Traffic Court
For many months, I have remained silent (as is my right) regarding some criminal charges I have been facing. I have told no one of this plight save my roomie juju and her boyfriend, Metro. I also told my pet chimpanzee, Cathy, because it is impossible to keep a secret from her.
Today a trial was held against me for charges of failure to obey a traffic sign. The sign in question stands on the Morrison Bridge and tells everyone, in a very bossy tone, NO LANE CHANGES ON STEEL GRATING.
One morning in December, I flipped off the sign and changed lanes on the Morrison Bridge, although I was not yet on the steel grating. Then an officer in the watchtower got on his little Radio Shack walky-talky and told another officer on a motorcycle to pull me over. I received a ticket and a fine for $257, in spite of the way I flexed my arm as it dangled out the car window.
I pled bullshit. Or Not Guilty. Whatever the proper term is.
Today in court, I came prepared for the battle ahead. After my name was mispronounced and called three times, I took my seat at the table. The judge really slaughtered my last name, and I muttered "dumb ass" under my breath.
Next, the officers read their notes describing the incident. They did it in unison, like a choral reading, which is when I knew I had some heavy competition. I had some surprises up my sleeve, however, and was undeterred.
The officers made no mention of my biceps on the morning of the citation, in spite of the fact that I had just done a heavy upper body workout before I was pulled over. They seemed completely unimpressed. This was disappointing to me, but I did not let myself get discouraged. This was war.
Sitting at the Defendant's table with me was Cathy the chimp. She had a very small harmonica, which I had coached her to play at appropriate moments during my testimony. I had also written special theme music for my trial. As she softly played a plaintive (not plaintiff) tune, I proclaimed my innocence.
"Your Honor, I was framed. I had just completed a strenuous set of hammer curls and was headed to work when the officer on the motorcycle pulled me over. I was excited at first, but when I realized he was not hot, I became agitated. My biceps were engorged with blood and looked very large as I pulled to the side of the road. I want you to know that I did not change lanes with my big arms on the steel grating (not so loud, Cathy) and I resent the implication that I am anything other than a law abiding citizen.
Tru, I did not argue with the officer because Portland police officers will shoot you at the slightest provocation. Also, as I previously stated, the officer was not hot, and I only speak to hot cops. My point is, I was innocent and remain so to this day unless you count the Dilly Bar I stole from Dairy Queen yesterday."
At this point Cathy played a boisterous pirate jig, which was actually supposed to be played after the verdict of Not Guilty was delivered, but it did fit in quite nicely so I didn't strike her.
The Judge then began to deliver the verdict.
"STOP. I HAVE A SURPRISE WITNESS," I shouted using all caps. A dissonant and very dramatic chord was produced by Cathy. That is when Metro walked through the courtroom doors wearing a chiffon prom dress and swim fins. And the surprise in the hallowed halls of justice was palpable, let me tell you.
"Your Honor, I know that the officer in the watchtower could not possibly have seen the Defendant commit this traffic violation, because I was with him in the tower administering oral sex to said officer."
"What is the meaning of this," shouted juju as she stood up wearing her very stately red suit with matching pillbox hat. "This man in the swim fins is my boyfriend! I declare a mistrial."
After forcing me to put on a tight-fitting glove and explaining some strange stains on one of my shirts, the state dropped the charges against me. Cathy inappropriately played the Song of the Volga Boatmen (stupid ape), and Metro and I embraced.
Then juju slapped Metro, and the four of us went to get coffee.
Okay, I confess.
The truth is, the officer who issued the citation did not show up for court and my case was dismissed, but who wants to read about that?
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Quiet
I am sitting here at work in an empty office. People in my department tend to get in early and leave by 4pm.
It's quiet, and I'm feeling like a parade of noise just marched through my head all day. Work was hectic, my e-mails with you were fun and silly and HOT and exciting.
I went to lunch with friends, and I tried not to mention you, but I failed. Twice.
I checked your blog over and over, read my comments, took an astrological test about sex, and answered tons of phone calls from frantic co-workers.
This is a ghost town. The office is deadly silent now.
Now that the parade has passed, the street is quiet and covered in horse manure. A wind blows through the abandoned streets, and I'm standing here looking around at the emptiness. I'm holding a single balloon in my hand, and it's already starting to sag as the helium leaks out.
The question keeps coming up in my mind...What am I doing? What am I doing?
I have nobody to blame but myself.
I didn't try very hard to keep you from mattering. I could have fought it, and I didn't. I welcomed you in and welcomed the 48% chance that all of this would be just two guys acting silly. The 48% of you that tells you to go for it makes me indecisive.
But that damn 2% chance that you would sell plasma to pay for the airfare to come meet me somehow made this whole thing seem like something worth giving a chance.
I am trying to keep it in check, as I know you are. There's no reason to rush. No need to make plans to meet in person. No reason to consider this flirtation to mean anything. No reason to do anything but have fun.
But you are starting to matter. Like, if you stopped writing or decided to curb the flirtation, I would be disappointed. Already, I would miss you.
God, I hate that.
I am sitting here at work in an empty office. People in my department tend to get in early and leave by 4pm.
It's quiet, and I'm feeling like a parade of noise just marched through my head all day. Work was hectic, my e-mails with you were fun and silly and HOT and exciting.
I went to lunch with friends, and I tried not to mention you, but I failed. Twice.
I checked your blog over and over, read my comments, took an astrological test about sex, and answered tons of phone calls from frantic co-workers.
This is a ghost town. The office is deadly silent now.
Now that the parade has passed, the street is quiet and covered in horse manure. A wind blows through the abandoned streets, and I'm standing here looking around at the emptiness. I'm holding a single balloon in my hand, and it's already starting to sag as the helium leaks out.
The question keeps coming up in my mind...What am I doing? What am I doing?
I have nobody to blame but myself.
I didn't try very hard to keep you from mattering. I could have fought it, and I didn't. I welcomed you in and welcomed the 48% chance that all of this would be just two guys acting silly. The 48% of you that tells you to go for it makes me indecisive.
But that damn 2% chance that you would sell plasma to pay for the airfare to come meet me somehow made this whole thing seem like something worth giving a chance.
I am trying to keep it in check, as I know you are. There's no reason to rush. No need to make plans to meet in person. No reason to consider this flirtation to mean anything. No reason to do anything but have fun.
But you are starting to matter. Like, if you stopped writing or decided to curb the flirtation, I would be disappointed. Already, I would miss you.
God, I hate that.
It's a Boy!
The Toaster Oven has given birth again. Meet J-Bo.
Not to brag or anything, but J-Bo and I rolled around together on a bed piled with money in Vegas.
He caught Metro spooning with me the next morning.
I am probably stating the obvious here, but straight guys are so cute.
Prepare for conversational whiplash:
Isn't it dumb the way the Wicked Witch screamed, "I'm melting! Melting!" after Dorothy threw water on her? Talk about stating the obvious.
The Toaster Oven has given birth again. Meet J-Bo.
Not to brag or anything, but J-Bo and I rolled around together on a bed piled with money in Vegas.
He caught Metro spooning with me the next morning.
I am probably stating the obvious here, but straight guys are so cute.
Prepare for conversational whiplash:
Isn't it dumb the way the Wicked Witch screamed, "I'm melting! Melting!" after Dorothy threw water on her? Talk about stating the obvious.
Warning
If you are a cute funny guy with a seven-inch scar on your ass, you might want to sleep with your cell phone turned off this weekend. There is a 90% chance I will drunk dial you.
I am counting down the days until the road trip of the century.
If you are a cute funny guy with a seven-inch scar on your ass, you might want to sleep with your cell phone turned off this weekend. There is a 90% chance I will drunk dial you.
I am counting down the days until the road trip of the century.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Lefties
My friend, Carolyn, called with some upsetting news this weekend. She is marrying Russ, her boyfriend of over 7 years. She and I got into an argument on the phone, because I told her that I will always be her friend, but I will not support this marriage. She even wanted me to be in the wedding party, and I was surprised she thought I would even consider it.
I don't think I am narrow-minded at all. I have always accepted that she is an adult and can date, or even live with, whomever she chooses. But I can't condone the marriage. You see, Russ is left-handed.
Marriage has traditionally been between two right-handed people. There are numerous studies showing that a child functions best in a home with two right-handed parents. It is hard enough to be a child without having the added burden of a left-handed parent. Can you imagine what it would be like to sit at a dinner table next to a left-handed parent and have to endure the torture of being elbowed by them when they cut their steak? Why subject a poor child to the taunts of other children who have normal parents? The humiliation of a left-handed parent coming to open house at school would be unbearable for such an unfortunate child.
Aside from the burden placed on the child, there are many other reasons I do not support left-handed marriage. Historically, marriage has been reserved for right-handed people. Everything that has ever been done historically is absolutely 100 percent correct and should not be meddled with. That is why it is historical. Historical = right. (Notice the word is RIGHT, not left?) Why can't people see this?
The Holy Bible does not once mention marriage for left-handed people. If left-handed marriage was not sinful, I believe God would have grabbed the right hand of one of the Bible's authors and forced him to write a Bible verse giving lefties permission to marry. In fact, I am pretty sure the Bible says right-handed people should marry, so it is implied that left-handed people should not. It's in there somewhere. Look it up.
I worry about the state of affairs if people like Russ and Carolyn marry. Yes, I know they love each other, and even though that is not my choice, I support their right to sleep together. But I will not participate in a wedding between a left-handed man and a right-handed woman. If they were to have some sort of civil union, that would be fine. I would send flowers and say "congratulations" because that is much less threatening to me than a "marriage".
If left-handed people are allowed to marry, what is next? They will want to marry horses and bicycles. If a left-handed person married a bicycle, can you imagine the burden that places on a child? Imagine a woman who has been raised by a left-handed mother and a bicycle father. On her wedding day, she will have to wheel a bicycle down the aisle instead of having a normal father escort her to her groom.
You can see what a mess things are becoming. And there is no way to stop this unless we amend the Constitution of the United States. Unfortunately, we can't allow states to decide the issue, because the only states that have any morals are the southern ones. Those northern states and the fruity west coast states will not have the morality to make the correct choice.
The RIGHT choice.
My friend, Carolyn, called with some upsetting news this weekend. She is marrying Russ, her boyfriend of over 7 years. She and I got into an argument on the phone, because I told her that I will always be her friend, but I will not support this marriage. She even wanted me to be in the wedding party, and I was surprised she thought I would even consider it.
I don't think I am narrow-minded at all. I have always accepted that she is an adult and can date, or even live with, whomever she chooses. But I can't condone the marriage. You see, Russ is left-handed.
Marriage has traditionally been between two right-handed people. There are numerous studies showing that a child functions best in a home with two right-handed parents. It is hard enough to be a child without having the added burden of a left-handed parent. Can you imagine what it would be like to sit at a dinner table next to a left-handed parent and have to endure the torture of being elbowed by them when they cut their steak? Why subject a poor child to the taunts of other children who have normal parents? The humiliation of a left-handed parent coming to open house at school would be unbearable for such an unfortunate child.
Aside from the burden placed on the child, there are many other reasons I do not support left-handed marriage. Historically, marriage has been reserved for right-handed people. Everything that has ever been done historically is absolutely 100 percent correct and should not be meddled with. That is why it is historical. Historical = right. (Notice the word is RIGHT, not left?) Why can't people see this?
The Holy Bible does not once mention marriage for left-handed people. If left-handed marriage was not sinful, I believe God would have grabbed the right hand of one of the Bible's authors and forced him to write a Bible verse giving lefties permission to marry. In fact, I am pretty sure the Bible says right-handed people should marry, so it is implied that left-handed people should not. It's in there somewhere. Look it up.
I worry about the state of affairs if people like Russ and Carolyn marry. Yes, I know they love each other, and even though that is not my choice, I support their right to sleep together. But I will not participate in a wedding between a left-handed man and a right-handed woman. If they were to have some sort of civil union, that would be fine. I would send flowers and say "congratulations" because that is much less threatening to me than a "marriage".
If left-handed people are allowed to marry, what is next? They will want to marry horses and bicycles. If a left-handed person married a bicycle, can you imagine the burden that places on a child? Imagine a woman who has been raised by a left-handed mother and a bicycle father. On her wedding day, she will have to wheel a bicycle down the aisle instead of having a normal father escort her to her groom.
You can see what a mess things are becoming. And there is no way to stop this unless we amend the Constitution of the United States. Unfortunately, we can't allow states to decide the issue, because the only states that have any morals are the southern ones. Those northern states and the fruity west coast states will not have the morality to make the correct choice.
The RIGHT choice.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Crunch
At least two of my friends don't approve of the word "crush". Erin suggested I call it a crunch. Okay, whatever, so I have a crunch. I don't even know why I am humoring someone who drinks the sweetest sugary syrupy vodka drinks on the planet, but I am. Erin, your drinks taste like tree sap. But I love you.
Last week, I gave my cell phone number to my crunch, and he gave me his cell phone number.
Then he raised my cell phone number and gave me his home phone number.
So I countered with a work e-mail.
He met my work e-mail and raised it by calling me this morning. So far he is winning the game of who will be less fearful of this crunch.
Can anybody truly win in this kind of situation? I suppose it is possible.
I rehearsed a show from 11 p.m. until 1:30 a.m. this morning (and again I say to my fellow cast members, it should NOT be this hard to stage an orgy!) and I knew Crunch was going to call this morning. I thought I would be so tired that I might sleep through the sound of my phone ringing, but it turned out quite differently. I woke up at 8:30 and couldn't sleep because of the impending phone call. I tossed and turned and finally just got up and made coffee.
I expected the call around 9 a.m. and wrote in my journal for a while. A few minutes before 9 a.m., I suddenly felt my cellphone vibrating in my orange pajama pants from The Gap. I pulled the phone out and in my usual coy and nonchalant manner blurted out, "Oh, thank god. I couldn't take much more of this anxiety."
So, he'll never be able to say, "you had me at hello." No, he will have to say, "you had me at oh-thank-god-i-couldn't-take-much-more-of-this-anxiety."
Why, oh why can't I be enigmatic?
We talked for an hour and damn if I don't still think he is the neatest thing since ketchup.
I was hoping he would say something like, "I don't have no more time to talk" or at least use the word, "irregardless" so that I could put him out of my head. Apparently, I am not getting out of it so easily.
Whenever I feel a lack of control over something in my life, I like to balance it out by taking charge of a different situation. For example, when M. and I broke up (the first time - one short month) I couldn't handle the feeling of powerlessness. I was especially sad one day as I sat alone having my lunch at a cafe, so I jumped up from my lunch, ran to a pay phone, and came out to my mom on the telephone. "Mom, I broke up with M., who as you know, is a man, but we were dating and not just friends, and so obviously I am gay, just so you know."
In retrospect, perhaps there may have been a better way to handle that.
So, here I am feeling helpless to stop this crunch. I already came out to everyone, so the only action I can take now is to make this promise to my faithful Toaster Oven readers:
I will not blog about Crunch every day. I promise. I am not going to turn into one of those people. I have way too much to say and don't want to waste time gushing about boys or fretting about crunches. I am far too clever for such lunacy.
Did I mention he has a cute laugh?
At least two of my friends don't approve of the word "crush". Erin suggested I call it a crunch. Okay, whatever, so I have a crunch. I don't even know why I am humoring someone who drinks the sweetest sugary syrupy vodka drinks on the planet, but I am. Erin, your drinks taste like tree sap. But I love you.
Last week, I gave my cell phone number to my crunch, and he gave me his cell phone number.
Then he raised my cell phone number and gave me his home phone number.
So I countered with a work e-mail.
He met my work e-mail and raised it by calling me this morning. So far he is winning the game of who will be less fearful of this crunch.
Can anybody truly win in this kind of situation? I suppose it is possible.
I rehearsed a show from 11 p.m. until 1:30 a.m. this morning (and again I say to my fellow cast members, it should NOT be this hard to stage an orgy!) and I knew Crunch was going to call this morning. I thought I would be so tired that I might sleep through the sound of my phone ringing, but it turned out quite differently. I woke up at 8:30 and couldn't sleep because of the impending phone call. I tossed and turned and finally just got up and made coffee.
I expected the call around 9 a.m. and wrote in my journal for a while. A few minutes before 9 a.m., I suddenly felt my cellphone vibrating in my orange pajama pants from The Gap. I pulled the phone out and in my usual coy and nonchalant manner blurted out, "Oh, thank god. I couldn't take much more of this anxiety."
So, he'll never be able to say, "you had me at hello." No, he will have to say, "you had me at oh-thank-god-i-couldn't-take-much-more-of-this-anxiety."
Why, oh why can't I be enigmatic?
We talked for an hour and damn if I don't still think he is the neatest thing since ketchup.
I was hoping he would say something like, "I don't have no more time to talk" or at least use the word, "irregardless" so that I could put him out of my head. Apparently, I am not getting out of it so easily.
Whenever I feel a lack of control over something in my life, I like to balance it out by taking charge of a different situation. For example, when M. and I broke up (the first time - one short month) I couldn't handle the feeling of powerlessness. I was especially sad one day as I sat alone having my lunch at a cafe, so I jumped up from my lunch, ran to a pay phone, and came out to my mom on the telephone. "Mom, I broke up with M., who as you know, is a man, but we were dating and not just friends, and so obviously I am gay, just so you know."
In retrospect, perhaps there may have been a better way to handle that.
So, here I am feeling helpless to stop this crunch. I already came out to everyone, so the only action I can take now is to make this promise to my faithful Toaster Oven readers:
I will not blog about Crunch every day. I promise. I am not going to turn into one of those people. I have way too much to say and don't want to waste time gushing about boys or fretting about crunches. I am far too clever for such lunacy.
Did I mention he has a cute laugh?
Friday, March 26, 2004
Good or Evil?
Sometimes I can't figure out which side The Handsome Prince is fighting on. Imagine Han Solo suddenly turning on Princess Leia and firing his laser gun thingy at her. Can you imagine how unexpected this attack would be to her? (Sorry for the extremely dated reference, but I didn't watch the new Star Wars trilogy). This is how it feels to hang out with my best friend. You never know when you will have to duck behind Chewbacca for protection.
When I arrived at the bar last night, THP greeted me warmly and said, "Guess what song I have been singing all day?"
"I'll Cover You," I answered.
THP exclaimed, "Yes!"
The other Yum Yums rolled their eyes at us and mocked us for knowing each other's thoughts. "Oooh, look," snarled Bobo, "they are SO connected. They are on the same wave length!"
If you roll your eyes at me and attempt to berate me, I won't sit there and feel embarrassed. I will taunt you. Don't people know this by now?
"Hey, Handsome Prince, guess which state I am thinking of," I asked him.
"Utah," he shouted.
"Yes!"
We could have done it for hours. We think we are so funny.
A few minutes later, THP puts his hand on my chest and says to the other Yum Yums, "I bet Todd could bench press more than any of us," I felt all warm and silly, because complimenting a Libra pushes more buttons than you can begin to imagine.
"In fact, he could probably bench press ME," said THP. At this point I am feeling like someone pushed ALL the buttons on the elevator before they got off, only I'm not frustrated that I will have to stop at every floor. I am just impressed at how pretty all the buttons look when they are pressed.
THP can make me feel so awesome sometimes, but he has an evil mischievous side that catches me off guard. I am learning how to have a gay best friend, and that means preparing for attack at any moment. Claws will come out unexpectedly, and you better prepare to retaliate. I never had a gay best friend before THP. In fact, I didn't used to really get along with gay men, a fact which now surprises me given that I hang with some wicked cool homos now. (I can't pull off the street lingo, can I?)
"I read your blog today," he said.
Thinking there are no more buttons he can push except for the emergency STOP button, I brace myself for more compliments. "Did you like it?" I asked.
"No. It was boring," answered THP. "But I like how when you click on the word ketchup there is a picture of a ketchup bottle."
"If you think my blog is boring, why don't you leave a comment about how much you hate it," I asked, knowing that my faithful readers would blast him to kingdom come if he tried any such thing. (You got my back, and I know it.)
"I don't know how to leave a comment," he said.
You're so stupid, Handsome Prince. That's why I love you.
And the nice thing is, I can say whatever I want about him here and he won't be able to retaliate because he can't figure out how to leave a comment.
Sometimes I can't figure out which side The Handsome Prince is fighting on. Imagine Han Solo suddenly turning on Princess Leia and firing his laser gun thingy at her. Can you imagine how unexpected this attack would be to her? (Sorry for the extremely dated reference, but I didn't watch the new Star Wars trilogy). This is how it feels to hang out with my best friend. You never know when you will have to duck behind Chewbacca for protection.
When I arrived at the bar last night, THP greeted me warmly and said, "Guess what song I have been singing all day?"
"I'll Cover You," I answered.
THP exclaimed, "Yes!"
The other Yum Yums rolled their eyes at us and mocked us for knowing each other's thoughts. "Oooh, look," snarled Bobo, "they are SO connected. They are on the same wave length!"
If you roll your eyes at me and attempt to berate me, I won't sit there and feel embarrassed. I will taunt you. Don't people know this by now?
"Hey, Handsome Prince, guess which state I am thinking of," I asked him.
"Utah," he shouted.
"Yes!"
We could have done it for hours. We think we are so funny.
A few minutes later, THP puts his hand on my chest and says to the other Yum Yums, "I bet Todd could bench press more than any of us," I felt all warm and silly, because complimenting a Libra pushes more buttons than you can begin to imagine.
"In fact, he could probably bench press ME," said THP. At this point I am feeling like someone pushed ALL the buttons on the elevator before they got off, only I'm not frustrated that I will have to stop at every floor. I am just impressed at how pretty all the buttons look when they are pressed.
THP can make me feel so awesome sometimes, but he has an evil mischievous side that catches me off guard. I am learning how to have a gay best friend, and that means preparing for attack at any moment. Claws will come out unexpectedly, and you better prepare to retaliate. I never had a gay best friend before THP. In fact, I didn't used to really get along with gay men, a fact which now surprises me given that I hang with some wicked cool homos now. (I can't pull off the street lingo, can I?)
"I read your blog today," he said.
Thinking there are no more buttons he can push except for the emergency STOP button, I brace myself for more compliments. "Did you like it?" I asked.
"No. It was boring," answered THP. "But I like how when you click on the word ketchup there is a picture of a ketchup bottle."
"If you think my blog is boring, why don't you leave a comment about how much you hate it," I asked, knowing that my faithful readers would blast him to kingdom come if he tried any such thing. (You got my back, and I know it.)
"I don't know how to leave a comment," he said.
You're so stupid, Handsome Prince. That's why I love you.
And the nice thing is, I can say whatever I want about him here and he won't be able to retaliate because he can't figure out how to leave a comment.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Useless Stuff
As I drove to work this morning (I only hit three people, yay me!) and listened to "The Watermelon Crawl" on the radio, I was struck with the idea of how useless that song is. What purpose does it serve other than sparking an idea for this morning's Toaster Oven entree? Furthermore, what is this watermelon wine he sings about, and why would you want to go to all the trouble of making wine out of watermelon when you can get a nice bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot for $2.99 at Trader Joe's?
There are so many useless things cluttering up my life right now, and I think it is time to step up to the plate like Eminem and clean out my closet. I am going to be ruthless in getting rid of anything that serves no purpose. If I were Archie, Betty would be so kicked out of the band right now. All she did was play the tambourine. Useless. Oh, and little Tracy Partridge? In the words of Donald Trump, "You're fired."
Five or six years ago I purchased a pennywhistle, which I planned on learning to play so that I could go on tour with The Corrs someday. (I would be Todd Corr, the brother who was put in an orphanage and later reunites with his family and begins a somewhat scandalous affair with his brother Jim Corr). The pennywhistle comes with an instruction booklet and a tape and has never been opened. Why am I hanging on to this thing?
Pennywhistle, be gone!
On my bookshelf in my room is a copy of Orlando, by Virginia Woolf, who was actually me. I have never read beyond the first chapter of the book and have no idea why I even wrote it. I enjoyed the film, but the book is just tedious and was definitely a contributing factor to my suicide (along with the split ends).
Goodbye, Orlando. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
Three years ago I had 42% body fat. I hit my damn plateau recently and hover comfortably at about 14%, and I'm pissed. Damn you whiskey and beer and salt. You are my enemies, but if loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right. I do, however, want to get rid of some more body fat, and I definitely need to if I am going to do the shows I'm supposed to perform in this summer. I have no use for fat, especially abdominal fat.
Sayonara, remaining stubborn 4-6% body fat!
Just when my closet is almost cleaned out, this new development pops up. At least I think it is a new development. If you read someone's entire blog in one day (including almost a year of archives) does that mean you have a crush on him? (It is not who you think, Jaden, so there is no need for you to chime in here although I know how you love to chime.)
I have no use for a crush right now. A blogger crush serves no practical purpose. It makes me think stupid thoughts and fantasize about stuff that will probably never ever happen. Crushes make me check e-mail three times an hour. Crushes distract me from my job as a technical writer, which I love deeply, of course. Crushes are silly.
Goodbye, crush!
I feel so much better. It feels good to get rid of clutter. Yesterday, a tow truck took away juju's old car that has been sitting in front of our house for over a year. Our plan was to put the non-functioning car up on blocks and sit on lawn chairs in the yard drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while we sang "The Watermelon Crawl" and picked hay out of our teeth. But now that the car is gone, there is a feeling of relief flowing through our household.
Still, sometimes you just can't let go. When Joan Crawford's children received their Christmas presents, they were allowed to choose only one gift to keep. The rest of the toys went to charity. This taught them to value what they had and also taught them how to avoid being hit over the head with cans of Ajax by Mommie Dearest.
Tentatively, I reach for one of my gifts and examine it. Hmmm. I think I would like to keep this crush and play with it for a little while. Please may I, Mommie Dearest?
As I drove to work this morning (I only hit three people, yay me!) and listened to "The Watermelon Crawl" on the radio, I was struck with the idea of how useless that song is. What purpose does it serve other than sparking an idea for this morning's Toaster Oven entree? Furthermore, what is this watermelon wine he sings about, and why would you want to go to all the trouble of making wine out of watermelon when you can get a nice bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot for $2.99 at Trader Joe's?
There are so many useless things cluttering up my life right now, and I think it is time to step up to the plate like Eminem and clean out my closet. I am going to be ruthless in getting rid of anything that serves no purpose. If I were Archie, Betty would be so kicked out of the band right now. All she did was play the tambourine. Useless. Oh, and little Tracy Partridge? In the words of Donald Trump, "You're fired."
Five or six years ago I purchased a pennywhistle, which I planned on learning to play so that I could go on tour with The Corrs someday. (I would be Todd Corr, the brother who was put in an orphanage and later reunites with his family and begins a somewhat scandalous affair with his brother Jim Corr). The pennywhistle comes with an instruction booklet and a tape and has never been opened. Why am I hanging on to this thing?
Pennywhistle, be gone!
On my bookshelf in my room is a copy of Orlando, by Virginia Woolf, who was actually me. I have never read beyond the first chapter of the book and have no idea why I even wrote it. I enjoyed the film, but the book is just tedious and was definitely a contributing factor to my suicide (along with the split ends).
Goodbye, Orlando. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
Three years ago I had 42% body fat. I hit my damn plateau recently and hover comfortably at about 14%, and I'm pissed. Damn you whiskey and beer and salt. You are my enemies, but if loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right. I do, however, want to get rid of some more body fat, and I definitely need to if I am going to do the shows I'm supposed to perform in this summer. I have no use for fat, especially abdominal fat.
Sayonara, remaining stubborn 4-6% body fat!
Just when my closet is almost cleaned out, this new development pops up. At least I think it is a new development. If you read someone's entire blog in one day (including almost a year of archives) does that mean you have a crush on him? (It is not who you think, Jaden, so there is no need for you to chime in here although I know how you love to chime.)
I have no use for a crush right now. A blogger crush serves no practical purpose. It makes me think stupid thoughts and fantasize about stuff that will probably never ever happen. Crushes make me check e-mail three times an hour. Crushes distract me from my job as a technical writer, which I love deeply, of course. Crushes are silly.
Goodbye, crush!
I feel so much better. It feels good to get rid of clutter. Yesterday, a tow truck took away juju's old car that has been sitting in front of our house for over a year. Our plan was to put the non-functioning car up on blocks and sit on lawn chairs in the yard drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon while we sang "The Watermelon Crawl" and picked hay out of our teeth. But now that the car is gone, there is a feeling of relief flowing through our household.
Still, sometimes you just can't let go. When Joan Crawford's children received their Christmas presents, they were allowed to choose only one gift to keep. The rest of the toys went to charity. This taught them to value what they had and also taught them how to avoid being hit over the head with cans of Ajax by Mommie Dearest.
Tentatively, I reach for one of my gifts and examine it. Hmmm. I think I would like to keep this crush and play with it for a little while. Please may I, Mommie Dearest?
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
News Update (Closed Captioned)
Okay, so Mars used to have water on it. Things change. Move on. My partner used to love me until he decided he needed to be single for a while and started dating someone 24 hours after we broke up. Get over it people. There's nothing to drink on Mars. Don't go there. Even if there were still water on Mars, there certainly wouldn't be any Vodka Tonics, so what is the point?
I bet you think I don't ever watch the news, right? Based on the fact that I treat every precious little anecdote of my failed dating exploits like a CBS Special Report and spend hours writing love letters to wrestlers, I can understand why you might think that. But you would be wrong. Sometimes I do watch the news.
Last night after work I viewed the local news from a stool at JOQ's while downing a couple Mirror Ponds. On the television, the news was airing with the sound turned down and the closed captioning turned on. I glanced up in time to see a story about a gorilla that escaped at the Dallas Zoo and began praying for Mark's safety. Now, I know the animal was killed, but for some reason the closed captioning claimed it was in protective cuss body.
I would like to have protective cuss body. If someone attempted to harass me or steal the flask off my key chain, my protective cuss body would make them get the fuck away from me, of that you can be sure. My protective cuss body would fire off expletives that would make Howard Stern tremble.
The next story was about an old family restaurant in Portland called "Waddles". Waddles is closing after something like 3 billion years of serving grease browns and eggs to health conscious Oregonians. The old restaurant is going to become a Krispy Kreoughnut store.
I love me some Krispy Kreoughnuts. I like to drive by the Krispy Kreoughnut store and see if the neon sign says the Kreoughnuts are ready and are extra Krispy.
Next came a feature story on an auto recycler in Portland. This auto recycler is the largest auto recycler in the nersorth. Do you understand how huge that is? I mean, of all the auto recyclers in the entire nersorth, this is the biggest. Wow. It is probably because the owner speaks fo languages!
Burger King's slumping sales have resulted in an overhaul to The Whopper. From now on the burgers will be made with bigger bee. I didn't realize there was small bee in the original burgers, but knowing this certainly makes me glad I'm a vegetarian. How many bees have people been unknowingly eating with their fries? Well, if Burger King feels bigger bee will help their product sales, more power to them. I am no marketing expert.
During the weather report, the KATU news team switched cameras over to the pee near Pioneer Park.. I strained my eyes, but could see no pee. The transcribers for closed captioning have apparently mastered Portland weather terms and can probably type "rain" and "cloudy" with their eyes closed by now. So not much to report in the way of weather.
The newscast ended with the standard sign off: Have gat night.
So, there I was at JOQ's scribbling notes on trick pads so that I could report my closed captioned news to you, my beloved readers. I endured critical looks as I giggled and jotted down misspellings. Nobody bought me a drink or approached me to say hello, and do you know why? I looked like a crazy person. And I did it all for you.
No wonder I'm single, but at least I'm well-informed. Have gat day!!!
Okay, so Mars used to have water on it. Things change. Move on. My partner used to love me until he decided he needed to be single for a while and started dating someone 24 hours after we broke up. Get over it people. There's nothing to drink on Mars. Don't go there. Even if there were still water on Mars, there certainly wouldn't be any Vodka Tonics, so what is the point?
I bet you think I don't ever watch the news, right? Based on the fact that I treat every precious little anecdote of my failed dating exploits like a CBS Special Report and spend hours writing love letters to wrestlers, I can understand why you might think that. But you would be wrong. Sometimes I do watch the news.
Last night after work I viewed the local news from a stool at JOQ's while downing a couple Mirror Ponds. On the television, the news was airing with the sound turned down and the closed captioning turned on. I glanced up in time to see a story about a gorilla that escaped at the Dallas Zoo and began praying for Mark's safety. Now, I know the animal was killed, but for some reason the closed captioning claimed it was in protective cuss body.
I would like to have protective cuss body. If someone attempted to harass me or steal the flask off my key chain, my protective cuss body would make them get the fuck away from me, of that you can be sure. My protective cuss body would fire off expletives that would make Howard Stern tremble.
The next story was about an old family restaurant in Portland called "Waddles". Waddles is closing after something like 3 billion years of serving grease browns and eggs to health conscious Oregonians. The old restaurant is going to become a Krispy Kreoughnut store.
I love me some Krispy Kreoughnuts. I like to drive by the Krispy Kreoughnut store and see if the neon sign says the Kreoughnuts are ready and are extra Krispy.
Next came a feature story on an auto recycler in Portland. This auto recycler is the largest auto recycler in the nersorth. Do you understand how huge that is? I mean, of all the auto recyclers in the entire nersorth, this is the biggest. Wow. It is probably because the owner speaks fo languages!
Burger King's slumping sales have resulted in an overhaul to The Whopper. From now on the burgers will be made with bigger bee. I didn't realize there was small bee in the original burgers, but knowing this certainly makes me glad I'm a vegetarian. How many bees have people been unknowingly eating with their fries? Well, if Burger King feels bigger bee will help their product sales, more power to them. I am no marketing expert.
During the weather report, the KATU news team switched cameras over to the pee near Pioneer Park.. I strained my eyes, but could see no pee. The transcribers for closed captioning have apparently mastered Portland weather terms and can probably type "rain" and "cloudy" with their eyes closed by now. So not much to report in the way of weather.
The newscast ended with the standard sign off: Have gat night.
So, there I was at JOQ's scribbling notes on trick pads so that I could report my closed captioned news to you, my beloved readers. I endured critical looks as I giggled and jotted down misspellings. Nobody bought me a drink or approached me to say hello, and do you know why? I looked like a crazy person. And I did it all for you.
No wonder I'm single, but at least I'm well-informed. Have gat day!!!
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Dear The Rock:
I'm addicted to you. Don't you know that you're toxic?
I love you, The Rock. May I call you The? Your muscular body and cocky attitude make me want to touch myself appropriately, and I would give up almost anything except ketchup to be with you. You are so hot. Like Vin Diesel if he were handsome.
The fact that you are a wrestler probably has a lot to do with my attraction, because when I was 13 and watching wrestling on TV I got excited and fidgety. I was investigating my body to find the source of the tension, and when I found it some magic things happened to me. After the magic things happened, I found that wrestling matches could always bring more magic, and I was hooked. If VCRs and you had been around when I was 13, I would have never left the house. I would have pretended to be paralyzed so my parents wouldn't make me go to middle school. I know this would have worked because Phoebe Tyler tricked her husband Charles and everyone in Pine Valley with this same ruse. Of course Phoebe wasn't trying to stay home and masturbate while watching wrestling, but I still think it is a good idea.
Oh, The, you are the perfect man. You are an inch shorter than me, and I bet you have never dated someone taller than you! Wouldn't that be exciting to try? Please say yes!
Even if you do not want to date me or be my magician, I would like to ask you for a favor. There are some people I would like you to beat up, and I will list them here for you. I hope you can help.
1. Please beat up the woman on my block who drives an SUV and has a stupid bumper sticker with a picture of a kitty cat that says: "I AM NOT IN HEAT. GET OFF MY TAIL." She has an underdeveloped sense of humor, and is of no use to anybody. I'm sure nobody has ever laughed at this bumper sticker, and it won't come off when I go out late at night with my flashlight and try to peel it off her bumper. I am sick of running back to my house after she scrambles to her front porch and screams threats that she will call the police. Just once I would like to be able to yell back at her, "You are about to smell what The Rock is cooking, woman."
2. I would like you to beat up the guy who gave me a cold on Sunday after I kissed him at Silverado. This can be narrowed down to two or three guys, but if you can't figure out which one is responsible just beat them all up. None of them were great kissers anyway.
3. Please beat up Omarosa from The Apprentice. For obvious reasons. I thought it would be enough for me when she got fired, but I feel I need more closure.
I should let you go work out your biceps, but before I do I want to tell you one more thing, The. You should run for governor somewhere. People always vote for the most muscular candidate. Also, I have heard that votes are guaranteed if you have a boyfriend who is taller than you. Let's conquer the world together.
I know you might not be gay. Might not. But even if you would just come over to my house and put me in holds (bear hug, please) that would be fine. If parts of your body accidentally got in my mouth, then so be it. Let the cheeks fall where they may.
I love you, The.
Hot Toddy
I'm addicted to you. Don't you know that you're toxic?
I love you, The Rock. May I call you The? Your muscular body and cocky attitude make me want to touch myself appropriately, and I would give up almost anything except ketchup to be with you. You are so hot. Like Vin Diesel if he were handsome.
The fact that you are a wrestler probably has a lot to do with my attraction, because when I was 13 and watching wrestling on TV I got excited and fidgety. I was investigating my body to find the source of the tension, and when I found it some magic things happened to me. After the magic things happened, I found that wrestling matches could always bring more magic, and I was hooked. If VCRs and you had been around when I was 13, I would have never left the house. I would have pretended to be paralyzed so my parents wouldn't make me go to middle school. I know this would have worked because Phoebe Tyler tricked her husband Charles and everyone in Pine Valley with this same ruse. Of course Phoebe wasn't trying to stay home and masturbate while watching wrestling, but I still think it is a good idea.
Oh, The, you are the perfect man. You are an inch shorter than me, and I bet you have never dated someone taller than you! Wouldn't that be exciting to try? Please say yes!
Even if you do not want to date me or be my magician, I would like to ask you for a favor. There are some people I would like you to beat up, and I will list them here for you. I hope you can help.
1. Please beat up the woman on my block who drives an SUV and has a stupid bumper sticker with a picture of a kitty cat that says: "I AM NOT IN HEAT. GET OFF MY TAIL." She has an underdeveloped sense of humor, and is of no use to anybody. I'm sure nobody has ever laughed at this bumper sticker, and it won't come off when I go out late at night with my flashlight and try to peel it off her bumper. I am sick of running back to my house after she scrambles to her front porch and screams threats that she will call the police. Just once I would like to be able to yell back at her, "You are about to smell what The Rock is cooking, woman."
2. I would like you to beat up the guy who gave me a cold on Sunday after I kissed him at Silverado. This can be narrowed down to two or three guys, but if you can't figure out which one is responsible just beat them all up. None of them were great kissers anyway.
3. Please beat up Omarosa from The Apprentice. For obvious reasons. I thought it would be enough for me when she got fired, but I feel I need more closure.
I should let you go work out your biceps, but before I do I want to tell you one more thing, The. You should run for governor somewhere. People always vote for the most muscular candidate. Also, I have heard that votes are guaranteed if you have a boyfriend who is taller than you. Let's conquer the world together.
I know you might not be gay. Might not. But even if you would just come over to my house and put me in holds (bear hug, please) that would be fine. If parts of your body accidentally got in my mouth, then so be it. Let the cheeks fall where they may.
I love you, The.
Hot Toddy
Monday, March 22, 2004
Yum Yum Marco spent two and a half hours with me on Saturday discussing my writing and where it can take me. It was an honor to have a writer invest so much of his day that way. I gained valuable insight from Marco and learned a lot about my personal writing style. He pointed out that I seem to do my best work when there is an element of pressure to write combined with the promise of an audience and instant gratification.
Until I found the wonderful world of blogging, I was used to writing and then performing my pieces onstage as monologues, plays or sketches. But we talked a lot about other venues for reading my work, and I'm looking forward to scouting for those opportunities.
Receiving encouragement from another writer is such a motivator. Famous Author Rob Byrnes has encouraged me more than once with a positive comment about my writing. I love reading comments left by people who read Toaster Oven. Comments feed my need for instant gratification. Money would work too, if anybody felt like sending me some. Oh, sex works too if anybody felt like giving me some.
I'm so thankful for people like Rob and Marco who are successful at writing and want to encourage others who are a little "lower on the totem pole" than they are. I don't know why I put Rob on a pedestal, though, because he can't even spell "ciao" correctly.
Bonkers went home yesterday, but I didn't let myself cry until I finished working out. When I completed the last rep of the very last set of my upper body workout, I put the bar into the rack, sat on the bench and let the tears flow. Fortunately, I work out at a private fitness center at the office, so nobody was around to witness it. My house feels so empty without that dog. Last night when I got home, I missed his nose poking through the door to greet me. Maybe I can get juju to start poking her nose through the door when I come home, but I doubt that she will tap dance for me while I make dinner like Bonkers did.
Until I found the wonderful world of blogging, I was used to writing and then performing my pieces onstage as monologues, plays or sketches. But we talked a lot about other venues for reading my work, and I'm looking forward to scouting for those opportunities.
Receiving encouragement from another writer is such a motivator. Famous Author Rob Byrnes has encouraged me more than once with a positive comment about my writing. I love reading comments left by people who read Toaster Oven. Comments feed my need for instant gratification. Money would work too, if anybody felt like sending me some. Oh, sex works too if anybody felt like giving me some.
I'm so thankful for people like Rob and Marco who are successful at writing and want to encourage others who are a little "lower on the totem pole" than they are. I don't know why I put Rob on a pedestal, though, because he can't even spell "ciao" correctly.
Bonkers went home yesterday, but I didn't let myself cry until I finished working out. When I completed the last rep of the very last set of my upper body workout, I put the bar into the rack, sat on the bench and let the tears flow. Fortunately, I work out at a private fitness center at the office, so nobody was around to witness it. My house feels so empty without that dog. Last night when I got home, I missed his nose poking through the door to greet me. Maybe I can get juju to start poking her nose through the door when I come home, but I doubt that she will tap dance for me while I make dinner like Bonkers did.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Workout at CC Slaughters
I got an entire full-body workout last night at the bar, and I realized that Thursday night at CC Slaughters is better than an hour at the gym.
I warmed up by working my abs. Erin helped me with this. We laughed heartily for almost an hour, and it felt just as effective as crunches on the Swiss ball. Crunches on the Swiss ball sounds like a sexual innuendo, doesn't it?
Erin told me a bunch of secrets that I promised not to blog about, but if we ever get in an argument, I'm totally breaking my promise. And she also dared me to respond to this guy's ad, but I'm kind of freaked out. She even double dared me.
Last night I told Erin about one of the most bizarre and consistently funny blogs I read. A Taste of Moles is a carnival freak show narrated by the sarcastic and slightly crazed tour guide, antimony. Somehow this site attracts some of the most creative comments I've ever seen. I often laugh more at the comments than I do at the original post. Antimony has a crafty reply for almost anything I throw out there, as you can see in the comments from this day.
Back to my workout. After working out abs, I moved onto some cardio on the dance floor. My loins were stirred as well (that's an exercise, right? loin stirs?) because I was dancing with Yum Yum Marco. If he weren't married to Yum Yum Floyd, I would be on my knees in front of him... and that is not what I mean so stop it.
The upper body workout focused on the biceps. First I watched Marco's bulging biceps as he was defeated in an arm wrestling match by Boy Hunk. After feeling Marco's biceps for a minute or twelve, I went up against the almighty 6'5 strapping hunk of gorgeousness that is Boy Hunk. I am a stud, that's all I have to say. No, that's not all I have to say. I beat Boy Hunk both right-handed and left-handed. My masculinity turned me on so much that I went home and slept with myself afterwards.
Yum Yum Bobo was a funny drunk. Come to think of it he gave a half-hearted effort at arm wrestling Boy Hunk too. But I think it was more of an excuse to hold hands with him for a minute. Bobo and Boy Hunk and Erin all bought me drinks. I love that.
I ended the night with a full on complete body workout. I pretty much carried Metro around the bar because he couldn't walk very well, although he seemed to have no problem jumping up and down on the dance floor to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun". Any questions about why I call him Metro should now be resolved.
Since juju was home taking care of my dog, I felt it was only fair to take care of her boyfriend. He is less obedient than Bonkers, but his breath smells just as bad. Metro is pretty heavy. Actually, Metro is just plain pretty, so it wasn't too terrible to have him hanging on me. And I have to say, it was good to be the sober one for a change.
I got an entire full-body workout last night at the bar, and I realized that Thursday night at CC Slaughters is better than an hour at the gym.
I warmed up by working my abs. Erin helped me with this. We laughed heartily for almost an hour, and it felt just as effective as crunches on the Swiss ball. Crunches on the Swiss ball sounds like a sexual innuendo, doesn't it?
Erin told me a bunch of secrets that I promised not to blog about, but if we ever get in an argument, I'm totally breaking my promise. And she also dared me to respond to this guy's ad, but I'm kind of freaked out. She even double dared me.
Last night I told Erin about one of the most bizarre and consistently funny blogs I read. A Taste of Moles is a carnival freak show narrated by the sarcastic and slightly crazed tour guide, antimony. Somehow this site attracts some of the most creative comments I've ever seen. I often laugh more at the comments than I do at the original post. Antimony has a crafty reply for almost anything I throw out there, as you can see in the comments from this day.
Back to my workout. After working out abs, I moved onto some cardio on the dance floor. My loins were stirred as well (that's an exercise, right? loin stirs?) because I was dancing with Yum Yum Marco. If he weren't married to Yum Yum Floyd, I would be on my knees in front of him... and that is not what I mean so stop it.
The upper body workout focused on the biceps. First I watched Marco's bulging biceps as he was defeated in an arm wrestling match by Boy Hunk. After feeling Marco's biceps for a minute or twelve, I went up against the almighty 6'5 strapping hunk of gorgeousness that is Boy Hunk. I am a stud, that's all I have to say. No, that's not all I have to say. I beat Boy Hunk both right-handed and left-handed. My masculinity turned me on so much that I went home and slept with myself afterwards.
Yum Yum Bobo was a funny drunk. Come to think of it he gave a half-hearted effort at arm wrestling Boy Hunk too. But I think it was more of an excuse to hold hands with him for a minute. Bobo and Boy Hunk and Erin all bought me drinks. I love that.
I ended the night with a full on complete body workout. I pretty much carried Metro around the bar because he couldn't walk very well, although he seemed to have no problem jumping up and down on the dance floor to "Girls Just Want to Have Fun". Any questions about why I call him Metro should now be resolved.
Since juju was home taking care of my dog, I felt it was only fair to take care of her boyfriend. He is less obedient than Bonkers, but his breath smells just as bad. Metro is pretty heavy. Actually, Metro is just plain pretty, so it wasn't too terrible to have him hanging on me. And I have to say, it was good to be the sober one for a change.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Bonkers
The hardest thing about walking out of my house in the morning to go to work is leaving Bonkers.
Bonkers is my dog, and he is the love of my life.
There are a few reasons I never discuss him here:
1. I know that not everyone enjoys reading paragraph after paragraph about someone else's pet. It is like watching someone's home movies. Nobody cares.
2. I don't get to spend much time with him. When M. and I split up, he said I could keep Bonkers because it was obvious we were inseparable. But then M. changed his mind, and since Bonkers was his dog first, I had to let him go.
3. Bonkers has never given me his permission to write about him.
I am breaking my silence this morning, because I only have 3 more days with Bonkers before I have to take him back to M's place, and I'm starting to feel sad. My beloved dog has been staying with me for the past two weeks while M. is in Australia spending the money he should have given to me after our house was sold. (Sorry, I got bitter for a second there...)
Bonkers and I have been taking lots of walks and having a great time. He also watched seven episodes of "The L Word" yesterday with juju while I was at work. He likes girl on girl action because it is something completely different from what he's used to seeing at home.
Bonkers tap dances (click, click, click) while I fix his breakfast. He wags his tail so hard he can't stand still. He has fur like a rabbit, and he always smells good even if he hasn't had a bath in awhile.
He smiles like The Joker, only not evil. He has brown almond-shaped eyes that look at me with trust and loyalty. He is innocent and obedient. I love him more than anything, and it breaks my heart to have to be separated from him every day. If I ever get an acting role where I have to cry on stage, I will just have to glance at a picture of Bonkers before I make my entrance.
This Sunday, I will return Bonkers to his home and will resume life without him. I will see him occasionally, but I won't be his caretaker. He won't sleep in my bed anymore. I won't give him his breakfast and take him on walks. He won't sit with me and cuddle with me while I watch tv. He won't fake sneezing fits in the morning to make me wake up and take him outside.
I scheduled a "second date" for Sunday after I take Bonkers home. I hope that is a good idea, since I will be pretty sad about Bonkers. I'm hoping the date will give me something to focus on and take my mind off my dog.
It is also nice to have a second chance with Mr. Peru, because I was so incredibly ridiculous about our first date. He called me out of the blue this week and said he had been thinking about me.
Honestly, I think I would never date again if it meant I could have my dog with me every day. When I think about that statement, it is probably a good thing Bonkers is living with my ex-partner. I obviously have issues.
The hardest thing about walking out of my house in the morning to go to work is leaving Bonkers.
Bonkers is my dog, and he is the love of my life.
There are a few reasons I never discuss him here:
1. I know that not everyone enjoys reading paragraph after paragraph about someone else's pet. It is like watching someone's home movies. Nobody cares.
2. I don't get to spend much time with him. When M. and I split up, he said I could keep Bonkers because it was obvious we were inseparable. But then M. changed his mind, and since Bonkers was his dog first, I had to let him go.
3. Bonkers has never given me his permission to write about him.
I am breaking my silence this morning, because I only have 3 more days with Bonkers before I have to take him back to M's place, and I'm starting to feel sad. My beloved dog has been staying with me for the past two weeks while M. is in Australia spending the money he should have given to me after our house was sold. (Sorry, I got bitter for a second there...)
Bonkers and I have been taking lots of walks and having a great time. He also watched seven episodes of "The L Word" yesterday with juju while I was at work. He likes girl on girl action because it is something completely different from what he's used to seeing at home.
Bonkers tap dances (click, click, click) while I fix his breakfast. He wags his tail so hard he can't stand still. He has fur like a rabbit, and he always smells good even if he hasn't had a bath in awhile.
He smiles like The Joker, only not evil. He has brown almond-shaped eyes that look at me with trust and loyalty. He is innocent and obedient. I love him more than anything, and it breaks my heart to have to be separated from him every day. If I ever get an acting role where I have to cry on stage, I will just have to glance at a picture of Bonkers before I make my entrance.
This Sunday, I will return Bonkers to his home and will resume life without him. I will see him occasionally, but I won't be his caretaker. He won't sleep in my bed anymore. I won't give him his breakfast and take him on walks. He won't sit with me and cuddle with me while I watch tv. He won't fake sneezing fits in the morning to make me wake up and take him outside.
I scheduled a "second date" for Sunday after I take Bonkers home. I hope that is a good idea, since I will be pretty sad about Bonkers. I'm hoping the date will give me something to focus on and take my mind off my dog.
It is also nice to have a second chance with Mr. Peru, because I was so incredibly ridiculous about our first date. He called me out of the blue this week and said he had been thinking about me.
Honestly, I think I would never date again if it meant I could have my dog with me every day. When I think about that statement, it is probably a good thing Bonkers is living with my ex-partner. I obviously have issues.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Open Call
The Hindu community is pissed off.
Tina Turner has been cast as a Hindu goddess in the upcoming film, "The Goddess".
I. Am. OUTRAGED.
Why, oh why wasn't an authentic Hindu Goddess cast in this film!? Is it too much to ask that we honor deities by allowing them to play themselves in movies? Kali is the goddess of dissolution and destruction, and, frankly, I fear for Tina's safety. Better to anger a gentle goddess instead of the one most likely to kick your ass. Tina thought Ike was bad. She better get ready to run across the highway and check herself into another hotel and pray the manager is as kind as the one she encountered in 1975.
The madness doesn't stop with Tina's sacrilege. The last time I checked, James Caviezel, who played Jesus Christ in "The Passion of Christ" was NOT the product of an immaculate conception. In fact, he is clearly immoral (not immortal) evidenced by the fact that he played an airline clerk in Gus Van Sant's "My Own Private Idaho". That movie had GAY PEOPLE in it!!! Of all the movies for The Lord Jesus to star in! I bet Jesus would be turning over in his grave had he not risen from the dead.
This complete disregard for authentic casting is driving me crazy. Jessica Simpson wants to play Jeannie? Come on, I think we all know who the real Jeannie is.
I'm sorry if I seem a bit obsessive about casting. It's just that this hits home with me.
Recently my gorgeous FEMALE roommate played Richard Nixon, and I know for a fact she is not a crook. I've seen The Handsome Prince play Bing Crosby, in spite of the fact that Bing slept with women. Metro recently played Loki, a Norse god who was a "wise fool" with a pleasing and handsome appearance. Never mind. That casting was spot on.
My fear is that this trend will continue. Someday we will see a white actress playing Oprah Winfrey, the Goddess of A-Ha Moments, or a smart actor playing George Bush. Or gay people wanting to marry dogs. (Hey, that argument seems to work for everything else...)
Stop the madness!
The Hindu community is pissed off.
Tina Turner has been cast as a Hindu goddess in the upcoming film, "The Goddess".
I. Am. OUTRAGED.
Why, oh why wasn't an authentic Hindu Goddess cast in this film!? Is it too much to ask that we honor deities by allowing them to play themselves in movies? Kali is the goddess of dissolution and destruction, and, frankly, I fear for Tina's safety. Better to anger a gentle goddess instead of the one most likely to kick your ass. Tina thought Ike was bad. She better get ready to run across the highway and check herself into another hotel and pray the manager is as kind as the one she encountered in 1975.
The madness doesn't stop with Tina's sacrilege. The last time I checked, James Caviezel, who played Jesus Christ in "The Passion of Christ" was NOT the product of an immaculate conception. In fact, he is clearly immoral (not immortal) evidenced by the fact that he played an airline clerk in Gus Van Sant's "My Own Private Idaho". That movie had GAY PEOPLE in it!!! Of all the movies for The Lord Jesus to star in! I bet Jesus would be turning over in his grave had he not risen from the dead.
This complete disregard for authentic casting is driving me crazy. Jessica Simpson wants to play Jeannie? Come on, I think we all know who the real Jeannie is.
I'm sorry if I seem a bit obsessive about casting. It's just that this hits home with me.
Recently my gorgeous FEMALE roommate played Richard Nixon, and I know for a fact she is not a crook. I've seen The Handsome Prince play Bing Crosby, in spite of the fact that Bing slept with women. Metro recently played Loki, a Norse god who was a "wise fool" with a pleasing and handsome appearance. Never mind. That casting was spot on.
My fear is that this trend will continue. Someday we will see a white actress playing Oprah Winfrey, the Goddess of A-Ha Moments, or a smart actor playing George Bush. Or gay people wanting to marry dogs. (Hey, that argument seems to work for everything else...)
Stop the madness!
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
How to Kill a Tumor
Buttercup, of Candy Vendors fame (see link to the left - I'm in a hurry) called to tell me she has a foot tumor and has to go to the doctor. I didn't know you could get a foot tumor, but she likes to be unconventional. One day while cruising in St. Paul/MN during a stint as camp counselors/lifeguards, we passed a car with the numbers "999" on the license plate.
Buttercup shouted, "Look! The Anti-Christ is in that car and he's standing on his head!" Gotta love my Buttercup.
She said the doctor advised her to put electrical tape on her foot. Presumably, to electrocute the tumor.
I think it would be fun to experiment with different methods of killing a foot tumor. Poison tape would be good. Do they sell that at Home Depot?
I am holding off on a post (like - a real post with a theme or a point of any kind) until after lunch. I am meeting the Yum Yums today, and there is always a wealth of blog material when we get together, so this may be a two-post kind of day. We'll see.
If you think of any good ways to kill a foot tumor, please let me know and I'll pass them on to Buttercup.
Buttercup, of Candy Vendors fame (see link to the left - I'm in a hurry) called to tell me she has a foot tumor and has to go to the doctor. I didn't know you could get a foot tumor, but she likes to be unconventional. One day while cruising in St. Paul/MN during a stint as camp counselors/lifeguards, we passed a car with the numbers "999" on the license plate.
Buttercup shouted, "Look! The Anti-Christ is in that car and he's standing on his head!" Gotta love my Buttercup.
She said the doctor advised her to put electrical tape on her foot. Presumably, to electrocute the tumor.
I think it would be fun to experiment with different methods of killing a foot tumor. Poison tape would be good. Do they sell that at Home Depot?
I am holding off on a post (like - a real post with a theme or a point of any kind) until after lunch. I am meeting the Yum Yums today, and there is always a wealth of blog material when we get together, so this may be a two-post kind of day. We'll see.
If you think of any good ways to kill a foot tumor, please let me know and I'll pass them on to Buttercup.
Monday, March 15, 2004
The Ides of March
Today is a sad day for me. My lover, Julius Caesar, was killed on this day.
I have been reincarnated several times. In addition to living my life as a reindeer in Scandinavia and as Queen Victoria's valet, I was also Sacajawea and Virginia Woolf (that was a downer, let me tell you).
But the Ides of March always reminds me of my life as Julius' secret lover. My name was Whorus Antonius. Julius and I only had five wonderful days together before he was killed. We were so in love. He called me "Hot Whorus" and he was my Big Toolius Julius.
[Begin romantic movie "falling in love" montage]
Whorus and Julius are at an open air market looking at pomegranate. Whorus pulls one from the pile and all the pomegranates tumble to the ground. Julius grins and shakes his head. Whorus covers his eyes in embarrassment and laughs. Close-up of a calendar page, indicating it is the 10th of March (The "Tides of March" as we called it).
Cut to Julius and Whorus flying kites. They run in slow motion as they look up at the sky gleefully. Calendar shot: The Rides of March.
Cut to scene of a fire blazing in the hearth. Whorus and Julius lie on an animal skin rug (I can't remember what kind of animals we had in Rome...it was a long time ago.) They are making love. Calendar shot: The Hides of March.
Cut to daylight in a meadow. Whorus is fashioning a crown of laurel leaves. Julius kisses Whorus, and Whorus places the crown on Julius' head. Calendar shot: The Brides of March...
[end romantic movie montage]
We were happy. Then came his assassination. That day is burned into my memory like Bjork's swan dress at the Academy Awards. I will never forget the sight of those blades slicing into my poor lover's flesh. Right before he died, Julius turned to Brutus and said, "Et tu, Brute?" I stood in the crowd and yelled through my tears, "Good one, Julius," and I meant it. He was always quick with a comeback.
Our time was short, but I will never forget the laughs, the joy, the romance. Shortly afterwards, I took up with Brutus. He was not nearly as dear to me as Julius, but he had big arms and could bench press me. That was pretty hot.
Although it was painful to witness this murder, I do not regret my time in Rome. It's somewhat surprising to me that I never wrote about it in my books when I was Virginia Woolf, but I was so damn depressed all the time that reflecting on Julius would have just pushed me over the edge. Instead, it was the frustration of dealing with my horribly damaged unkempt hair that caused me to kill myself, but that is another story for another day.
I know that I, Whorus, made a huge contribution to the life of Big Toolius Julius and the lives of all Romans. It was my idea to start the toga parties, for example.
You're welcome.
Today is a sad day for me. My lover, Julius Caesar, was killed on this day.
I have been reincarnated several times. In addition to living my life as a reindeer in Scandinavia and as Queen Victoria's valet, I was also Sacajawea and Virginia Woolf (that was a downer, let me tell you).
But the Ides of March always reminds me of my life as Julius' secret lover. My name was Whorus Antonius. Julius and I only had five wonderful days together before he was killed. We were so in love. He called me "Hot Whorus" and he was my Big Toolius Julius.
[Begin romantic movie "falling in love" montage]
Whorus and Julius are at an open air market looking at pomegranate. Whorus pulls one from the pile and all the pomegranates tumble to the ground. Julius grins and shakes his head. Whorus covers his eyes in embarrassment and laughs. Close-up of a calendar page, indicating it is the 10th of March (The "Tides of March" as we called it).
Cut to Julius and Whorus flying kites. They run in slow motion as they look up at the sky gleefully. Calendar shot: The Rides of March.
Cut to scene of a fire blazing in the hearth. Whorus and Julius lie on an animal skin rug (I can't remember what kind of animals we had in Rome...it was a long time ago.) They are making love. Calendar shot: The Hides of March.
Cut to daylight in a meadow. Whorus is fashioning a crown of laurel leaves. Julius kisses Whorus, and Whorus places the crown on Julius' head. Calendar shot: The Brides of March...
[end romantic movie montage]
We were happy. Then came his assassination. That day is burned into my memory like Bjork's swan dress at the Academy Awards. I will never forget the sight of those blades slicing into my poor lover's flesh. Right before he died, Julius turned to Brutus and said, "Et tu, Brute?" I stood in the crowd and yelled through my tears, "Good one, Julius," and I meant it. He was always quick with a comeback.
Our time was short, but I will never forget the laughs, the joy, the romance. Shortly afterwards, I took up with Brutus. He was not nearly as dear to me as Julius, but he had big arms and could bench press me. That was pretty hot.
Although it was painful to witness this murder, I do not regret my time in Rome. It's somewhat surprising to me that I never wrote about it in my books when I was Virginia Woolf, but I was so damn depressed all the time that reflecting on Julius would have just pushed me over the edge. Instead, it was the frustration of dealing with my horribly damaged unkempt hair that caused me to kill myself, but that is another story for another day.
I know that I, Whorus, made a huge contribution to the life of Big Toolius Julius and the lives of all Romans. It was my idea to start the toga parties, for example.
You're welcome.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Brad or Brian or Letha or Reba
Just when you thought the saga of Brad was over, I made a fool of myself once again.
Brad shaved his head and got an earring. Fortunately, my friend Brian, who actually used to date Brad, pointed him out to me at the bar last night. Brian had mercy on me after reading my entry on Brad, Poor, Brad. (It's linked above - you should go read it if you want to really get maximum pleasure out of this story).
So, I smile and walk over to Brad and say, "I remember you. Hi Brad."
Now I am thinking I am the coolest person in the world. He then introduces me to his cousin, Letha.
"Hi, Reba," I say.
"No. Letha," says Letha.
Later on we run into each other again. I introduce my roommate Juju and her boyfriend Metro to Brad and his cousin.
"This is Brad and his cousin, Reba."
"Letha," Brad says.
I can officially no longer face Brad.
For the rest of the night, I drank and danced. And drank. And drank.
Today juju called me at work to remind me of "Hot Toddy's Greatest Moments" last night. Hearing stories of things I said while drunk is one of my favorite pastimes. I only wish you could hear the slurred impression of me that juju does.
Sometimes I am cool drunk. Sometimes I am stupid drunk. Guess which one I was last night?
Curtain up on the Martini Lounge at CC Slaughters:
We see four cool people and one not very cool drunk blogger sitting at a table.
(Hot guy walks by our table)
Me: WOW, THAT GUY IS HOT!!
juju: Todd, he can hear you. You're being very loud.
Me: SO WHAT! WHAT IS THE WORST THING THAT CAN HAPPEN? I DON'T CARE IF HE HEARS ME.
juju: The worst thing that could happen is that you could say and do things you wouldn't do sober.
Me: I DON'T CARE. HE'S JUST HOT.
(Suddenly I completely lose interest in the hot guy for no apparent reason)
Me: DID YOU KNOW THAT WHEN I WAS DANCING WITH R. I GOT A HARD ON?
juju: Todd, shhh.
Me: I DID. I DON'T CARE IF ANYBODY KNOWS.
juju: Todd, everybody in the bar knows.
Metro: I love you Todd, you are so funny.
Me: I HAD SUCH A HARD ON.
Boy Hunk: I'll be right back. (goes off to look for girls)
Me: R. WAS GRINDING UP AGAINST ME. I AM SO HORNY.
(Metro laughs because he knows this encourages me to keep talking)
Me: SEE THAT GUY OVER THERE? BOY HUNK TOLD ME NOT TO WASTE MY TIME TALKING TO HIM.
(juju gives up trying to remind me to keep my volume down and wisely allows me to rant)
Me: BOY HUNK SAYS THAT GUY BRINGS NOTHING TO THE TABLE AND THAT I SHOULD NOT GO HOME WITH HIM.
Juju drove us home, and in the car I told her that I wish there was a place where gay men could go to show off their minds instead of their bodies. That would be great, huh? I'm sure everyone at the bar was deeply impressed with my intellect last night. Nothing sexier than a loud drunk guy with no social boundaries.
I never did get to say goodnight to Brad and Reba.
I mean Letha.
Just when you thought the saga of Brad was over, I made a fool of myself once again.
Brad shaved his head and got an earring. Fortunately, my friend Brian, who actually used to date Brad, pointed him out to me at the bar last night. Brian had mercy on me after reading my entry on Brad, Poor, Brad. (It's linked above - you should go read it if you want to really get maximum pleasure out of this story).
So, I smile and walk over to Brad and say, "I remember you. Hi Brad."
Now I am thinking I am the coolest person in the world. He then introduces me to his cousin, Letha.
"Hi, Reba," I say.
"No. Letha," says Letha.
Later on we run into each other again. I introduce my roommate Juju and her boyfriend Metro to Brad and his cousin.
"This is Brad and his cousin, Reba."
"Letha," Brad says.
I can officially no longer face Brad.
For the rest of the night, I drank and danced. And drank. And drank.
Today juju called me at work to remind me of "Hot Toddy's Greatest Moments" last night. Hearing stories of things I said while drunk is one of my favorite pastimes. I only wish you could hear the slurred impression of me that juju does.
Sometimes I am cool drunk. Sometimes I am stupid drunk. Guess which one I was last night?
Curtain up on the Martini Lounge at CC Slaughters:
We see four cool people and one not very cool drunk blogger sitting at a table.
(Hot guy walks by our table)
Me: WOW, THAT GUY IS HOT!!
juju: Todd, he can hear you. You're being very loud.
Me: SO WHAT! WHAT IS THE WORST THING THAT CAN HAPPEN? I DON'T CARE IF HE HEARS ME.
juju: The worst thing that could happen is that you could say and do things you wouldn't do sober.
Me: I DON'T CARE. HE'S JUST HOT.
(Suddenly I completely lose interest in the hot guy for no apparent reason)
Me: DID YOU KNOW THAT WHEN I WAS DANCING WITH R. I GOT A HARD ON?
juju: Todd, shhh.
Me: I DID. I DON'T CARE IF ANYBODY KNOWS.
juju: Todd, everybody in the bar knows.
Metro: I love you Todd, you are so funny.
Me: I HAD SUCH A HARD ON.
Boy Hunk: I'll be right back. (goes off to look for girls)
Me: R. WAS GRINDING UP AGAINST ME. I AM SO HORNY.
(Metro laughs because he knows this encourages me to keep talking)
Me: SEE THAT GUY OVER THERE? BOY HUNK TOLD ME NOT TO WASTE MY TIME TALKING TO HIM.
(juju gives up trying to remind me to keep my volume down and wisely allows me to rant)
Me: BOY HUNK SAYS THAT GUY BRINGS NOTHING TO THE TABLE AND THAT I SHOULD NOT GO HOME WITH HIM.
Juju drove us home, and in the car I told her that I wish there was a place where gay men could go to show off their minds instead of their bodies. That would be great, huh? I'm sure everyone at the bar was deeply impressed with my intellect last night. Nothing sexier than a loud drunk guy with no social boundaries.
I never did get to say goodnight to Brad and Reba.
I mean Letha.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Eenie Meenie Minie Moe
Still trying to decide if gay marriage should be legal or not? Talking with someone who just made a life commitment to their partner is the easiest way to reach a conclusion.
I had a great talk with Ubergirl on the phone today. She and her partner of four years just got married a week ago. Ubergirl can't stop crying tears of joy over her marriage. She has a beautiful daughter and a wonderful partner, and now they have a legal marriage. To Ubergirl's daughter, she knows her parents have made a commitment to one another. It's no longer just "mommy's girlfriend living with us". Now it's spouses for life.
Lately, I've been wondering how I would personally make a decision about gay marriage if I, myself, were not gay. What if I had no opportunity to talk with a gay person in a committed relationship and no past experience being committed to someone myself? I would still decide it is the right way to go. I would make this decision strictly based on the actions of same-sex marriage supporters and opponents. I don't think it would take me very long to come to the conclusion that I support gay marriage.
First of all, I have this little problem with tolerance. I am not tolerant of poor spelling. Sorry, but it seems to me that most of the opponents of gay marriage can't spell. You've seen the comments in various blogs. You've seen the protest signs. I mean, they seem to have mastered short three-letter words like "God" and "fag", and of course they have the four-letter words down like "hate" and "hell". But, if you are going to threaten a queer-loving, tree-hugging, devil-worshipping liberal don't address them as "The Mayer of Portland".
I'm not saying that opponents of gay marriage are ignorant, just that they are stupid.
Okay, so that's not a very good legal argument, but I never claimed to be a lawyer. Can I just say that a lot of the opponents say really stupid things? Karen Minnis, House Speaker, says that we have over 3,000 years of tradition in this country being violated by allowing same-sex marriage. This will be a very convincing argument in 1,000 more years, Karen.
But I am editorializing. Let's go straight to a couple sources and allow them to speak for themselves.
Exhibit One: Phone message from an opponent of gay marriage
Several of the county commissioners have received death threats because they took action to allow same-sex marriage licenses in Multnomah County. Here is a transcript of one of the messages:
"Hi, my name is Brandon Rogers. I hope you get AIDS from your f------ brother and before you're run out of the commission, you little b----. I hope your whole family is killed. I hope it with all my heart that you guys are gunned down and killed."
***
Mr. Rogers (ironic name) attacked the camera crew during his interview. Not a very beautiful day in HIS neighborhood.
Now, let's hear an argument from the other side.
Exhibit Two: Statement from Portland Mayor Vera Katz
"Marriage is the place where we create a home for children - and gay men and lesbian women have children and throughout history have had children. Those children have the right to be raised within the loving confines of a marriage, not within an ambiguously named civil union.
In a world where we worry that promiscuity is rampant, why would we not embrace those who are pledging fidelity?
In a world racked with instability, why would we not embrace those who seek permanence?
In a world where we worry about a lack of commitment, why would we not embrace those building a lifetime of devotion?"
***
Thanks, Vera. I love you. I would marry you if you weren't a woman.
If you have ever had the opportunity of seeing the LOVE shared by a same-sex couple standing in line for a marriage license or even seen one picture of a same-sex wedding ceremony, the decision is easy.
If you have ever seen or heard the HATE spewing forth from those opposed, well, it's just sad.
Court is adjourned.
Still trying to decide if gay marriage should be legal or not? Talking with someone who just made a life commitment to their partner is the easiest way to reach a conclusion.
I had a great talk with Ubergirl on the phone today. She and her partner of four years just got married a week ago. Ubergirl can't stop crying tears of joy over her marriage. She has a beautiful daughter and a wonderful partner, and now they have a legal marriage. To Ubergirl's daughter, she knows her parents have made a commitment to one another. It's no longer just "mommy's girlfriend living with us". Now it's spouses for life.
Lately, I've been wondering how I would personally make a decision about gay marriage if I, myself, were not gay. What if I had no opportunity to talk with a gay person in a committed relationship and no past experience being committed to someone myself? I would still decide it is the right way to go. I would make this decision strictly based on the actions of same-sex marriage supporters and opponents. I don't think it would take me very long to come to the conclusion that I support gay marriage.
First of all, I have this little problem with tolerance. I am not tolerant of poor spelling. Sorry, but it seems to me that most of the opponents of gay marriage can't spell. You've seen the comments in various blogs. You've seen the protest signs. I mean, they seem to have mastered short three-letter words like "God" and "fag", and of course they have the four-letter words down like "hate" and "hell". But, if you are going to threaten a queer-loving, tree-hugging, devil-worshipping liberal don't address them as "The Mayer of Portland".
I'm not saying that opponents of gay marriage are ignorant, just that they are stupid.
Okay, so that's not a very good legal argument, but I never claimed to be a lawyer. Can I just say that a lot of the opponents say really stupid things? Karen Minnis, House Speaker, says that we have over 3,000 years of tradition in this country being violated by allowing same-sex marriage. This will be a very convincing argument in 1,000 more years, Karen.
But I am editorializing. Let's go straight to a couple sources and allow them to speak for themselves.
Exhibit One: Phone message from an opponent of gay marriage
Several of the county commissioners have received death threats because they took action to allow same-sex marriage licenses in Multnomah County. Here is a transcript of one of the messages:
"Hi, my name is Brandon Rogers. I hope you get AIDS from your f------ brother and before you're run out of the commission, you little b----. I hope your whole family is killed. I hope it with all my heart that you guys are gunned down and killed."
***
Mr. Rogers (ironic name) attacked the camera crew during his interview. Not a very beautiful day in HIS neighborhood.
Now, let's hear an argument from the other side.
Exhibit Two: Statement from Portland Mayor Vera Katz
"Marriage is the place where we create a home for children - and gay men and lesbian women have children and throughout history have had children. Those children have the right to be raised within the loving confines of a marriage, not within an ambiguously named civil union.
In a world where we worry that promiscuity is rampant, why would we not embrace those who are pledging fidelity?
In a world racked with instability, why would we not embrace those who seek permanence?
In a world where we worry about a lack of commitment, why would we not embrace those building a lifetime of devotion?"
***
Thanks, Vera. I love you. I would marry you if you weren't a woman.
If you have ever had the opportunity of seeing the LOVE shared by a same-sex couple standing in line for a marriage license or even seen one picture of a same-sex wedding ceremony, the decision is easy.
If you have ever seen or heard the HATE spewing forth from those opposed, well, it's just sad.
Court is adjourned.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Snapple Lids
Author's note: Warning! This entry has caused choking, loss of bladder control, and projectile vomiting among certain readers. Proceed at your own risk.
My Snapple lid is scaring me.
"Real Fact" #32 on my Snapple lid says "There are 1 million ants for every person in the world."
They should call this lid trivia Snapple Facts of Terror or, if they are very attached to their inappropriate use of quotation marks, "Facts of Terror".
According to Snapple, there are 1 million ants for each of us. Including me. Is this a threat, Snapple? Can you give me a little more detail? Are the ants going to be delivered to me at some point, or am I supposed to gather them myself? What will I do with 1 million ants? If I remember correctly, they can lift several times their body weight, so I may start a moving company or something with mine. Anyone out there already have their 1 million ants? What did you do with them? I need suggestions!
What happens if someone dies? If there were 1 million ants for that person, does ownership simply transfer to a newborn? Or are my million ants mine for all eternity? Are they exterminated when I die (inhumane!) or is there some sort of ant orphanage?
When people set ant traps, are they killing someone else's ants, or are we to assume the ants around our homes are actually ours? Are we even allowed to kill our million ants? If we kill them, will more come to take their place so that we will always have an even million?
Hey, Snapple, who counted? I'm not good with numbers, but if you claim there are a million ants for every person in the world, then there must be something like - god - 7 million ants?
You don't quote your source on the lid, so I don't even know how to follow up on this claim. I went to the website to see if there was any way I could request my ants be donated to someone else or sent to an animal sanctuary, but there was no useful information there.
Just telling me there are a million ants for me isn't sufficient, Snapple. I need to know how to process this information. Pardon me for sounding all project management-y but what are the next steps?
Anyone who has already received your million ants, please contact me immediately. I didn't know about this until this morning when I almost threw away my Snapple lid. Good lord, what if I had actually thrown it away without reading it? I think this information needs a better method of dissemination. If there are people who don't drink Snapple, they will never know about their million ants. It would be horrible to wake up with them on your doorstep if you weren't expecting them.
I'm going to go get another Snapple and see what else I can find out. I'll let you know.
My Snapple lid is scaring me.
"Real Fact" #32 on my Snapple lid says "There are 1 million ants for every person in the world."
They should call this lid trivia Snapple Facts of Terror or, if they are very attached to their inappropriate use of quotation marks, "Facts of Terror".
According to Snapple, there are 1 million ants for each of us. Including me. Is this a threat, Snapple? Can you give me a little more detail? Are the ants going to be delivered to me at some point, or am I supposed to gather them myself? What will I do with 1 million ants? If I remember correctly, they can lift several times their body weight, so I may start a moving company or something with mine. Anyone out there already have their 1 million ants? What did you do with them? I need suggestions!
What happens if someone dies? If there were 1 million ants for that person, does ownership simply transfer to a newborn? Or are my million ants mine for all eternity? Are they exterminated when I die (inhumane!) or is there some sort of ant orphanage?
When people set ant traps, are they killing someone else's ants, or are we to assume the ants around our homes are actually ours? Are we even allowed to kill our million ants? If we kill them, will more come to take their place so that we will always have an even million?
Hey, Snapple, who counted? I'm not good with numbers, but if you claim there are a million ants for every person in the world, then there must be something like - god - 7 million ants?
You don't quote your source on the lid, so I don't even know how to follow up on this claim. I went to the website to see if there was any way I could request my ants be donated to someone else or sent to an animal sanctuary, but there was no useful information there.
Just telling me there are a million ants for me isn't sufficient, Snapple. I need to know how to process this information. Pardon me for sounding all project management-y but what are the next steps?
Anyone who has already received your million ants, please contact me immediately. I didn't know about this until this morning when I almost threw away my Snapple lid. Good lord, what if I had actually thrown it away without reading it? I think this information needs a better method of dissemination. If there are people who don't drink Snapple, they will never know about their million ants. It would be horrible to wake up with them on your doorstep if you weren't expecting them.
I'm going to go get another Snapple and see what else I can find out. I'll let you know.
I Heart My Theater Critic
Steffen Silvis has been mean to me for a long time. He called my sketch comedy show "masturbatory" (like masturbation could somehow be a bad thing?) and claims that anyone who laughed at the production was obviously an outpatient at a mental hospital. His Portland theatre reviews are scathing, sarcastic, cruel and often unreasonable. I'm constantly angered by his bitchy rants. If he hates a show, I will probably love it. If he loves a show, there is no way I'm going to see it.
But, damn it, Steffen made me love him today. He reviewed a book on gay marriage, and I found his words to be informative, inspiring and wise. I'm sort of in shock over this sudden development. I find myself respecting him, not just because I agree with him for, perhaps, the first time EVER, but because he actually demonstrates human kindness. I am thinking of asking him to marry me, because I'm currently only engaged to three (or four?) other people. Calm down, religious right, I'm only joking.
Steffen Silvis has been mean to me for a long time. He called my sketch comedy show "masturbatory" (like masturbation could somehow be a bad thing?) and claims that anyone who laughed at the production was obviously an outpatient at a mental hospital. His Portland theatre reviews are scathing, sarcastic, cruel and often unreasonable. I'm constantly angered by his bitchy rants. If he hates a show, I will probably love it. If he loves a show, there is no way I'm going to see it.
But, damn it, Steffen made me love him today. He reviewed a book on gay marriage, and I found his words to be informative, inspiring and wise. I'm sort of in shock over this sudden development. I find myself respecting him, not just because I agree with him for, perhaps, the first time EVER, but because he actually demonstrates human kindness. I am thinking of asking him to marry me, because I'm currently only engaged to three (or four?) other people. Calm down, religious right, I'm only joking.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Gay Marriage Activism
I just found out that a third couple I know has tied the knot. It's an exciting time here. Same-sex marriages will continue in Oregon for now. Some great photos have been posted at Basic Rights Oregon.
Obviously, we have a fight ahead of us.
Oregonians may want to consider calling Governor Kulongoski at 503-378-3111 to let him know we support marriage equality for all Oregonians.
No matter where you live, there are actions you can take if you want to be a part of the fight for equality.
As always, I will leave it to others to report and comment. I'm the culture guy. I won't say useless, though, thanks to vehement comments from my friends to the contrary.
Want to hear a funny story? Old people fighting at the salad bar! Awesome! Thanks to cramped hand for the link.
I just found out that a third couple I know has tied the knot. It's an exciting time here. Same-sex marriages will continue in Oregon for now. Some great photos have been posted at Basic Rights Oregon.
Obviously, we have a fight ahead of us.
Oregonians may want to consider calling Governor Kulongoski at 503-378-3111 to let him know we support marriage equality for all Oregonians.
No matter where you live, there are actions you can take if you want to be a part of the fight for equality.
As always, I will leave it to others to report and comment. I'm the culture guy. I won't say useless, though, thanks to vehement comments from my friends to the contrary.
Want to hear a funny story? Old people fighting at the salad bar! Awesome! Thanks to cramped hand for the link.
Math Problem
What do you get when you cross the horror of, say, Pearl Harbor with the folly of Janet's wardrobe malfunction?
My life at the moment.
There is a cacophony of noise in my head and heart right now that does not fit well into my duty of blogging. My mission, gentle readers, is to entertain, not to use my Toaster Oven as therapy. So, I will employ the skills I've learned from my Midwestern upbringing and discuss a bit of trivial business instead. Once the emergency crew clears out some of the rubble, I can discuss matters of the heart in a way that won't make you want to jump through your monitor and shake the bejeezus out of me.
I had a date this weekend and found myself to be the victim of the mirage known as flattering bar lighting. The Landscaper was pretty appealing the night we flirted over drinks, but in the daylight it was a different story. He is a sweet man, but I knew it wouldn't work between us when we met for lunch Sunday.
He was wearing a torn dirty sweater that used to be white and was two sizes too small. While he was talking to me I found myself thinking, "with some new clothes and a beard trim he could be much more attractive. Maybe he could cut his hair and use some product. He may be dateable with some work. "
My Pygmalion fantasy was shattered when he pulled me from my reverie with the words, "I can't stand those guys from Queer Eye from the Straight Guy. Trying to make over guys and change them. That is not my style."
Oh my god, I am a Queer Eye guy.
I just hope I'm not Jai, the useless one, but I have a feeling that's exactly who I am.
What do you get when you cross the horror of, say, Pearl Harbor with the folly of Janet's wardrobe malfunction?
My life at the moment.
There is a cacophony of noise in my head and heart right now that does not fit well into my duty of blogging. My mission, gentle readers, is to entertain, not to use my Toaster Oven as therapy. So, I will employ the skills I've learned from my Midwestern upbringing and discuss a bit of trivial business instead. Once the emergency crew clears out some of the rubble, I can discuss matters of the heart in a way that won't make you want to jump through your monitor and shake the bejeezus out of me.
I had a date this weekend and found myself to be the victim of the mirage known as flattering bar lighting. The Landscaper was pretty appealing the night we flirted over drinks, but in the daylight it was a different story. He is a sweet man, but I knew it wouldn't work between us when we met for lunch Sunday.
He was wearing a torn dirty sweater that used to be white and was two sizes too small. While he was talking to me I found myself thinking, "with some new clothes and a beard trim he could be much more attractive. Maybe he could cut his hair and use some product. He may be dateable with some work. "
My Pygmalion fantasy was shattered when he pulled me from my reverie with the words, "I can't stand those guys from Queer Eye from the Straight Guy. Trying to make over guys and change them. That is not my style."
Oh my god, I am a Queer Eye guy.
I just hope I'm not Jai, the useless one, but I have a feeling that's exactly who I am.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
What Award Could I Win?
I am not really worried about winning awards. I won lots of trophies for music and theatre competitions in high school. Not as many as Marcia Brady, but quite a few. The only trophy I kept, however, was a tiny little bowling trophy that says, "I TRIED".
If Bloggies are ever awarded to the blogger who cries the most of anybody and writes about it all the time, I will win.
It should be said that there is a difference between "crying" (your eyes fill with tears) and "sobbing" (more of a theatrical device, really). I am a quiet crier. You may not even know I'm doing it. But I can't stop tears from coming to my eyes when I feel intense joy or deep sadness.
My weepy role model is, of course, Michael Landon as Charles Ingalls. He cried a lot, but damn he was hot.
I am not really worried about winning awards. I won lots of trophies for music and theatre competitions in high school. Not as many as Marcia Brady, but quite a few. The only trophy I kept, however, was a tiny little bowling trophy that says, "I TRIED".
If Bloggies are ever awarded to the blogger who cries the most of anybody and writes about it all the time, I will win.
It should be said that there is a difference between "crying" (your eyes fill with tears) and "sobbing" (more of a theatrical device, really). I am a quiet crier. You may not even know I'm doing it. But I can't stop tears from coming to my eyes when I feel intense joy or deep sadness.
My weepy role model is, of course, Michael Landon as Charles Ingalls. He cried a lot, but damn he was hot.
Gay Wedding Factory
No more cute titles making use of the word "funner", I promise. I don't know why I did it. Sorry. Chalk it up to wedding fever.
One great thing about living in the Gay Wedding Factory known as Portland, Oregon, is that I am suddenly coming into contact with more than a few brilliant local bloggers. My top source of information regarding the recent events has been Worldwide Pablo. If you would like some actual news to supplement my attention deficit-driven color commentary, I suggest you visit his blog. You'll also found some great links to photos of yesterday's celebration there.
Having located an informative and intelligent source of information for you, I now I feel I can safely return to my warped and completely useless narrative. Whew. The pressure is off! I worried yesterday that people might actually want real information from me given that Portland was suddenly the center of a national controversy. I felt like Geraldo Rivera only not as dorky.
Just about 400 couples obtained licenses yesterday. The county could probably have processed more, but we're talking about gay people gathering en masse, so the partying and socializing probably slowed things down a bit. Don't you love the way a party breaks out whenever you gather gay men and women together? Flags and music and rainbows and love and laughter...how often does the Multnomah County Courthouse see that kind of joy from people waiting in line?
My roommate is not gay, but you won't find many people more supportive of gay rights than juju. She taped all kinds of stuff for me yesterday so I could watch news footage when I got home from work. When she saw a clip of two women getting married she shrieked, "I want to be a lesbian and get married today!"
This summer juju and I met downtown for the PRIDE parade. She was standing on the corner yelling, "We want a gay community center!!" when the community center advocates marched by. I love having someone like juju in my corner. It's like living with Margaret Cho, who does so much to fight for the rights of all.
Yesterday was a long day, and the next few days, weeks and months promise to be exhausting. We still have a fight ahead of us, but I feel as though there is a reason I am here in Portland, Oregon at this particular time in history. I am not getting married, and I don't know whether or not I ever will. I'm just standing up for what is fair. We Libras are all about fairness.
To cap off a great day, HE called me last night. I guess I didn't scare him off yet.
No more cute titles making use of the word "funner", I promise. I don't know why I did it. Sorry. Chalk it up to wedding fever.
One great thing about living in the Gay Wedding Factory known as Portland, Oregon, is that I am suddenly coming into contact with more than a few brilliant local bloggers. My top source of information regarding the recent events has been Worldwide Pablo. If you would like some actual news to supplement my attention deficit-driven color commentary, I suggest you visit his blog. You'll also found some great links to photos of yesterday's celebration there.
Having located an informative and intelligent source of information for you, I now I feel I can safely return to my warped and completely useless narrative. Whew. The pressure is off! I worried yesterday that people might actually want real information from me given that Portland was suddenly the center of a national controversy. I felt like Geraldo Rivera only not as dorky.
Just about 400 couples obtained licenses yesterday. The county could probably have processed more, but we're talking about gay people gathering en masse, so the partying and socializing probably slowed things down a bit. Don't you love the way a party breaks out whenever you gather gay men and women together? Flags and music and rainbows and love and laughter...how often does the Multnomah County Courthouse see that kind of joy from people waiting in line?
My roommate is not gay, but you won't find many people more supportive of gay rights than juju. She taped all kinds of stuff for me yesterday so I could watch news footage when I got home from work. When she saw a clip of two women getting married she shrieked, "I want to be a lesbian and get married today!"
This summer juju and I met downtown for the PRIDE parade. She was standing on the corner yelling, "We want a gay community center!!" when the community center advocates marched by. I love having someone like juju in my corner. It's like living with Margaret Cho, who does so much to fight for the rights of all.
Yesterday was a long day, and the next few days, weeks and months promise to be exhausting. We still have a fight ahead of us, but I feel as though there is a reason I am here in Portland, Oregon at this particular time in history. I am not getting married, and I don't know whether or not I ever will. I'm just standing up for what is fair. We Libras are all about fairness.
To cap off a great day, HE called me last night. I guess I didn't scare him off yet.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Marriage is Funner, Part Three
At about 10:30 a.m. I jumped up from my desk and said, "Oh, man. I gotta get out of here."
History is being made in Portland, Oregon, and I'm sitting in a cubicle? No way. (If you are my boss and have somehow found my blog, I am just kidding, I was at a meeting in another building.)
At about 11:00 a.m. I received a call from my friend Ubergirl. She gave me instructions that I am not allowed to accept any proposals until I date him for a year. Apparently people are worried that I am going to get caught up in the excitement and just marry the first one that asks me. But since nobody has asked yet, I just handed out my phone number to all the cute guys waiting in line for marriage licenses at the courthouse. Was that wrong?
Balloon Boy, one of my fellow Yum Yum brothers was with me. That in itself was a happy surprise, because we randomly encountered each other on the street. It seems we were both confused and were at the wrong courthouse. I was so glad to see him so that I didn't have to witness the party alone. What a party it was. People drove by honking or stood on the sidewalk dancing. As married people filed past me I could only give them a silent thumbs up and a smile. I couldn't even speak to say, "congratulations" because I am a human waterworks and will cry at the slightest hint of joy. Damn, there was a LOT of joy to cry about.
My friends Don & Jeff got their license this morning, so I didn't get to see them. But Kara and Christine were in line and I ran over and hugged them. More tears all around. Christine was crying because a stranger walked by and gave her a loaf of bread, which was so funny to me. I would be just like you, Christine, if I were the one getting married today. Balloon Boy said that if I ever get married I will need LOTS of "handlers". That made me laugh.
The protesters were there, of course. So what. Sometimes you put up with minor irritations when you are celebrating the joy of being alive. If you go to the Bahamas for a vacation, you might get sand in your shoes. Big deal. Protesters, you are sand in my shoes and not even particularly large grains. So there.
One girl stood among the protesters holding a sign that said "GOD LOVES YOU AND BLESSES YOUR MARRIAGE". She was screaming like a crazy woman, "God is love, God is love, God made everyone, God loves you!!!" That is not exactly my style, but good for her. Thank you, anonymous crazy girl, for being full of love. I bet God is happy with you today, and I mean that sincerely. You're a good person. I like people who protest the sandpeople.
My job in all of this is not to scream and shout, although I did force Balloon Boy to honk his horn as we drove away from the courthouse. He's Lutheran and doesn't like to make a fuss. So I had to reach over while he was driving and honk for joy.
I'm not a groom today or a bride. I am not the ring bearer or best man. I am more like the mother of the bride, I guess. My job is to let the tears flow each time I witness a gesture of love, like when a woman handed me a free cup of coffee and was thanked by my tears . (Thank God it wasn't bread, Christine.)
I'm here to write about it all and to give hugs and support friends and strangers who are getting married today.
Congratulations. God loves you and blesses your marriage.
At about 10:30 a.m. I jumped up from my desk and said, "Oh, man. I gotta get out of here."
History is being made in Portland, Oregon, and I'm sitting in a cubicle? No way. (If you are my boss and have somehow found my blog, I am just kidding, I was at a meeting in another building.)
At about 11:00 a.m. I received a call from my friend Ubergirl. She gave me instructions that I am not allowed to accept any proposals until I date him for a year. Apparently people are worried that I am going to get caught up in the excitement and just marry the first one that asks me. But since nobody has asked yet, I just handed out my phone number to all the cute guys waiting in line for marriage licenses at the courthouse. Was that wrong?
Balloon Boy, one of my fellow Yum Yum brothers was with me. That in itself was a happy surprise, because we randomly encountered each other on the street. It seems we were both confused and were at the wrong courthouse. I was so glad to see him so that I didn't have to witness the party alone. What a party it was. People drove by honking or stood on the sidewalk dancing. As married people filed past me I could only give them a silent thumbs up and a smile. I couldn't even speak to say, "congratulations" because I am a human waterworks and will cry at the slightest hint of joy. Damn, there was a LOT of joy to cry about.
My friends Don & Jeff got their license this morning, so I didn't get to see them. But Kara and Christine were in line and I ran over and hugged them. More tears all around. Christine was crying because a stranger walked by and gave her a loaf of bread, which was so funny to me. I would be just like you, Christine, if I were the one getting married today. Balloon Boy said that if I ever get married I will need LOTS of "handlers". That made me laugh.
The protesters were there, of course. So what. Sometimes you put up with minor irritations when you are celebrating the joy of being alive. If you go to the Bahamas for a vacation, you might get sand in your shoes. Big deal. Protesters, you are sand in my shoes and not even particularly large grains. So there.
One girl stood among the protesters holding a sign that said "GOD LOVES YOU AND BLESSES YOUR MARRIAGE". She was screaming like a crazy woman, "God is love, God is love, God made everyone, God loves you!!!" That is not exactly my style, but good for her. Thank you, anonymous crazy girl, for being full of love. I bet God is happy with you today, and I mean that sincerely. You're a good person. I like people who protest the sandpeople.
My job in all of this is not to scream and shout, although I did force Balloon Boy to honk his horn as we drove away from the courthouse. He's Lutheran and doesn't like to make a fuss. So I had to reach over while he was driving and honk for joy.
I'm not a groom today or a bride. I am not the ring bearer or best man. I am more like the mother of the bride, I guess. My job is to let the tears flow each time I witness a gesture of love, like when a woman handed me a free cup of coffee and was thanked by my tears . (Thank God it wasn't bread, Christine.)
I'm here to write about it all and to give hugs and support friends and strangers who are getting married today.
Congratulations. God loves you and blesses your marriage.
Marriage is Funner, Part Two
Portland, Oregon is so busy rebelling against the Lord this morning that everything feels quite hectic. E-mails are flying, blog comments are insane, and my stomach is growling due to a lack of time to eat. How can I eat when I'm so busy reading about such awesome news.
I wonder if this at all resembles what it felt like to be in San Francisco the day "The Gays" started marrying!? It is exhilarating.
I really prefer to deal with political issues with a sense of humor, so Pandagon's blog has been my favorite so far today. I actually laughed out loud at my desk when I saw it.
My primary comment to those opposed to same-sex marriage has been, "I'm sorry this day is so sad for you. It is a joyous one for many of us who are happy to see loving couples being granted equal rights. If you don't agree with my right to marry the man I love, then I am afraid I won't be able to invite you to the ceremony. Please don't feel the need to send flowers or anything."
I am having so much fun that I don't even care that my date from Monday night hasn't called or e-mailed. I mean, come on, gay folks are gettin' married!
Portland, Oregon is so busy rebelling against the Lord this morning that everything feels quite hectic. E-mails are flying, blog comments are insane, and my stomach is growling due to a lack of time to eat. How can I eat when I'm so busy reading about such awesome news.
I wonder if this at all resembles what it felt like to be in San Francisco the day "The Gays" started marrying!? It is exhilarating.
I really prefer to deal with political issues with a sense of humor, so Pandagon's blog has been my favorite so far today. I actually laughed out loud at my desk when I saw it.
My primary comment to those opposed to same-sex marriage has been, "I'm sorry this day is so sad for you. It is a joyous one for many of us who are happy to see loving couples being granted equal rights. If you don't agree with my right to marry the man I love, then I am afraid I won't be able to invite you to the ceremony. Please don't feel the need to send flowers or anything."
I am having so much fun that I don't even care that my date from Monday night hasn't called or e-mailed. I mean, come on, gay folks are gettin' married!
Marriage is Funner
Yesterday I wrote about dating. Today is a day to write about marriage.
Same sex couples are being issued marriage licenses today in Multnomah County, Oregon. I already called and proposed to The Handsome Prince. He says he has to think about it, so I'll have to keep dating for now.
I don't care if I'm not getting married, at least I can go see my people enjoy their basic right to do so!
Today I am so proud to live in Portland.
Yesterday I wrote about dating. Today is a day to write about marriage.
Same sex couples are being issued marriage licenses today in Multnomah County, Oregon. I already called and proposed to The Handsome Prince. He says he has to think about it, so I'll have to keep dating for now.
I don't care if I'm not getting married, at least I can go see my people enjoy their basic right to do so!
Today I am so proud to live in Portland.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Dating is Fun
If you want to go on a date with me someday, please do not read today's entry. I know I can trust you to just move along to somebody else's blog today. I'll give you a couple minutes to leave.
Go click on a link to the left or something.
Okay, now that is just me and the countless people who don't want to date me, here is how I get ready for a first date with a person I have only chatted with on the phone or online.
Todd's First Date Agenda
1. Hear cell phone and check caller ID. Ignore the person calling to ask you on a date until they leave a message. Don't answer your cell when they call. Just stare at their phone number on the screen and think to yourself, "I wonder what they want?"
2. Ignore the voice in your head that says, "you know what he wants. He wants to meet you for a drink or something."
3. If he calls you more than three times in an hour WITHOUT leaving a message, just go ahead and answer. Worry that he is a stalker. Decide to deal with that later because he could be a handsome stalker.
4. Chat with him and agree to meet him for a drink in two hours. Try to sound like you are being spontaneous and that the thought of a date tonight hadn't occurred to you.
5. Hang up and stare straight ahead thinking about what you should wear. Forget to breath for a minute.
6. Realize you don't feel well from the not breathing thing and start breathing again.
7. Don't get up from the chair. Repeat steps 5 and 6 as necessary.
8. If roommate comes home to tell you what to wear, move on. If not, repeat steps 5 and 6 until you realize you now have one hour before you are supposed to meet your date.
9. Get up from the chair in a panic, drink some vodka, throw something on, drink some vodka, play with your hair, listen to some music (preferably Italian and sappy) and drink some vodka.
10. Go stand in your closet for a second and start crying.
11. Wonder what is wrong with you and then remember you don't like the pressure of dating.
12. Worry about what it will be like if you become boyfriends and you have to break up with him someday.
13. Worry about what it will be like if you become boyfriends and he dumps you someday.
14. Wonder if you will have an open relationship or if he wants to be monogamous. Hope he wants to be monogamous but decide he may be able to convince you to try an open relationship.
15. Remember that it is your first date and stop crying.
16. If your roommate is home, go tell her you are freaking out and crying in your closet. Talk until you are both laughing.
17. If your roommate is not home, drink some vodka and stop crying on your own.
18. Realize you have 45 minutes until you must arrive for your date. Run out the door and head for a bar near your final destination so you can have a drink before you go have a drink.
19. Sit at the bar, don't speak to anyone, look down at your drink, and look worried until your bartender asks why you are so quiet.
20. Wonder how loud you must normally be for him to ask you such a thing.
21. Tell him and everybody unfortunate enough to be within earshot that you are about to have a first date and you think it might be horrible because you had such a great talk on the phone yesterday.
22. Attempt to explain the logic of the illogical reasoning you have just stated. Look how many strangers are listening to your story. Shut up.
23. Try to believe the female impersonator sitting at the bar when she says it will be fine and that you should just relax.
24. Finish your drink and go on your date. Suddenly realize you probably had too many drinks before the date and that you suddenly don't feel as worried as you did an hour ago.
25. Walk in the door, see his handsome face smiling at you (better than his picture), be happy you are there, and have a great conversation.
26. After a wonderful time, walk him to his car, suggest that you do it again sometime, and say goodbye in some really vague non-affectionate way so he won't know how much you like him.
27. Obsess, obsess, obsess. Write him an e-mail at work the next morning and figure out how long you will wait for his response before you call him.
28. Think about how fun dating is.
29. Decide to write about it on your blog.
30. Finish your blog. Go check your e-mail to see if he wrote you back yet.
If you want to go on a date with me someday, please do not read today's entry. I know I can trust you to just move along to somebody else's blog today. I'll give you a couple minutes to leave.
Go click on a link to the left or something.
Okay, now that is just me and the countless people who don't want to date me, here is how I get ready for a first date with a person I have only chatted with on the phone or online.
Todd's First Date Agenda
1. Hear cell phone and check caller ID. Ignore the person calling to ask you on a date until they leave a message. Don't answer your cell when they call. Just stare at their phone number on the screen and think to yourself, "I wonder what they want?"
2. Ignore the voice in your head that says, "you know what he wants. He wants to meet you for a drink or something."
3. If he calls you more than three times in an hour WITHOUT leaving a message, just go ahead and answer. Worry that he is a stalker. Decide to deal with that later because he could be a handsome stalker.
4. Chat with him and agree to meet him for a drink in two hours. Try to sound like you are being spontaneous and that the thought of a date tonight hadn't occurred to you.
5. Hang up and stare straight ahead thinking about what you should wear. Forget to breath for a minute.
6. Realize you don't feel well from the not breathing thing and start breathing again.
7. Don't get up from the chair. Repeat steps 5 and 6 as necessary.
8. If roommate comes home to tell you what to wear, move on. If not, repeat steps 5 and 6 until you realize you now have one hour before you are supposed to meet your date.
9. Get up from the chair in a panic, drink some vodka, throw something on, drink some vodka, play with your hair, listen to some music (preferably Italian and sappy) and drink some vodka.
10. Go stand in your closet for a second and start crying.
11. Wonder what is wrong with you and then remember you don't like the pressure of dating.
12. Worry about what it will be like if you become boyfriends and you have to break up with him someday.
13. Worry about what it will be like if you become boyfriends and he dumps you someday.
14. Wonder if you will have an open relationship or if he wants to be monogamous. Hope he wants to be monogamous but decide he may be able to convince you to try an open relationship.
15. Remember that it is your first date and stop crying.
16. If your roommate is home, go tell her you are freaking out and crying in your closet. Talk until you are both laughing.
17. If your roommate is not home, drink some vodka and stop crying on your own.
18. Realize you have 45 minutes until you must arrive for your date. Run out the door and head for a bar near your final destination so you can have a drink before you go have a drink.
19. Sit at the bar, don't speak to anyone, look down at your drink, and look worried until your bartender asks why you are so quiet.
20. Wonder how loud you must normally be for him to ask you such a thing.
21. Tell him and everybody unfortunate enough to be within earshot that you are about to have a first date and you think it might be horrible because you had such a great talk on the phone yesterday.
22. Attempt to explain the logic of the illogical reasoning you have just stated. Look how many strangers are listening to your story. Shut up.
23. Try to believe the female impersonator sitting at the bar when she says it will be fine and that you should just relax.
24. Finish your drink and go on your date. Suddenly realize you probably had too many drinks before the date and that you suddenly don't feel as worried as you did an hour ago.
25. Walk in the door, see his handsome face smiling at you (better than his picture), be happy you are there, and have a great conversation.
26. After a wonderful time, walk him to his car, suggest that you do it again sometime, and say goodbye in some really vague non-affectionate way so he won't know how much you like him.
27. Obsess, obsess, obsess. Write him an e-mail at work the next morning and figure out how long you will wait for his response before you call him.
28. Think about how fun dating is.
29. Decide to write about it on your blog.
30. Finish your blog. Go check your e-mail to see if he wrote you back yet.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Dear Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators:
You are the devil. You make me want to click your links all the time, even though I know I will be sucked into an endless loop of crappy advertisements. Today you almost got me with your "Which One is Nemo?" pop-up. Three little fishies on my monitor, and only one of them was a clown fish.
I totally knew which fish was Nemo, and I felt an overwhelming urge to prove it to you. But I fought it because I did not want to get lost in Amazon.com or a pantyhose website or wherever your devious plans intended to take me. You piss me off so much, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators.
I desperately want to try to catch the monkey with my mouse. I know I could do it. He is not that fast. But who knows what will happen when I click? I bet I won't even get a chance to capture the monkey, and you'll just take me to some website for discount airfare or something. You dick me around a lot, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators. A few days ago when I tried to enter my zip code into the box to claim my mystery prize, you took me to a weight loss site where I had to enter my weight in stones to see if my body fat was too high. The mystery prize was never discussed again, and I did not know my weight in stones. I felt betrayed.
And another thing, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators...
Sometimes you are like the Glenn Close character in Fatal Attraction, which I tried to link here before you inundated me with 25 pop-up ads as I tried to visit the movie site for a picture of her being all psycho. When Michael Douglas hung up the phone on crazy Glenn, she called back over and over and over. She would not be ignored. She couldn't take a hint. That's what you do to me. Man, I despise you.
You are like that jobless old guy I (accidentally) slept with one time who called my cell phone three or four times a day for weeks afterwards even though I never answered his calls because I assumed it was pretty clear we would never get together again since his mother, who he still lived with, BANGED ON THE DOOR AND TOLD US TO KEEP IT DOWN while we were doing it.
My point is, when I try to close the pop-up ads you wickedly concoct, I am often confronted with ads popping up faster than I can close them. I watch the bottom of my window filling up with dozens of links and feel so hopeless. How will I EVER close them all? How will I resist the urge to click and click and click?! I am Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill only to have it tumble to the bottom again.
The problem is especially bad when I am looking at porn.
Which I don't do.
Just remember, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators, that Michael Douglas drowned Glenn in the bathtub AND his wife shot her. I am so ready to kill you, pop-up ad creators. Step off.
You are the devil. You make me want to click your links all the time, even though I know I will be sucked into an endless loop of crappy advertisements. Today you almost got me with your "Which One is Nemo?" pop-up. Three little fishies on my monitor, and only one of them was a clown fish.
I totally knew which fish was Nemo, and I felt an overwhelming urge to prove it to you. But I fought it because I did not want to get lost in Amazon.com or a pantyhose website or wherever your devious plans intended to take me. You piss me off so much, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators.
I desperately want to try to catch the monkey with my mouse. I know I could do it. He is not that fast. But who knows what will happen when I click? I bet I won't even get a chance to capture the monkey, and you'll just take me to some website for discount airfare or something. You dick me around a lot, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators. A few days ago when I tried to enter my zip code into the box to claim my mystery prize, you took me to a weight loss site where I had to enter my weight in stones to see if my body fat was too high. The mystery prize was never discussed again, and I did not know my weight in stones. I felt betrayed.
And another thing, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators...
Sometimes you are like the Glenn Close character in Fatal Attraction, which I tried to link here before you inundated me with 25 pop-up ads as I tried to visit the movie site for a picture of her being all psycho. When Michael Douglas hung up the phone on crazy Glenn, she called back over and over and over. She would not be ignored. She couldn't take a hint. That's what you do to me. Man, I despise you.
You are like that jobless old guy I (accidentally) slept with one time who called my cell phone three or four times a day for weeks afterwards even though I never answered his calls because I assumed it was pretty clear we would never get together again since his mother, who he still lived with, BANGED ON THE DOOR AND TOLD US TO KEEP IT DOWN while we were doing it.
My point is, when I try to close the pop-up ads you wickedly concoct, I am often confronted with ads popping up faster than I can close them. I watch the bottom of my window filling up with dozens of links and feel so hopeless. How will I EVER close them all? How will I resist the urge to click and click and click?! I am Sisyphus rolling the stone up the hill only to have it tumble to the bottom again.
The problem is especially bad when I am looking at porn.
Which I don't do.
Just remember, Internet Pop-Up Ad Creators, that Michael Douglas drowned Glenn in the bathtub AND his wife shot her. I am so ready to kill you, pop-up ad creators. Step off.
Are You My Type?
I finally decided to slog through the match.com physical attraction test this weekend. I know I should have been working on a script or at least going out for coffee with a friend. Instead I answered a series of questions and clicked on photos of men to indicate my preferences. Because I am so stupid I need match.com to tell me what I like, apparently.
Good news for Robert and Wayne. You are my type! Bad news for me. You both have boyfriends.
Here's what I learned about myself:
I am consistently attracted to Asian men. I am definitely attracted to Black men. Of the Caucasian men I found attractive, most had tanned or darker skin with deep brown or black hair.
My tastes are not as mainstream as I thought. I like guys with a few extra pounds, am attracted to men with shaved or bald heads and am turned on by a mysterious "Mona Lisa" smile. Huh.
All qualified men, please report to my e-mail box immediately. One caveat - if Robert or Wayne break up with their boyfriends, they will move to the front of the line.
Here is what I know that match.com does not:
I am so turned on by wrestlers and have an extreme wrestling fetish.
I would rather feel a flexed bicep than nearly any other body part.
Accents are hot, and especially a Jersey or NY accent.
Noisy sex is fun.
Bloggers are sexy.
I finally decided to slog through the match.com physical attraction test this weekend. I know I should have been working on a script or at least going out for coffee with a friend. Instead I answered a series of questions and clicked on photos of men to indicate my preferences. Because I am so stupid I need match.com to tell me what I like, apparently.
Good news for Robert and Wayne. You are my type! Bad news for me. You both have boyfriends.
Here's what I learned about myself:
I am consistently attracted to Asian men. I am definitely attracted to Black men. Of the Caucasian men I found attractive, most had tanned or darker skin with deep brown or black hair.
My tastes are not as mainstream as I thought. I like guys with a few extra pounds, am attracted to men with shaved or bald heads and am turned on by a mysterious "Mona Lisa" smile. Huh.
All qualified men, please report to my e-mail box immediately. One caveat - if Robert or Wayne break up with their boyfriends, they will move to the front of the line.
Here is what I know that match.com does not:
I am so turned on by wrestlers and have an extreme wrestling fetish.
I would rather feel a flexed bicep than nearly any other body part.
Accents are hot, and especially a Jersey or NY accent.
Noisy sex is fun.
Bloggers are sexy.
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