’ve actually ever made grocery lists is when I manage to trick my husband to coming to the market with me. Bri then sits at the kitchen table and draws up a list to “focus our efforts”. Lists require TOO much effort. Apparently my method of milling about the store for a solid 90 minutes while I randomly decide what we’re going to eat for the next week and a half isn’t an acceptable use of time for Bri. He likes to develop some sort of game plan that involves splitting up the list and then rushing through the store like we’re contestants on Supermarket Sweep. This usually results in me looking at the collection of food he selected and saying “no”, “ew”, or the all encompasing “stop being so cheap”.
I think the problem with online food shopping is that it forces the senses out of the equasion. You don’t get to look at a meat case and select the perfectly marbled ribeye, or smell a ripe tomato. There’s no end caps piled high with whatever item they overstocked and are now selling for $3 off. All you do is browse and click while making your selection based on tiny little thumbnail images of hummus containers or stock photographs of peaches. The deli selections allow you to choose “thin, regular, thick” for slicing. Where’s “so thin you can almost see through it”? PeaPod doesn’t ask you if you want to taste the first slice. The reason I find using PeaPod so tedious is that it makes grocery shopping feel like work. You have to search for everything, guess which electronic aisle the food item is located on, and then limit yourself to whatever brand they decide to stock that week.
I think people who use PeaPod must eat the same boring chicken 3 nights a week and make Stauffer’s Lasagne on Tuesdays and survive on the leftovers. They probably view food shopping as a chore and save their list online and just click submit every couple of weeks when they run out of things to eat. I pity their boring existance.
I’ve come to the conclusion that when discussing super powers with people, everyone falls into one of 3 categories.
1) Those who want to use their powers for good.
2) Those who want to use their powers for evil.
3) Those who want to use their powers for convenience.
I love asking people the question “If you could have any super power what would it be and why?” I think it tells you a lot about the person based on their answer. My friend Matt wants to be able to manipulate time. I like Matt. He’s a good guy. I’m pretty sure if Matt had the power to manipulate time he’s use it to save old ladies from getting run over by buses. I think we can drop him into category 1.
I decided to ask my husband this very question just a few moments ago, and he said “Super strength. because I want to be able to kick any one’s ass and not have to worry about getting hurt.” My immediate thought was “Great… I married a #2″ (LOL). But he followed that up by saying “I would always use it for good. Never evil.” I’m going to have to keep an eye on him.
There’s always people who insist that invisibility is the ultimate super power. I’ve categorized them as perverts, which automatically defaults to #2 (evil). Everyone who mentions invisibility talks about sneaking into locker rooms of the opposite sex. News flash: Watching people get naked without their knowledge is weird. I hope you invisibility weirdos accidentally stumble into a YMCA locker room after a senior citizen aquacise class.
Personally, I fall into category #3. I want to be able to teleport. Teleportation is hands down the greatest possible super power. I’m quite certain I would pretty much only use it for convenience. Late for work? Not when you can teleport there! Instead of waking up at 7:25am, taking the world’s fastest shower (that in itself is a super power) and running out the door by 7:50, I could sleep until 8:15, shower & then teleport to work by 8:30am. I’d be the world’s most punctual employee! Every weekend I would go somewhere awesome. Instead of sitting around on a Saturday watching the grass grow, I’d teleport to China and have some tasty camel hump for dinner. I have no idea if camel hump is actually tasty, but Jackie Chan ate it in Rush Hour 2, so it can’t be that bad… Instead of calling my buddy Dan in Edmonton, I’d show up with some chicken and have a picnic. He loves chicken.
I suggest you take a moment to consider a super power (if you haven’t already). There are several to choose from, but please, choose wisely – lest you be labeled a pervert. And yes, x-ray vision definitely bumps you into the pervert category.
I skinned my right knee today. Today. Less than 2 months before my 30th birthday, I trip, fall & skin my knee on the pavement. My jeans managed to survive. And I was able to fashion a make shift bandage out of a Kleenex and some scotch tape. I realize just how absurd this sounds. It’s not like I was trapped down a well somewhere in the woods waiting for Lassie (or perhaps Laddie) to come save me. I could have easily located a band-aid from the gigantic emergency kit that I’m required to keep in my work truck should birds fly over from Asia and start infecting us all with the flu. Instead I opted for the MacGuyver style wound dressing.
The truly pathetic thing is that this isn’t the first time in recent memory that my knees have suffered such a fate. Just 2 years ago I tripped over a curb and skinned both of my knees. I was with my “car buddies” (aka guy friends) at the time. Not wanting to appear like a wussy girl, I stood there in the June sun with the blood streaming down my shins insisting that I was not only fine, I couldn’t possibly be better. Did I need a band-aid? Hell no I didn’t need a band-aid! Band-aids are for girly sissy girls who where pink and like nail polish. Not me! Inside I was DYING! The pain was just unbearable. If I were alone I most definitely would have been on the phone with my husband SOBBING. Finally my buddy Brandon absolutely insisted that I put on a couple of band-aids because the gore of seeing my mangled, bloody skin was just too much to process.
If I reach back further into the history of my adult life, I am reminded of the neo-geo pocket incident of ‘99. I had just left my boyfriend’s (now husband) Rutgers dorm room. I was walking to class while playing bust-a-move on my neo-geo pocket. I was looking down (rather than paying attention to where I was walking) when tripped over a very low chain designed to block cars from entering the sidewalk. I took a massive face-plant into the gritty parking lot. Neo-geo pocket went flying. I skinned my wrists, my chin, my knees & twisted both ankles. And I lost my round of bust-a-move. All those damn bubbles stacked up before I had a chance to regroup and find my game. I decided to cancel going to class on account of blood, which is a better reason than some of the other excuses for not going (the Mets, The Cosby show, rain, sun).
I’ve clearly fared far worse in the past, than I did with the knee skinning incident that occurred today. The blood and shredded skin was quite minimal, and aside from the Kleenex fusing itself to the forming scabs, the healing process is already in motion. After the scotch tape lost its stickiness, I moved on to a Hello Kitty Band-aid. I’ll consider that a worthy upgrade.
If you enjoyed reading this, wait until the next time I accidentally burn myself making dinner, that will spark quite a trip down memory lane.
My husband and I were discussing today how much the month of March sucks. It’s cold, crappy and just when you think the snow is gone for good, you get one more visit from the white stuff. Sure you get those oddball warm days that remind you just how much you miss t-shirt weather, but then the next day its freezing again.
I want to be able to wear flip flops again. I’m sick of wearing sneakers and boots all the time. Mostly because no matter how many I own, I can never seem to find a matched pair of socks. It’s pathetic that the hardest part of my morning routine is managing to locate socks. Even after laundry day the pick-ins are slim.
It doesn’t help that the one pair of socks that I have no trouble finding are completely useless. They are pedicure socks (don’t even ask where they came from because I have no idea) that don’t cover your toes. They mock me with their deficiencies. Flaunting the fact that they manage to be the only completed pair in my drawer. Balled up inside themselves giving the appearance of a regular pair of white socks, only to reveal their true selves after I’ve done a sock selection victory dance.
I don’t know why I have so many issues keeping socks together. Granted, I do have a hard time making sure the worn socks wind up in the hamper (mostly because I have a tendency to just kick them off while in bed, watching TV or sitting at the desk). But when I go on a sock retrieval mission prior to laundry day, I leave no ottoman unturned in my quest.
Perhaps the Underpants Gnomes have focused their efforts on stealing single socks, just to mess with us. I think it would fill the missing link in their plan for profit.
Step 1: Steal single sock.
Step 2: Sell sock back to original owner.
Step 3: Profit!
It’s a much more complete plan than their underpants stealing scheme which left step two with merely a “?”.
If anyone happens to find a gnome selling a single orange and white argyle please send them my way. In the mean time I’ll hold out for flip flop weather.
Tonight on my way home from work I was at a red light behind a black SUV with diplomat plates. I started wondering how exactly you become a diplomat. In my head, I envision diplomats as being fancy people who do nothing but schmooze and be schmoozed. I think I would like that. They probably get special privileges (like diplomat license plates) that let them do awesome things like go to the head of the line at six flags or get out of speeding tickets.
I started to examine the SUV to try and gather some intelligence about this diplomat. I noticed a bumper sticker advertising that their kid attends a schmancy prep school in the area. There was also a sticker for a college with a fancy sounding name. Then I noticed the SUV itself. It was a Hyundai Entourage. That’s when the confusion set in. If I were a diplomat I would surely hope that I had an entourage. But not the wanna-be luxury SUV in front of me. The kind of entourage where people follow you around and kiss your butt all day. I think that sort of entourage would be pretty sweet. This Entourage was not what I would expect from a diplomat. Maybe an Escalade or a Cayenne. A blacked out Suburban. Maybe I’m a car snob, but it seemed odd to me that it costs them more per year to send their kid to school than to buy the SUV they were driving. Maybe if the diplomat was Korean it would make sense, but they weren’t. So as far as I can tell there is no excuse. You’re a diplomat dammit. Start acting like one. Have some self respect.
Anyway, the light turned green so I pulled into the next lane to get side by side with the diplomat. As far as I could tell there was no driver carting around the diplomat. If I were a diplomat I’d have… well for starters a way cooler car. I’m thinking either a DB9 or a Maybach. I’d also have a driver. And someone feeding me grapes. I also noticed that the person driving the car wasn’t wearing any sort of sash declaring the fact that they are a diplomat. I want a sash. Kind of like Miss America, only more ostentatious. Perhaps with some real diamonds and rubies spelling out “DIPLOMAT” in 4″ lettering.
I have to say that my run in with the diplomat was a bit of a disappointment. Like finding out that Snuffy is a figment of Big Bird’s imagination, or that some people are lactose intolerant. I really think that I could be a much better diplomat than the sash-less Hyundai driving diplomat I saw. So if any of you know how to become a diplomat, or are in dire need of a diplomat please do not hesitate to contact me. I think I would prove to be an excellent candidate for the job.
I’ve wanted to be many things in my life, most notably, a volcano. My mom enjoys telling people the story of me sitting on the family room floor with a blanket over my head pretending to erupt. I was fascinated with the idea of people living inside volcanoes, too young and naïve to realize that what happens on the Muppet Babies does not always translate to real life. I also considered being a lawyer, because I remember my parents complaining about how much money they had to hand over to an attorney when they bought a house. In a similar fashion, my husband will tell you that as a kid he aspired to be a gas station attendant because they always had a big wad of cash in their pocket.
I also was one of those kids that wanted to be an inventor and create something new and better and important. I was never happy with anything out of the box – there was always room for improvement. Even now I can’t leave well enough alone. I tinker with my cell phone, I modify my car – I can’t even make a recipe without adding to it. One of my favorite episodes of the Simpsons is when Homer decides that if Edison can invent something, why can’t he? There’s no denying the important role that modern day inventions play in our lives. I even recall an alcohol fueled Sophie’s Choice-esque discussion over which would you rather have – indoor plumbing or an iPod? (We decided that as long as the iPod is back lit, going to an outhouse won’t be so bad)
Late night television is full of dreams realized. Infomercials offer up for sale inventions to do everything from making your own beef jerky to covering up that embarrassing bald spot. I challenge you to find someone who can’t finish the phrase “Just set it and….”. Chef Tony inspired us to fry in the microwave, and Vince encourages us to check out his nuts.
During a recent trip to the store, I discovered an invention in dire need of an infomercial, and fortunately for you, dear readers, I’ve decided to take on the task of scripting it. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you “The Pasta Plate”!!!!!!!
Imagine if you will, the typical infomercial horror story….
(Shot in black and white)
A husband and wife are sitting at the dinner table in their drab kitchen attempting (and failing) to enjoy a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. The husband twirls his fork into the plate of spaghetti, inevitably shooting a meatball into his lap and dumping the forkful of pasta down the front of his white oxford shirt and loosened tie. The wife – near tears – tries in vain to mop up the mess.
Cue voice-over: “Are you tired of ruining your clothing? Have you given up on serving your family spaghetti? Well with “The Pasta Plate” your worries are over!”
(Now shown in color)
A happy husband and wife with a well mannered boy and pigtailed girl happily twirl their spaghetti with “The Pasta Plate” and engage in an animated conversation about their day at school and work.
Voice-over: “Enjoy healthy and inexpensive pasta dinners with ease thanks to “The Pasta Plate”. Save money by serving restaurant quality Italian meals at home!”
Right. Because owning a stupid twirly ceramic plate is suddenly going to make you a 4 star chef. Fortunately, this is not a dreaded “uni-tasker”. The exciting drawings on the packaging encourage you to use “The Pasta Plate” for hors d’ouvres and desserts. I wonder who actually buys an item such as this? Is it the same people who buy t-shirts that read “Gimme the chocolate and no one gets hurt!” and have a poster of a kitten clinging to a tree branch that says “Hang in there!”?
There are many fantastic items up for sale destined to become house hold staples (George Foreman, I’m looking at you). Hell, I really really really want a “Graty” (but I can’t seem to bring myself to purchase the “Slap Chop” to get one). I’m also pretty sure that I only want the “Graty” because it’s really adorable. But I’m quite certain that “The Pasta Plate” is destined for the dumpster. Much like the “Deion Sanders Hot Dog Express”.
Who decided that the official Americanized St. Patrick’s day meal was going to be corned beef and cabbage? Did people just sit around one day discussing Irish food and unilaterally decide that boiling meat & cabbage together was a good idea? There are plenty of Irish foods that taste infinitely better than that disgusting concoction.
For example, Shepherd’s Pie – ground meat with onions, peas & carrots in gravy topped off with champ (aka mashed potatoes), smothered in Irish cheddar and baked. Delicious.
What’s really ridiculous is according to this official looking website, “corned beef is not traditionally Irish at all – Bacon and Cabbage is.” I’m not saying we should all start eating bacon and cabbage. Why not skip the cabbage all together? I hate to be crass, but cabbage makes people very very gassy. So does beer. There’s no way you can convince people to stop drinking on St. Patrick’s day, but why exponentially increase the flatulence by adding boiled cabbage into the mix?
I truly think a better candidate for St. Patty’s dinner is the aforementioned Shepherd’s pie. Or maybe some bangers and mash (everyone loves sausage). Hell even a hearty Irish stew or a hunk of soda bread with some tasty dubliner cheese.
Just a word of warning… should you decide to eat out at an Irish pub, stay far, far away from the “pudding”. This is NOT a tasty snack pack of chocolately puddingy goodness. It’s meat and wheat and rice and other stuff all pureed together and stuffed into a casing. If that’s not horrifying enough, Black Pudding is all of that lovely stuff mixed with pigs blood. Definitely not the yummy dessert food of your youth.
In closing, I think this year should be the year that we say no to sub-par fake Irish food. Down with corned beef. Screw off cabbage. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya.