Since Halbastram and I were unfortunately a part of the crapfest that is the recession, Christmas for us was a little light. And by a little light, I mean that I had him pick out his gift at a store that my father had given me a gift card to for my birthday, which was a month earlier. And I...well, I got nothing. It's not Halbastram's fault. Up until recently, I was the only bread-winner so funds were light. Even though I encouraged him to dip a little into our meager funds and buy me a magazine if that's all we could afford, he declined, saying that perhaps we could celebrate Christmas at a later time, when things were more on the up and up, even if that ended up being in April or May.
At the present-opening festivities at my mother's place, after everyone had opened their gifts, I noticed a card with my name on it, written in the indecipherable handwriting that could only be Halbastram's. Curious, I opened it and read it (slowly, as he writes everything in that "doctor's signature" scribble). In the card, he expressed sadness over not being able to get me anything for Christmas, but felt happy that he had the greatest gift in the world: being able to wake up next to me everyday. Swoon-fest, indeed. He usually shies away from the sweet sappies (being such a dude and all), so it was nice to read that.
Fast-forward three days ago. Feeling excited that my bus training was almost over, I decided to treat myself to some clearance rack gift card shopping. In my family (as in others, I'm sure), as you get older and move further away, the relatives who don't forget about you entirely will more than likely have no clue as to what to get you for Christmas. As a result, I received a ton of gift cards. And I hate carrying around gift cards with ridiculous balances on them, like $1.62. So I decided to hit up the clearance racks to find crap that will help clear up my wallet and clutter my home.
While at a department store I'm not fully fond of, after purchasing some warm and cuddly socks that looked like they were a returned Christmas gift, I ventured to the men's department to find Halbastram some fancy underwear. It's a tradition between us: I buy him random boxers that I see in stores that I frequent, he wears them for a few months, and then they get lost in the back of the drawer behind his more comfortable discount store brands. I find a very ridiculous pair with a little man on a horse playing polo and decide that yes, this will be his official Christmas present. And then I see it, a couple of displays over: The Simpsons Scene-It Game. Seeing as how we're both HUGE Simpsons fans, I decide that it's a gift we can both enjoy and possibly get better use out of (sorry, Mr. Jockey).
So I get it home, wrap it in my Disney Princess Christmas paper (a gift from a former co-worker...) and present it to him. He opens it, I say "Merry Christmas" and he says "thank you." Then, after a pause, he goes, "you're still waiting for a gift, aren't you?" I tell him not to worry about it: that case of beer he bought me the day before works just fine. We have a good laugh and I prepare dinner. The recession may have made gift-giving light, but it hasn't trampled on our psyche. I'm just glad it's almost over.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
My dirty little secret
As far as I can remember (which goes back to around the 4th grade) I've loved reading. From Wayside School is Falling Down to the Sweet Valley High series, I was always at my "local" library. I say "local" because the library was actually 28 city blocks away and required a 20 minute bus ride. Many of my other friends didn't share this sentiment, as they preferred to run the streets and labled me a nerd whenever they saw me with a bulging bookbag following a library excursion. Back then, I really had no desire to be a writer. I watched a lot of MTV and was convinced that I would marry a rock star and become rock royalty. I had my sights set on one of the Gallagher brothers from Oasis...and that bassist from R.E.M...and the lead singer from Marcy Playground...yum...
But I digress.
Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.
One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.
I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)
Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.
And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.
I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.
But I digress.
Somewhere around the 6th grade, I made a very dramatic leap from quirky Louis Sachar books to more provocative writing, completely by accident. During the summer before I was to start the 6th grade, I spent the season in Milwaukee with my aunt, my cousin, my aunt's fiance and his two kids. Jason was the same age as me and Paris was two years older, but since she was a girl, we hung out constantly. They lived in a huge two-story brick house with FABULOUS hardwood floors, a wrap-around leather couch, large rustic dining room that no one ever ate in and the kids had the entire attic to themselves. Since they were spoiled rotten, the common area in the attic was cluttered with every toy imaginable.
One day, out of boredom, we decided to sift through some of the debris and maybe clean a little. I came across a book and thought it was a classic that had just been made into a movie recently. I opened it up and discovered that is was not the book I was hoping for. What I thought was The Secret Garden turned out to be My Secret Garden, the groundbreaking book of female fantasies written by Nancy Friday in the 1970's. I may have been young, but I knew dirty words when I saw them. And the force was strong with this book. Of course, I shared my finding with Paris, who told me the book belonged to her older, adult sister, and for the rest of the summer we'd read random passages from it and giggle like school girls. At the end of the summer, she let me keep the book, so long as I promised to return it when she came to visit at Christmas. I agreed...but unfortunately, this never materialized. Stupid me, I took the book to school and had it confiscated by a teacher who also thought it was The Secret Garden. My mother was called in, there was an embarrassing conference, it was locked away and I was forced to have "the talk" when we got home. It still makes my head hurt.
I could tell my mother wasn't really upset with me for having the book; she was more disappointed that I took it to school, since the teacher was very curious as to where I got the book. I 'fessed up to where I acquired it, but my teacher was still confused about how my mother could not know I had it in my possession. (perhaps because I had a mother who didn't snoop in my room because she trusted her straight-A student daughter...perhaps)
Following the conference, I had all but forgotten about the book until I started rummaging through my mother's room for something or another and found the tattered, worn book along with a copy of Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a book which I still have in my personal possession. This was during my sophomore year of high school, so I figured "enough time has passed...she either won't notice or won't care." So I took both of the books, amazed at the frankness of the women in the Nancy Friday book, considering the time it was published. I wanted to share my fascination with this book with my close friend, Carla. So I took the book with me as I left for school one early Autumn morning. Being a goofball, and having learned nothing since the last time I was caught with the book outside of the house, I boarded the city bus with the book in my hand and not in my bookbag, where it should have been. I laid the book between my seat and the wall of the bus, so that the adults wouldn't see what I had. Unfortunately, since it was a long ride to her house (and very early in the morning), when I went to ring the bell and exit the bus...I completely forgot the book. And I didn't realize this until I reached her door.
And the thing that upset me the most about this was that the book was an original copy and despite how worn and tattered it was, that still meant a lot to me. I hope that wherever it ended up, someone appreciated it for more than just the "dirtiness" of it.
I bought another copy of the book a couple of years ago, but it's not the same as digging it up from the rubble all those years ago. I keep it in my bedside dresser drawer along with my mother's original copy of Delta of Venus. I never leave the house with it.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Maury, Tyra and Me.
This job opportunity couldn't have come at a better time. Lately, I've been getting sucked into the Tyra Banks show. It's by accident, really. My daily routine involves watching the Maury Show at 2 (just like college...more on that later) and Tyra comes on right afterwards. And many factors led to my watching the Tyra Show the first few times: the remote was too far away; there was absolutely nothing on the million cable channels we have; the set is bright and colorful and holds my attention; it wasn't Oprah, so it was watchable.
While she is over the top and has a tendency to yell for no reason other than because she could, she picks up where Ricki Lake had potential, before she went trash-factory and started down the Springer Show path.
*My Maury sidenote: During my junior and senior years of college, after two unsuccessful attempts at having roommates, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to obtain a single in a suite. I shared a "unit" with four other girls, but I had my own room and door to close whenever I was so inclined. During these years, my class loads started becoming more flexible, as I was starting my internships and portfolio classes. Some of my classes started at 8am, which allowed me to be done by 9-10. Instead of doing homework, I'd sit in my room with my waffles from the cafeteria, searching for something to watch on basic college cable. One day, I happened upon the Maury Show, something I hadn't seen since I was in high school. The episode that day was paternity tests and after the first "You Are NOT The Father!!!" I was hooked. Soon, it became a near-daily ritual; many days, if I had a 10am class and I happened to catch a commercial for the episode that day, it was over: I wasn't going to class that day. Not the smartest choice, and definitely not something to brag about to my future adopted Canadien babies. I didn't realize how bad it had become until I was sitting in my 400-level poetry class and my professor asked us to say something about ourselves...and here's what I said: "I sometimes miss class to watch the Maury Show." My professor seemed amused: "well, if you're not in class, I know where to find you." Saying it out loud just sounded so silly. From that point on, I went on a Maury Show diet and reserved it for when I had absolutely nothing else to do: no homework, no suite cleaning, no article due for the paper, etc. Unfortunately, unemployment has knocked me off the wagon.*
Anywho, back to Tyra. Many women still worship the all-mighty Oprah, and I have nothing but respect for the woman; I mean, she has bascially built an empire around talking. But I think her time has come and gone. And her retirement has come at a great time. Tyra seems to speak to a young, hip crowd and she's such a breath of fresh air from the homemaking queens (Martha, Rachel Ray) and the trash-factory (Springer, The Steve Wilkos Show, and, sadly, Maury).
Now all we need is a show for the quirky crowd: the people who carry a journal around with them everywhere they go; the people who wear Chuck Taylor gym shoes for every occassion, even weddings (perhaps their own); the people who like dressing up as Neil Diamond and doing karaoke. We'd share our favorite quotes from terrible 80's movies and discuss our secret love for The Monkees.
I guess I just gave myself a task for tomorrow.
Dear CW,
I have a fabulous new idea for a show that you'll likely cancel after three episodes...
While she is over the top and has a tendency to yell for no reason other than because she could, she picks up where Ricki Lake had potential, before she went trash-factory and started down the Springer Show path.
*My Maury sidenote: During my junior and senior years of college, after two unsuccessful attempts at having roommates, I was fortunate enough to be chosen to obtain a single in a suite. I shared a "unit" with four other girls, but I had my own room and door to close whenever I was so inclined. During these years, my class loads started becoming more flexible, as I was starting my internships and portfolio classes. Some of my classes started at 8am, which allowed me to be done by 9-10. Instead of doing homework, I'd sit in my room with my waffles from the cafeteria, searching for something to watch on basic college cable. One day, I happened upon the Maury Show, something I hadn't seen since I was in high school. The episode that day was paternity tests and after the first "You Are NOT The Father!!!" I was hooked. Soon, it became a near-daily ritual; many days, if I had a 10am class and I happened to catch a commercial for the episode that day, it was over: I wasn't going to class that day. Not the smartest choice, and definitely not something to brag about to my future adopted Canadien babies. I didn't realize how bad it had become until I was sitting in my 400-level poetry class and my professor asked us to say something about ourselves...and here's what I said: "I sometimes miss class to watch the Maury Show." My professor seemed amused: "well, if you're not in class, I know where to find you." Saying it out loud just sounded so silly. From that point on, I went on a Maury Show diet and reserved it for when I had absolutely nothing else to do: no homework, no suite cleaning, no article due for the paper, etc. Unfortunately, unemployment has knocked me off the wagon.*
Anywho, back to Tyra. Many women still worship the all-mighty Oprah, and I have nothing but respect for the woman; I mean, she has bascially built an empire around talking. But I think her time has come and gone. And her retirement has come at a great time. Tyra seems to speak to a young, hip crowd and she's such a breath of fresh air from the homemaking queens (Martha, Rachel Ray) and the trash-factory (Springer, The Steve Wilkos Show, and, sadly, Maury).
Now all we need is a show for the quirky crowd: the people who carry a journal around with them everywhere they go; the people who wear Chuck Taylor gym shoes for every occassion, even weddings (perhaps their own); the people who like dressing up as Neil Diamond and doing karaoke. We'd share our favorite quotes from terrible 80's movies and discuss our secret love for The Monkees.
I guess I just gave myself a task for tomorrow.
Dear CW,
I have a fabulous new idea for a show that you'll likely cancel after three episodes...
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Training Day.
Today was the first day of training for my soon-to-be new job. Yeah, the same job I blogged about not taking...turns out, I'm a sucker for my Halbastram. He works for the same company and suggested that I work for them also, until we get back on our feet or until we go to grad school, whichever comes first. It's a bus driving job, which I'm not too keen on. Aside from the fact that I don't really want to drive a bus-full of loud, obnoxious kids around, I don't take to kindly to the road. I grew up in the city, where I took the bus or train everywhere I wanted to go, and I didn't bother getting my license until 18, because I honestly didn't think I would need it.
When I moved out to the burbs, I depended on friends to take me wherever I needed to go. And when it was my turn to drive to Daytona for Spring Break, I spent maybe one hour on the road before one of my friends, being scared out of her mind, decided to take over, despite the fact that we were only 2hrs away from Daytona.
Over time, after Halbastram bought me my first car, I began to feel more comfortable behind the wheel. Unfortunately, I was a bit of a hazard on the road. I tend to speed, at least 10-15 over the limit; I get very impatient and yell at drivers (with the window up, of course); I'm very well-versed in the rolling "California stop" at stop signs. But at last, I finally feel comfortable driving. It's only been...8 yrs.
And now I have to learn how to drive all over again. As a bus driver, I have to eliminate all of those bad habits and become a saint on the road.
*sidenote: why do school buses have "school bus" written across the front? is there anything else we could mistake the big yellow bus for?*
At the training session, I felt completely out of my element. I was the only female (aside from the instructor) and the only one in my 20's. There was an older man, coming out of retirement; a recently laid-off man; a non-traditional college grad looking for work; a new resident; and a guy who was a hat-diva (meaning he's into collecting baseball caps and refuses to tell people where he buys his hats because he doesn't want anyone else to have the same ones he does...diva, much?)
During the training, we watched an instructional video on the do's and don'ts of bus driving laws. This included learning the components of the bus. To me, it was like learning physics in Russian. Throughout the entire training session, the only thing on my mind was, "life would've been so much simpler if I had published that book last year."
I get to go back tomorrow and take the CDL exam. Halbastram tells me not to worry about it, since he passed. I'm not so sure, but it'd be fun to try. Plus, how bad-ass would it be to have a commercial driver's license? I could buy a truck, get a CB radio and travel the country looking for Burt Reynolds.
When I moved out to the burbs, I depended on friends to take me wherever I needed to go. And when it was my turn to drive to Daytona for Spring Break, I spent maybe one hour on the road before one of my friends, being scared out of her mind, decided to take over, despite the fact that we were only 2hrs away from Daytona.
Over time, after Halbastram bought me my first car, I began to feel more comfortable behind the wheel. Unfortunately, I was a bit of a hazard on the road. I tend to speed, at least 10-15 over the limit; I get very impatient and yell at drivers (with the window up, of course); I'm very well-versed in the rolling "California stop" at stop signs. But at last, I finally feel comfortable driving. It's only been...8 yrs.
And now I have to learn how to drive all over again. As a bus driver, I have to eliminate all of those bad habits and become a saint on the road.
*sidenote: why do school buses have "school bus" written across the front? is there anything else we could mistake the big yellow bus for?*
At the training session, I felt completely out of my element. I was the only female (aside from the instructor) and the only one in my 20's. There was an older man, coming out of retirement; a recently laid-off man; a non-traditional college grad looking for work; a new resident; and a guy who was a hat-diva (meaning he's into collecting baseball caps and refuses to tell people where he buys his hats because he doesn't want anyone else to have the same ones he does...diva, much?)
During the training, we watched an instructional video on the do's and don'ts of bus driving laws. This included learning the components of the bus. To me, it was like learning physics in Russian. Throughout the entire training session, the only thing on my mind was, "life would've been so much simpler if I had published that book last year."
I get to go back tomorrow and take the CDL exam. Halbastram tells me not to worry about it, since he passed. I'm not so sure, but it'd be fun to try. Plus, how bad-ass would it be to have a commercial driver's license? I could buy a truck, get a CB radio and travel the country looking for Burt Reynolds.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
My Man, the Dude's Dude.
Attention ladies (and gents):
Do you have a boyfriend who loves to talk about cars, buildings, construction, more cars, sports and occasionally liberal politics? Does this make you zone out and turn the sounds coming out of his mouth into the indecipherable adult-jabber from the Peanuts cartoons? Then, I have just the solution for you:
My Halbastram.
When I first met Halbastram in 2003, a lot of people were convinced that our relationship wouldn't last due to our age difference (he's a whopping 8 years older...oh no!!). Gradually, over time, my friends slowly came around to enjoying his presence, mostly because he wasn't a raging idiot like my previous beaus.
Since I was in school in the burbs when we met, and he had a real-life career as an architect in the city, we could only see each other on the weekends. And weekends usually meant random parties off campus at my friend's apartment. Most of my friend's friends had boyfriends and since this wasn't a typical hookup environment, we usually just sat around with our drinks, talking shit and being loud for no other reason than because we could (but not really, because the neighbors frowned on the noise). Having been dragged there by their girls, the guys would usually just stand nearby, drinks in hand, listening patiently but looking very uncomfortable. Once in a while, one of them would speak up, offering up knowledge on a subject the girls either didn't know much or care about. This would usually be cars, football or video games. We weren't stereotypical girls, only interested in shopping, makeup and Hello Kitty. We were the artsy girls, preferring to divulge in movies, music, American Psycho quotes and people on campus who annoyed us so we had to give them petty-yet-funny nicknames.
Anyway, just let any boy utter one of the keywords and in swoops Halbastram, offering his knowledge on the topic and a much-needed out from just listening to the girls jabber on about their favorite Seinfeld episodes. Most of the time, I don't even notice when Halbastram moves in on the boyfriends. We'll show up to a party, he'll hand me a beer, I'll go out for a smoke and come back two minutes later...and Boom! he's got a new man-friend for the night. Since I drag him to most of my girly functions, he savors the opportunity to discuss some of his favorite topics with other dudes. He just has a strong personality and forwardness about him that makes it easy for him to jump in and help a fellow dude in need of some time away from the estrogen.
The first time I noticed this was in my dorm one night, when my roommate was preparing to go out on a blind date. Halbastram was over and hanging out in the room when she was telling us about the guy: he was in construction and for the date, they were going out to play billiards. Halbastram didn't say much, since my friend just complained a whole lot about the going to play billiards on a first date. When the guy arrived, following introductions, he starts talking about the place where he's taking my friend for their billiards date. She grudgingly acknowledges this, whereas Halbastram jumps in, asking him if he's any good, how long he's been playing, and which construction company he works for. It was almost as if they would've had a much better date.
It didn't take long to pick up on the fact that Halbastram, being a man's man, was the go-to guy for uncomfortable situations. We labeled him the "Boyfriend's Boyfriend" and if a friend is afraid of bringing a date to a gathering because he'd be bored, we assure them: "Halbastram will be there. If he likes cars, he won't be bored."
Do you have a boyfriend who loves to talk about cars, buildings, construction, more cars, sports and occasionally liberal politics? Does this make you zone out and turn the sounds coming out of his mouth into the indecipherable adult-jabber from the Peanuts cartoons? Then, I have just the solution for you:
My Halbastram.
When I first met Halbastram in 2003, a lot of people were convinced that our relationship wouldn't last due to our age difference (he's a whopping 8 years older...oh no!!). Gradually, over time, my friends slowly came around to enjoying his presence, mostly because he wasn't a raging idiot like my previous beaus.
Since I was in school in the burbs when we met, and he had a real-life career as an architect in the city, we could only see each other on the weekends. And weekends usually meant random parties off campus at my friend's apartment. Most of my friend's friends had boyfriends and since this wasn't a typical hookup environment, we usually just sat around with our drinks, talking shit and being loud for no other reason than because we could (but not really, because the neighbors frowned on the noise). Having been dragged there by their girls, the guys would usually just stand nearby, drinks in hand, listening patiently but looking very uncomfortable. Once in a while, one of them would speak up, offering up knowledge on a subject the girls either didn't know much or care about. This would usually be cars, football or video games. We weren't stereotypical girls, only interested in shopping, makeup and Hello Kitty. We were the artsy girls, preferring to divulge in movies, music, American Psycho quotes and people on campus who annoyed us so we had to give them petty-yet-funny nicknames.
Anyway, just let any boy utter one of the keywords and in swoops Halbastram, offering his knowledge on the topic and a much-needed out from just listening to the girls jabber on about their favorite Seinfeld episodes. Most of the time, I don't even notice when Halbastram moves in on the boyfriends. We'll show up to a party, he'll hand me a beer, I'll go out for a smoke and come back two minutes later...and Boom! he's got a new man-friend for the night. Since I drag him to most of my girly functions, he savors the opportunity to discuss some of his favorite topics with other dudes. He just has a strong personality and forwardness about him that makes it easy for him to jump in and help a fellow dude in need of some time away from the estrogen.
The first time I noticed this was in my dorm one night, when my roommate was preparing to go out on a blind date. Halbastram was over and hanging out in the room when she was telling us about the guy: he was in construction and for the date, they were going out to play billiards. Halbastram didn't say much, since my friend just complained a whole lot about the going to play billiards on a first date. When the guy arrived, following introductions, he starts talking about the place where he's taking my friend for their billiards date. She grudgingly acknowledges this, whereas Halbastram jumps in, asking him if he's any good, how long he's been playing, and which construction company he works for. It was almost as if they would've had a much better date.
It didn't take long to pick up on the fact that Halbastram, being a man's man, was the go-to guy for uncomfortable situations. We labeled him the "Boyfriend's Boyfriend" and if a friend is afraid of bringing a date to a gathering because he'd be bored, we assure them: "Halbastram will be there. If he likes cars, he won't be bored."
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Desert Island Five
I was talking with a friend of mine about our "desert island movies", i.e., which five movies we'd like to have with us if we were stranded on a desert island. When playing this game in the past, a lot of people would try to flex their theatrical taste by naming "indie" and Oscar flicks. This meant a lot of dramas and cry-fest movies were thrown around.
I had a different viewpoint though. If I'm stranded on a desert island, I'm facing a totally dire situation. And dire situations don't call for serious movies. It's not like a breakup, where you'll listen to a little Sade or Feist for a week straight and your friends will drag you out of the dumps and take you dancing.
Assuming you're stranded on a desert island by yourself, you'll want a movie that'll lift your spirits, one that'll be your "Wilson", ala the volleyball in Castaway. I don't want a collection of movies that'll remind me of how lonely I am; I want to forget my woes and the fact that I'll be separated from my deodorant for a while.
So, with that said, here's my current Desert Island Movie List (in no order, obviously):
-Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
-The Fifth Element
-American Psycho
-Animal House
-Beerfest
Honorable Mention: Super Troopers
These are the movies I can't help but laugh at when I watch them. When I'm sad or depressed or missing someone, I watch one of those five for a quick picker-upper. So it makes sense to have them magically appear on the desert island with me.
I had a different viewpoint though. If I'm stranded on a desert island, I'm facing a totally dire situation. And dire situations don't call for serious movies. It's not like a breakup, where you'll listen to a little Sade or Feist for a week straight and your friends will drag you out of the dumps and take you dancing.
Assuming you're stranded on a desert island by yourself, you'll want a movie that'll lift your spirits, one that'll be your "Wilson", ala the volleyball in Castaway. I don't want a collection of movies that'll remind me of how lonely I am; I want to forget my woes and the fact that I'll be separated from my deodorant for a while.
So, with that said, here's my current Desert Island Movie List (in no order, obviously):
-Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
-The Fifth Element
-American Psycho
-Animal House
-Beerfest
Honorable Mention: Super Troopers
These are the movies I can't help but laugh at when I watch them. When I'm sad or depressed or missing someone, I watch one of those five for a quick picker-upper. So it makes sense to have them magically appear on the desert island with me.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Confessional.
The first step to dealing with a problem is to admit that there is, in fact, a problem. So here goes:
Hello. My name is Tiny Elvis, and I am a germophobe.
I was never this prissy, or frightened of dirt, before. I knew to wash my hands after emptying the kitty litter or after using the washroom or after taking my overflowing box of beer bottles down to the dumpster. But I wasn't so obsessive about it. Slivers of this problem started to poke around shortly after Halbastram lost his job, and therefore losing the insurance that came with it. I simply couldn't afford to get sick, so I became a little more vigilant in everything that I did: I didn't take certain medications I was unfamilar with because I couldn't risk an allergic reaction; I cut down on sugar consumption because I didn't want diabetes (twisted logic, but this is what my mind started churning out).
When I started working my most recent retail job, the wacky behavior started to reach fever pitch. For the first couple of months, I was perfectly fine with using the store washroom, handling the money, and eating lunch in the breakroom. But then, little by little, I started noticing the habits of the shoppers and suddenly I went out of my way to avoid using the bathroom at work; Ieven kept two types of hand sanitizer at the register and I wouldn't even twist open a bottle of water unless I washed my hands first.
Insanity? I had my reasons.
Reason #1: The "It's Not My Bathroom" Syndrome. Some people have this belief that, when they go out and have to use a public washroom, they can treat it however they want, even if it means being a nasty S.O.B. because, hey, they ain't got to clean it up. So they do the most astounishing things: pee pee and poop on the seats, toilets full of joy left unflushed, floors looking like the bottom of a hamster cage, poop on the walls (HOW???), etc. I can't even begin to process what is going through a person's mind when they finish up and decide they don't want to flush the toilet. Is there some underlying fear that the toilet will explode? Are you afraid of the germ lurking on the handle? Or do you just think that the toilet gods will come down and finish the job for you? If this is any indication of how things are handled in your own home/washroom, I think I'll pass on that dinner invitation. At any rate, allow me to put your fears to rest: the toilets won't explode, you can always grab some extra T.P. to touch the handle and flush the toilet and no, the toilet gods don't exist.
Compounding the fact that customers had a serious case of the nasties was the fact that the maintenance/housekeeping man only came in three times a week. And no one was delegated to clean the toilets in between his shifts. And not having a separate employees-only washroom meant that I made many trips across the street to the local coffee shop, paying for a drink I didn't really want just for the privilege of using their saintly, sparkling toilet.
Not knowing which customers were to blame for these transgressions kept me on edge and forced me to wash/sanitize my hands after handling their money, returned merchandise, etc.
Reason #2: H1N1, from me to you. The mere existence of the swine flu didn't alarm me one iota. I was on a strict vitamin diet due to my trying to conceive a litter of children, so I knew I'd be somewhat protected. What did startle me, however, was certain people's blatant disregard to manners and decency and their choice to cough all over me, you, and anyone else who stood within 3 ft of them. And this they saw nothing wrong with. Hold on a second while I hack up a lung into my hands, reach into my wallet and hand you my money for my purchase. No, thanks. Then, then, they had the NERVE to express concern...no, not concern...disdain...when a cashier sneezed or coughed, even if we did it into the crook of our arms, which is what we're taught in preschool.
Reason #3: Fruitflies aren't as sweet as they sound. We had them. All over the store. I assume they came with the freight/merchandise from the warehouse. But matters were only exacerbated by co-workers who would eat and leave their food out for all the insects to feast on and prosper from. And so it'd get to such a magnitude that I couldn't even get up to grab a fork without Mr. Fruitfly hovering over my Lean Cuisine, hoping to feast on some scraps. So during the warm months, I took my chances outside, preferring to dine on the bench down the strip. Believe it or not, there were fewer bugs out there.
These unpleasantries forced me to wash my hands upwards of 10-15 times a day, leaving them dry, brittle and Crypt-Keeper in nature. And as vain as this will sound, that was the one thing that forced me to reexamine how often I was washing my hands: I didn't want old woman hands before I reached 30. That, combined with Halbastram repeatedly telling me that I was "insane" prompted me to scale back a bit. I still carry a bottle of hand sanitizer with me everywhere I go, but I only pop it out before I eat. I've replaced excessive handwashing with excessive moisturizing now, to makeup for the punishment I've but my hands through. Although, I don't think this is at all bad.
Trust me, I'll find out soon enough.
Hello. My name is Tiny Elvis, and I am a germophobe.
I was never this prissy, or frightened of dirt, before. I knew to wash my hands after emptying the kitty litter or after using the washroom or after taking my overflowing box of beer bottles down to the dumpster. But I wasn't so obsessive about it. Slivers of this problem started to poke around shortly after Halbastram lost his job, and therefore losing the insurance that came with it. I simply couldn't afford to get sick, so I became a little more vigilant in everything that I did: I didn't take certain medications I was unfamilar with because I couldn't risk an allergic reaction; I cut down on sugar consumption because I didn't want diabetes (twisted logic, but this is what my mind started churning out).
When I started working my most recent retail job, the wacky behavior started to reach fever pitch. For the first couple of months, I was perfectly fine with using the store washroom, handling the money, and eating lunch in the breakroom. But then, little by little, I started noticing the habits of the shoppers and suddenly I went out of my way to avoid using the bathroom at work; Ieven kept two types of hand sanitizer at the register and I wouldn't even twist open a bottle of water unless I washed my hands first.
Insanity? I had my reasons.
Reason #1: The "It's Not My Bathroom" Syndrome. Some people have this belief that, when they go out and have to use a public washroom, they can treat it however they want, even if it means being a nasty S.O.B. because, hey, they ain't got to clean it up. So they do the most astounishing things: pee pee and poop on the seats, toilets full of joy left unflushed, floors looking like the bottom of a hamster cage, poop on the walls (HOW???), etc. I can't even begin to process what is going through a person's mind when they finish up and decide they don't want to flush the toilet. Is there some underlying fear that the toilet will explode? Are you afraid of the germ lurking on the handle? Or do you just think that the toilet gods will come down and finish the job for you? If this is any indication of how things are handled in your own home/washroom, I think I'll pass on that dinner invitation. At any rate, allow me to put your fears to rest: the toilets won't explode, you can always grab some extra T.P. to touch the handle and flush the toilet and no, the toilet gods don't exist.
Compounding the fact that customers had a serious case of the nasties was the fact that the maintenance/housekeeping man only came in three times a week. And no one was delegated to clean the toilets in between his shifts. And not having a separate employees-only washroom meant that I made many trips across the street to the local coffee shop, paying for a drink I didn't really want just for the privilege of using their saintly, sparkling toilet.
Not knowing which customers were to blame for these transgressions kept me on edge and forced me to wash/sanitize my hands after handling their money, returned merchandise, etc.
Reason #2: H1N1, from me to you. The mere existence of the swine flu didn't alarm me one iota. I was on a strict vitamin diet due to my trying to conceive a litter of children, so I knew I'd be somewhat protected. What did startle me, however, was certain people's blatant disregard to manners and decency and their choice to cough all over me, you, and anyone else who stood within 3 ft of them. And this they saw nothing wrong with. Hold on a second while I hack up a lung into my hands, reach into my wallet and hand you my money for my purchase. No, thanks. Then, then, they had the NERVE to express concern...no, not concern...disdain...when a cashier sneezed or coughed, even if we did it into the crook of our arms, which is what we're taught in preschool.
Reason #3: Fruitflies aren't as sweet as they sound. We had them. All over the store. I assume they came with the freight/merchandise from the warehouse. But matters were only exacerbated by co-workers who would eat and leave their food out for all the insects to feast on and prosper from. And so it'd get to such a magnitude that I couldn't even get up to grab a fork without Mr. Fruitfly hovering over my Lean Cuisine, hoping to feast on some scraps. So during the warm months, I took my chances outside, preferring to dine on the bench down the strip. Believe it or not, there were fewer bugs out there.
These unpleasantries forced me to wash my hands upwards of 10-15 times a day, leaving them dry, brittle and Crypt-Keeper in nature. And as vain as this will sound, that was the one thing that forced me to reexamine how often I was washing my hands: I didn't want old woman hands before I reached 30. That, combined with Halbastram repeatedly telling me that I was "insane" prompted me to scale back a bit. I still carry a bottle of hand sanitizer with me everywhere I go, but I only pop it out before I eat. I've replaced excessive handwashing with excessive moisturizing now, to makeup for the punishment I've but my hands through. Although, I don't think this is at all bad.
Trust me, I'll find out soon enough.
Friday, January 8, 2010
So I'm watching the tv last night, and this lady, a very wealthy mother of three, comes on the screen and tells me that she's very religious and that she believes that God is the most important thing in her life and that she lives by his word to the fullest. She might have been saying more, but I was a little distracted by her mongaloid fake breasticles.
Here are my thoughts and opinions: if you're so into God and you treasure his word, wouldn't you value his creation a little more? You body is one of his best works of art...and yet, you are unhappy with the results and go tampering with it. And not just kind of tampering with it...this woman is almost on the Jessica Rabbit tit scale.
And I know what I'm doing: passing judgement and all that jazz. I was just confused about how her love for God didn't include loving what he had given her, naturally, and sticking with it.
Here are my thoughts and opinions: if you're so into God and you treasure his word, wouldn't you value his creation a little more? You body is one of his best works of art...and yet, you are unhappy with the results and go tampering with it. And not just kind of tampering with it...this woman is almost on the Jessica Rabbit tit scale.
And I know what I'm doing: passing judgement and all that jazz. I was just confused about how her love for God didn't include loving what he had given her, naturally, and sticking with it.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Starting this year off right
Lady calls me. Tells me she reviewed my application, but that I had some gaps to fill. For example, what was I doing before June 2003? I tell her, well, I was in college for a year and before that I was in high school. She asked if I had a high school job. I say, well, yeah, I worked part time for about 8 months; I didn't think that was relevant to getting a job at 26, considering I've had plenty of other jobs since then. Still, she says, I should come in and write it down. After silently cursing this woman, I agree. I drive in, fill out the stupid form, making sure I carefully outline ANY gaps in employment between high school and college to satisfy this woman, I finish and I go home. Exactly ONE HOUR LATER, this lady calls me again, telling me that she reviewed my application and that everything looks good and would I please come in for an interview? In my mind, I've already decided I absolutely do not want to work for this lady, but what the hell? Sure, I'll go.
Life amuses me.
Life amuses me.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Needing it..
Yesterday, my coffee maker broke and brewed a rancid pot of coffee. And since my mini coffee maker is in storage at my mom's, I had to break down and buy generic instant coffee last night. I am the true embodiment of a coffee fiend. If I go even a day without some caffeine in my body, my head feels like Neil Peart is playing a drum solo on my brain (I'm giving myself 10 pts for the Rush metaphor). I'm not just talking a little headache, pop some Tylenol, all's well again...I'm talking full-on migraine, mixed with a little nausea, let's take a nap for a while. Pretty soon, my story will be the subject of an episode of "Intervention". You'll see me in back alleys, hustling the Starbucks barista for their day-old brews. I'm not even a fan of the Starbucks coffee (although they do brew a mean iced tea), but I found myself drinking a lot of it because it was right across the street from the job. Accessible doesn't always equal acceptable. Luckily, I didn't need too much to get my fix. I could settle for a tall, gulp it down in one breath, and be headache-free for the day. Giving up alcohol has been easier for me than giving up caffeine.
Which reminds me...
I am on day three of "sobriety". I use quotation marks because I don't plan on giving it up all together. I've just set limits for myself: no drinking Sunday-Thursday, and only 3 drinks MAXIMUM on Friday and Saturday (if I absolutely must drink). Despite how it sounds, no, I'm not an alcoholic in need of an intervention...this is more of a weight-loss strategy. My drink of choice being beer, it's easy to pack on the calories when you're having a good time night after night. Come summer, I'mma come out looking more toned and tighter than a jock strap.
I can't wait.
Which reminds me...
I am on day three of "sobriety". I use quotation marks because I don't plan on giving it up all together. I've just set limits for myself: no drinking Sunday-Thursday, and only 3 drinks MAXIMUM on Friday and Saturday (if I absolutely must drink). Despite how it sounds, no, I'm not an alcoholic in need of an intervention...this is more of a weight-loss strategy. My drink of choice being beer, it's easy to pack on the calories when you're having a good time night after night. Come summer, I'mma come out looking more toned and tighter than a jock strap.
I can't wait.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Sunday Afternoon Nostalgia
When I was 12, I had a pretty exclusive group of friends on my block. They weren't the most reliable friends, and definitely not the nicest, but they were mine. And somewhere beneath their arrogance and jackass behavior, they had respect for me. There were five of us: three girls, two boys. When I moved onto the block, there were two other, older girls who ran the roost. Upon my arrival, for some reason, me and the others...we just clicked. I'm certain it was my "I really don't like to argue" attitude; whatever they suggested, I went along with. As a result, the older girls hated me and therefore ostracized the group as a whole, since they chose me. Being as young as I was, then, I didn't understand what exactly was happening. But whatever. They were older girls; they should've had older friends anyway.
Of the three girls, two of us were childhood friends...which, I learned, wasn't a good thing. They were friends...who constantly fought. Terri was the bully, and Vivian was the one who always ended up with the hurt feelings. And when she went home with the hurt feelings, her mother sent her right back outside to fight her battles. On the surface, it's great to encourage your kid to fight for her integrity. However, since I'm one to avoid confrontations, I was always on the outside, watching them argue/fight, trying in my own way to dissolve the problem, but not wanting to be included. This caused issues with Vivian's mother, who felt that, as her friend, I should have been defending her. I should have jumped in, called my other friend on her bullshit about a problem I'm not even certain from whence it came, and defend...forget it, it wasn't my problem.
One weekend, I went over to my grandmothers to visit my cousins who were in town. My next door neighbors, a family with literally 10 tenants on any given day, also had out-of-town visitors. When I returned that Saturday evening, my friends were all outside my house. Well, not exactly outside the house...more like that patch of land in-between the two houses, where they could loiter without actually impeding on anyone's property. I put my things away and came out to join them. Terri was more than happy to see me, as she had some gossip to share. Vivian was nearby, talking to one of our other friends. Terri promptly informed me of the get-together/breakup that happened in the span of a few hours.
Apparently, the visitors next door brought with them a 13-yr-old jerk of a cousin to visit and Vivian was very much attracted to him. But this guy wasn't having any of it. Plus, you know, he was just visiting. Later in the day, the group went up to the local restaurant to get some food. They came back and asked Jerk Boy to sit with them. Noticing that Vivian had some tasty chicken, he suddenly became very interested in her. Thus, began a "relationship" based on chicken. Afterwards, Vivian brought her bike out because he asked if he could ride it. So the relationship grew because of a bicycle. Noticing that some random boy was riding her bike, Vivian's mother made her bring the bike back in the house, ending the relationship. He soon started dissing her, ignoring her, and bragging to people that he used her for chicken and a ride on the bike.
A real jerk, right?
This amused Terri immensely. Of course, Vivian was embarrassed and a little pissed that her so-called friend was laughing at her. So Vivian shared a few choice words with Terri. Here's what you need to know about Terri: words don't affect her. I learned that early on. You could call her a bastard, a bitch, a skank...she'd laugh at you and call you something ten times worse, to the point that all you want to do is fight her, which is essentially what she's looking for: a fight. And that's the point she pushed Vivian to. With the words bouncing off of her like bullets on a brick wall, Vivian threatened to punch her if she didn't stop...to which Terri responded: "try it."
I interjected, telling Terri to leave her alone, but it was too little too late: "no. she's just upset because that boy played her and now she feels stupid. she's so stupid."
And that's when Vivian shoved her. And that's when Terri pinned her to the ground and started to beat her up. And what did I do? I just stood there. Yeah, pretty shitty, but I'd been down this road before: they'd argue, fight, and be the best of friends the next day, after a cooling off period. Terri didn't have too many other friends because too many people were afraid of her. Vivian didn't have many other friends because she wasn't permitted to leave the block unless I did (her mother trusted me with her life, for some reason). I didn't have friends off the block because I had no reason to leave the block. I didn't go to the neighborhood school, so I had no reason to go anywhere else besides my front porch or the bus stop to get out of the neighborhood. We were all lacking in social skills, which made us perfect for each other.
Anyhow, our two guy friends, one of them being Terri's brother, came out, egging them on, encouraging the fight, as most 12-yr-old boys are known to do. Seconds later, Vivian's mother comes running out of the house, yelling for them to stop. She pulls Vivian from the ground, yelling at Terri about how friends shouldn't be fighting each other...and then at me about how I'm supposed to help her daughter in the fight. I responded with, "it didn't involve me." She replied, "you're her friend. it should involve you." And mother and daughter went back home, across the street, and she didn't come back out for the rest of the day. Her mother grounded her. Terri's grandmother, having also seen the fight, gave her a "punishment" of sorts also: she confined her to their front porch (which lasted all of about 20 minutes before she ended up on my front porch, since Terri didn't take punishments too well).
After a few days on punishment and some awkward regrouping time, the volitle twosome were friends again, as it always worked out. From that day forward, however, I was no longer in good with Vivian's mother.
But despite the fights and arguments and insults, we all depending on each other. We bought matching shoes, pooled money together for pizza, defended each other when people outside of the group were looking for a fight (which is another loooong story that involves me being the subject of someone's ire) and sat huddled under a blanket on the porch of an abandoned house when it was raining. And we even shared in the pain of getting played for chicken and a bike ride, no matter how funny it was to some of us.
Of the three girls, two of us were childhood friends...which, I learned, wasn't a good thing. They were friends...who constantly fought. Terri was the bully, and Vivian was the one who always ended up with the hurt feelings. And when she went home with the hurt feelings, her mother sent her right back outside to fight her battles. On the surface, it's great to encourage your kid to fight for her integrity. However, since I'm one to avoid confrontations, I was always on the outside, watching them argue/fight, trying in my own way to dissolve the problem, but not wanting to be included. This caused issues with Vivian's mother, who felt that, as her friend, I should have been defending her. I should have jumped in, called my other friend on her bullshit about a problem I'm not even certain from whence it came, and defend...forget it, it wasn't my problem.
One weekend, I went over to my grandmothers to visit my cousins who were in town. My next door neighbors, a family with literally 10 tenants on any given day, also had out-of-town visitors. When I returned that Saturday evening, my friends were all outside my house. Well, not exactly outside the house...more like that patch of land in-between the two houses, where they could loiter without actually impeding on anyone's property. I put my things away and came out to join them. Terri was more than happy to see me, as she had some gossip to share. Vivian was nearby, talking to one of our other friends. Terri promptly informed me of the get-together/breakup that happened in the span of a few hours.
Apparently, the visitors next door brought with them a 13-yr-old jerk of a cousin to visit and Vivian was very much attracted to him. But this guy wasn't having any of it. Plus, you know, he was just visiting. Later in the day, the group went up to the local restaurant to get some food. They came back and asked Jerk Boy to sit with them. Noticing that Vivian had some tasty chicken, he suddenly became very interested in her. Thus, began a "relationship" based on chicken. Afterwards, Vivian brought her bike out because he asked if he could ride it. So the relationship grew because of a bicycle. Noticing that some random boy was riding her bike, Vivian's mother made her bring the bike back in the house, ending the relationship. He soon started dissing her, ignoring her, and bragging to people that he used her for chicken and a ride on the bike.
A real jerk, right?
This amused Terri immensely. Of course, Vivian was embarrassed and a little pissed that her so-called friend was laughing at her. So Vivian shared a few choice words with Terri. Here's what you need to know about Terri: words don't affect her. I learned that early on. You could call her a bastard, a bitch, a skank...she'd laugh at you and call you something ten times worse, to the point that all you want to do is fight her, which is essentially what she's looking for: a fight. And that's the point she pushed Vivian to. With the words bouncing off of her like bullets on a brick wall, Vivian threatened to punch her if she didn't stop...to which Terri responded: "try it."
I interjected, telling Terri to leave her alone, but it was too little too late: "no. she's just upset because that boy played her and now she feels stupid. she's so stupid."
And that's when Vivian shoved her. And that's when Terri pinned her to the ground and started to beat her up. And what did I do? I just stood there. Yeah, pretty shitty, but I'd been down this road before: they'd argue, fight, and be the best of friends the next day, after a cooling off period. Terri didn't have too many other friends because too many people were afraid of her. Vivian didn't have many other friends because she wasn't permitted to leave the block unless I did (her mother trusted me with her life, for some reason). I didn't have friends off the block because I had no reason to leave the block. I didn't go to the neighborhood school, so I had no reason to go anywhere else besides my front porch or the bus stop to get out of the neighborhood. We were all lacking in social skills, which made us perfect for each other.
Anyhow, our two guy friends, one of them being Terri's brother, came out, egging them on, encouraging the fight, as most 12-yr-old boys are known to do. Seconds later, Vivian's mother comes running out of the house, yelling for them to stop. She pulls Vivian from the ground, yelling at Terri about how friends shouldn't be fighting each other...and then at me about how I'm supposed to help her daughter in the fight. I responded with, "it didn't involve me." She replied, "you're her friend. it should involve you." And mother and daughter went back home, across the street, and she didn't come back out for the rest of the day. Her mother grounded her. Terri's grandmother, having also seen the fight, gave her a "punishment" of sorts also: she confined her to their front porch (which lasted all of about 20 minutes before she ended up on my front porch, since Terri didn't take punishments too well).
After a few days on punishment and some awkward regrouping time, the volitle twosome were friends again, as it always worked out. From that day forward, however, I was no longer in good with Vivian's mother.
But despite the fights and arguments and insults, we all depending on each other. We bought matching shoes, pooled money together for pizza, defended each other when people outside of the group were looking for a fight (which is another loooong story that involves me being the subject of someone's ire) and sat huddled under a blanket on the porch of an abandoned house when it was raining. And we even shared in the pain of getting played for chicken and a bike ride, no matter how funny it was to some of us.
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