Don't know why I dig it, but I do. I've always thought that February 29 was the coolest day of the (every fourth) year. It's kind of like when you fly back across the international dateline (west to east) and land before you took off. It's my own little version of a rip in the time/space continuum. Or at least that's my juvenile take on it. : )
Either way, Happy Leap Day!
Friday, February 29, 2008
And You Wonder How He Made Those "C's"
I have a burgeoning obsession with the ideas of fairness and responsibility in our country. At first I thought it was a trait of a younger generation, but it’s not. I see people every day who bring a situation upon themselves, then want to blame someone else.
The most recent example was at my gym (for those of you who don’t know me, YES, I do occasionally push away from the feed trough long enough to work out. For those of you who know me, STOP SNICKERING!).
I was eavesdropping—shocking, I know—on one of the trainers and his trainee. He was talking about how he really wanted to go to med school, but unfortunately, he hadn’t taken college very seriously and most of the classes he would have needed high marks in, he had barely passed with a C.
“Did you know . . . THEY won’t let you take those classes over? If you make a C? If I had failed ‘em, I could take ‘em over. But now they’re on my transcript forever. And it keeps my GPA too low for med school.”
THEY. So it’s not his own inabilities or lack of dedication that’s standing in his way. It’s THEM. He could be a doctor by now, dammit.
Apparently The Spawn of Einstein doesn’t realize that, when you retake a failed class, they AVERAGE your grade, which pretty much gives you a C, AT BEST. But then, I wasn’t really smelling rocket fuel burning off his brain.
He went on to say that he had considered enrolling in a completely different college and “starting over.” He was confident that he could get away with it for undergrad, “but when you get into the 'doctoral program' (i.e. Med School) they go over your background with a fine-tooth comb," and he was certain that once his ruse was discovered he’d be kicked out.
Boy he sure is worrying about a lot of stuff that’s never going to happen. And I’m sure he’s uttered the words “so not fair” in more than one conversation about his thwarted medical career.
I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I don’t have to worry about walking into a doctor’s office one day and seeing this mass of muscle with air on the brain holding the stethoscope. “What up, bra?” the doctor would say as he put the stethoscope to my forehead. “Dude, I can almost hear what you’re thinking . . .”
Oh, well. At least he's pretty.
The most recent example was at my gym (for those of you who don’t know me, YES, I do occasionally push away from the feed trough long enough to work out. For those of you who know me, STOP SNICKERING!).
I was eavesdropping—shocking, I know—on one of the trainers and his trainee. He was talking about how he really wanted to go to med school, but unfortunately, he hadn’t taken college very seriously and most of the classes he would have needed high marks in, he had barely passed with a C.
“Did you know . . . THEY won’t let you take those classes over? If you make a C? If I had failed ‘em, I could take ‘em over. But now they’re on my transcript forever. And it keeps my GPA too low for med school.”
THEY. So it’s not his own inabilities or lack of dedication that’s standing in his way. It’s THEM. He could be a doctor by now, dammit.
Apparently The Spawn of Einstein doesn’t realize that, when you retake a failed class, they AVERAGE your grade, which pretty much gives you a C, AT BEST. But then, I wasn’t really smelling rocket fuel burning off his brain.
He went on to say that he had considered enrolling in a completely different college and “starting over.” He was confident that he could get away with it for undergrad, “but when you get into the 'doctoral program' (i.e. Med School) they go over your background with a fine-tooth comb," and he was certain that once his ruse was discovered he’d be kicked out.
Boy he sure is worrying about a lot of stuff that’s never going to happen. And I’m sure he’s uttered the words “so not fair” in more than one conversation about his thwarted medical career.
I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I don’t have to worry about walking into a doctor’s office one day and seeing this mass of muscle with air on the brain holding the stethoscope. “What up, bra?” the doctor would say as he put the stethoscope to my forehead. “Dude, I can almost hear what you’re thinking . . .”
Oh, well. At least he's pretty.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Jesus Saves. At Wal Mart.
On the way home from the airport Monday, I passed a pickup truck with a couple of bumper stickers on it. The first read, “Got Jesus?” in the “Got Milk?” font. The other one said “Real Men Love Jesus.”
Now, as soon as I stopped sputtering about how unoriginal contemporary Christians are in their messaging (some would say a trait shared with the original Christians, but I won’t go there) I began wondering which advertising clichés had been rejected. For your consideration.
Jesus. The Other White Meat.
Jesus is Grrrrreat!
Jesus. The Quicker Picker Upper.
You Are Now Free To Move About Jesus
Frosted Lucky Jesus, He’s Magically Delicious!
I’d Like to Buy The World a Jesus
Just Jesus It
Jesus. Lifts and Separates.
Have It Jesus’ Way
Where’s the Jesus?
Jesus Brings Good Things to Life
Can You Hear Me Now, Jesus?
Sometimes you feel like a Jesus. Sometimes you don’t.
Feel free to submit your own. And if you've actually seen one of these on a bumper sticker, let me know.
PS For all you hater Christians who read this, I'm not making fun of Jesus. I'm making fun of YOU!
Now, as soon as I stopped sputtering about how unoriginal contemporary Christians are in their messaging (some would say a trait shared with the original Christians, but I won’t go there) I began wondering which advertising clichés had been rejected. For your consideration.
Jesus. The Other White Meat.
Jesus is Grrrrreat!
Jesus. The Quicker Picker Upper.
You Are Now Free To Move About Jesus
Frosted Lucky Jesus, He’s Magically Delicious!
I’d Like to Buy The World a Jesus
Just Jesus It
Jesus. Lifts and Separates.
Have It Jesus’ Way
Where’s the Jesus?
Jesus Brings Good Things to Life
Can You Hear Me Now, Jesus?
Sometimes you feel like a Jesus. Sometimes you don’t.
Feel free to submit your own. And if you've actually seen one of these on a bumper sticker, let me know.
PS For all you hater Christians who read this, I'm not making fun of Jesus. I'm making fun of YOU!
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
May i Present Harry Bellows-Forth
While I am definitely a blogger, I’m not really un aficion.
There are all sorts of things that bloggers have in common, but other than a shared love of adult beverages and an aversion to long pants, I was unaware of them. Until now.
Apparently, there is a phenomenon called tagging. Now, last I knew of the word, it meant you had to wear a baseball cap cattywompus, have an extremely dexterous hand with the spray paint and know how to pop and lock.
Yo. Boy do I feel old.
It took my cunning linguist friend, Heathero to set me straight. And, throw me in the deep end. As pay back, I’m not going to explain the concept (a childish retort which will ultimately accomplish NOTHING, since I’m sure every other fucking person on the planet already knows what this is). If you are one of the few who don’t, ask HOK. Her blog address is at the end of this post.
So here’s what I’m supposed to do, apparently:
1. Grab the nearest book with at least 123 pages.
2. Go to page 123.
3. Type in the following three sentences.
4. Tag some number of people.
Now, just as I do with those chain letter emails, I’ll play along. But I will not propagate. I know Bill Gates is not going to give me a computer. And I generate plenty of bad luck on my own, so bring it. But I like making my friends happy and I secretly like that I got tagged.
So here we go.
I, of course, reached for Rupert Everett’s first novel, “Hello Darling, Are You Working?”
Flipping to page 123, I was greeted by the following passage:
“The Crazy Gang were thrilled to hear about the mini-series and that is was being shot in Tangiers to boot. They promptly invited Dawnford to Ashby de la Zouche’s party that weekend. Needless to say Dawnford, who would go anywhere there was a free toilet roll and a few actors, accepted with alacrity and, before Rhys could stop him, said he would extend the invitation to the entire cast which would include such showbiz bastions as Sir Maurice Goodbuns, the Duke of Darling-Darling, Little Beige Riding Hood and Harry Bellows-Forth.”
Ah, florid-a in the winter.
Check out HOKs blog, “The Days Are Just Packed” at hokgardner.blogspot.com
If you’re a beautiful super-intelligent, working uber Mom with three adorable children and a hottie former Olympic caliber diver for a husband, you’ll totally relate. : )
If not, you’ll probably still get a kick out of it. I do.
And just for fun, I’m tagging YOU, gentle reader. Post in comments.
There are all sorts of things that bloggers have in common, but other than a shared love of adult beverages and an aversion to long pants, I was unaware of them. Until now.
Apparently, there is a phenomenon called tagging. Now, last I knew of the word, it meant you had to wear a baseball cap cattywompus, have an extremely dexterous hand with the spray paint and know how to pop and lock.
Yo. Boy do I feel old.
It took my cunning linguist friend, Heathero to set me straight. And, throw me in the deep end. As pay back, I’m not going to explain the concept (a childish retort which will ultimately accomplish NOTHING, since I’m sure every other fucking person on the planet already knows what this is). If you are one of the few who don’t, ask HOK. Her blog address is at the end of this post.
So here’s what I’m supposed to do, apparently:
1. Grab the nearest book with at least 123 pages.
2. Go to page 123.
3. Type in the following three sentences.
4. Tag some number of people.
Now, just as I do with those chain letter emails, I’ll play along. But I will not propagate. I know Bill Gates is not going to give me a computer. And I generate plenty of bad luck on my own, so bring it. But I like making my friends happy and I secretly like that I got tagged.
So here we go.
I, of course, reached for Rupert Everett’s first novel, “Hello Darling, Are You Working?”
Flipping to page 123, I was greeted by the following passage:
“The Crazy Gang were thrilled to hear about the mini-series and that is was being shot in Tangiers to boot. They promptly invited Dawnford to Ashby de la Zouche’s party that weekend. Needless to say Dawnford, who would go anywhere there was a free toilet roll and a few actors, accepted with alacrity and, before Rhys could stop him, said he would extend the invitation to the entire cast which would include such showbiz bastions as Sir Maurice Goodbuns, the Duke of Darling-Darling, Little Beige Riding Hood and Harry Bellows-Forth.”
Ah, florid-a in the winter.
Check out HOKs blog, “The Days Are Just Packed” at hokgardner.blogspot.com
If you’re a beautiful super-intelligent, working uber Mom with three adorable children and a hottie former Olympic caliber diver for a husband, you’ll totally relate. : )
If not, you’ll probably still get a kick out of it. I do.
And just for fun, I’m tagging YOU, gentle reader. Post in comments.
Slow Taco Death
One of the things I love most about flying out of my local airport is the breakfast taco kiosk. It’s located right behind the main bar, so pretty much everyone knows they can find me in this general vicinity, whatever time of day I’m flying.
Saturday, I was traveling with the fam to visit my godson and his family. A big event I’d been working on for MONTHS (insert sympathy here) had finally happened Friday night, so I was freakin’ exhausted.
I felt certain that all I needed to rev my engine was a delicious overstuffed taco (the diet starts Monday, right?).
Normally my little taco stand is staffed by two, rapid-fire taquistas, or taquilladors—whatever you want to call them. Not this morning, though. Only Miss Molasses (I’m sure she would prefer I call her “methodical,” but that would imply an attention to detail, which was sorely lacking. And, truth be told, she wouldn’t know what “methodical” meant).
Naturally, a line had formed. It was early. People were hungry.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I pretty much figure that, if you’re eating in an airport, you are, by definition, on a deadline. (goddam, that seems like a lot of commas. HOK?)
But I’m pretty sure Mo had a few too many Tequizas last night and la vitesse is NOT on the menu today. And then it all began to unravel.
Now, I have a personal policy (which I’m lobbying to get passed into law) that any time you have to wait in a food line for more than five minutes you might want to have a fucking clue what you’re going to order.
But the stupid girl in front of me apparently didn’t share my ideology.
“ummmmmmm . . . let’s see . . . . Can I have . . . uh . . .” I didn’t hear what she ordered because suddenly the blood was pounding in my ears like a drum line. Sort of how I imagine a vampire feels just before it kills.
As my blood pressure begins to drop, I notice the taquista is beginning to make the tacos. Whew. Crisis averted. Yeah, right.
This particular cart has a glass front, so you can watch the taquistador actually assemble your taco. Fascinating stuff. Apparently Miss Indecision thought so too, since she practically had her nose pressed against the glass watching her taco progress. Which made it even more surprising that, AS SOON AS MOLASSES WAS FINISHED, the customer told her, “um . . . that’s not what I ordered. It was supposed to be . . .”
YOU COULDN’T HAVE FREAKIN’ CORRECTED HER BEFORE SHE PUT THE SHIT ON YOUR TACO?!?!?!? MY GOD, SHE WAS MOVING AT THE SPEED OF HAIR GROWTH.
Had I not been next in line, I would almost certainly have screamed and run for a stale scone at Indifferent Pastries up the concourse. And I couldn’t wish for ptomaine, since I was next in line and would almost certainly suffer from my own curse.
Plane crash? Too many innocent victims. Choking? Hmm. Worth considering. But then I asked WWDD? What would Darwin do? And I realized, nothing. It will all sort itself out. Naturally.
Saturday, I was traveling with the fam to visit my godson and his family. A big event I’d been working on for MONTHS (insert sympathy here) had finally happened Friday night, so I was freakin’ exhausted.
I felt certain that all I needed to rev my engine was a delicious overstuffed taco (the diet starts Monday, right?).
Normally my little taco stand is staffed by two, rapid-fire taquistas, or taquilladors—whatever you want to call them. Not this morning, though. Only Miss Molasses (I’m sure she would prefer I call her “methodical,” but that would imply an attention to detail, which was sorely lacking. And, truth be told, she wouldn’t know what “methodical” meant).
Naturally, a line had formed. It was early. People were hungry.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I pretty much figure that, if you’re eating in an airport, you are, by definition, on a deadline. (goddam, that seems like a lot of commas. HOK?)
But I’m pretty sure Mo had a few too many Tequizas last night and la vitesse is NOT on the menu today. And then it all began to unravel.
Now, I have a personal policy (which I’m lobbying to get passed into law) that any time you have to wait in a food line for more than five minutes you might want to have a fucking clue what you’re going to order.
But the stupid girl in front of me apparently didn’t share my ideology.
“ummmmmmm . . . let’s see . . . . Can I have . . . uh . . .” I didn’t hear what she ordered because suddenly the blood was pounding in my ears like a drum line. Sort of how I imagine a vampire feels just before it kills.
As my blood pressure begins to drop, I notice the taquista is beginning to make the tacos. Whew. Crisis averted. Yeah, right.
This particular cart has a glass front, so you can watch the taquistador actually assemble your taco. Fascinating stuff. Apparently Miss Indecision thought so too, since she practically had her nose pressed against the glass watching her taco progress. Which made it even more surprising that, AS SOON AS MOLASSES WAS FINISHED, the customer told her, “um . . . that’s not what I ordered. It was supposed to be . . .”
YOU COULDN’T HAVE FREAKIN’ CORRECTED HER BEFORE SHE PUT THE SHIT ON YOUR TACO?!?!?!? MY GOD, SHE WAS MOVING AT THE SPEED OF HAIR GROWTH.
Had I not been next in line, I would almost certainly have screamed and run for a stale scone at Indifferent Pastries up the concourse. And I couldn’t wish for ptomaine, since I was next in line and would almost certainly suffer from my own curse.
Plane crash? Too many innocent victims. Choking? Hmm. Worth considering. But then I asked WWDD? What would Darwin do? And I realized, nothing. It will all sort itself out. Naturally.
Pretty Ugly
Well, it wasn’t what I was planning on blogging about this morning, but DAY-UM! I open CNN.com and there it is, a clip of two ABSOLUTELY average looking gals, claiming they got kicked off a Southwest Airlines flight because they were “too pretty.”
Giggle. Snort. Giggle. Snort. Wipe tear from eye.
Now, I know that some feel Southwest is the airline of choice for peanuts and those who farm them, but honestly girls, “too pretty?” You might want to think about filing a claim against your mirror manufacturer.
I must laud the CNN camera operator, who took a long toe-to-head tilt of the dark-haired one with the near-unibrow and gigantic underground zit forming on her lower cheek. I appreciate that this camera operator managed to fit her entire ass into the frame, without pulling to a wide shot, which must have been a challenge. And lingering on her press-on nails, an absolutely stomach-turning shade of Pepto pink. Surely those came factory colored, right?
Oh, and honey, the off-the-shoulder flashdance sweatshirt look. SOOOOOO You.
Pretty? Maybe in a 50’s Italian B-Movie way. Although your tits seemed to be operating more like fraternal twins than identical ones.
The blonde one only appeared in stills, wearing a hoochie dress and leaning on the hood of a Bentley. I’m sure the owner was pleased to find her ass marks on his hood when he claimed it from valet. She remarked that the only thing she could think of (which limits the choices dramatically) was that they were treated the way they were because they looked the way they looked. “I mean, nobody else on the plane looked like us.” So apparently, there were no hookers on board.
The girls do admit that some profanities were exchanged between the blonde and another passenger near the bathrooms. Southwest actually confirmed the story. God, how I wish the spokesperson had used that famous Southwest sense of humor. “Yep. It’s true. These girls were just TOO pretty to fly.”
You know, as an experienced traveler, I would like to give these girls a word of advice. NEVER fuck with the flight attendants! For however long you are in the air, they control all sorts of ways to make your flight better or worse. Maybe instead of rolling your eyes and exhaling like a horse every 5 seconds, you could have sweetened ‘em up.
Who knows, you might have even gotten extra peanuts.
Giggle. Snort. Giggle. Snort. Wipe tear from eye.
Now, I know that some feel Southwest is the airline of choice for peanuts and those who farm them, but honestly girls, “too pretty?” You might want to think about filing a claim against your mirror manufacturer.
I must laud the CNN camera operator, who took a long toe-to-head tilt of the dark-haired one with the near-unibrow and gigantic underground zit forming on her lower cheek. I appreciate that this camera operator managed to fit her entire ass into the frame, without pulling to a wide shot, which must have been a challenge. And lingering on her press-on nails, an absolutely stomach-turning shade of Pepto pink. Surely those came factory colored, right?
Oh, and honey, the off-the-shoulder flashdance sweatshirt look. SOOOOOO You.
Pretty? Maybe in a 50’s Italian B-Movie way. Although your tits seemed to be operating more like fraternal twins than identical ones.
The blonde one only appeared in stills, wearing a hoochie dress and leaning on the hood of a Bentley. I’m sure the owner was pleased to find her ass marks on his hood when he claimed it from valet. She remarked that the only thing she could think of (which limits the choices dramatically) was that they were treated the way they were because they looked the way they looked. “I mean, nobody else on the plane looked like us.” So apparently, there were no hookers on board.
The girls do admit that some profanities were exchanged between the blonde and another passenger near the bathrooms. Southwest actually confirmed the story. God, how I wish the spokesperson had used that famous Southwest sense of humor. “Yep. It’s true. These girls were just TOO pretty to fly.”
You know, as an experienced traveler, I would like to give these girls a word of advice. NEVER fuck with the flight attendants! For however long you are in the air, they control all sorts of ways to make your flight better or worse. Maybe instead of rolling your eyes and exhaling like a horse every 5 seconds, you could have sweetened ‘em up.
Who knows, you might have even gotten extra peanuts.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Check out "in the Pink Texas"
Last night, my friend Matty D blogged the Dem debate live on inthepinktexas.com, an hysterically funny blog about politics. I watched my Tivo'd Project Runway reunion show, and the American Idol elimination show. Now, THAT'S American politics in action.
Anyhoo, I think you'll get a kick out of the coverage. And in case you were wondering, I didn't watch the debate because I already know who i'm voting for. Plus, I genuinely like both candidates and hate watching them beat up on each other.
So there.
Anyhoo, I think you'll get a kick out of the coverage. And in case you were wondering, I didn't watch the debate because I already know who i'm voting for. Plus, I genuinely like both candidates and hate watching them beat up on each other.
So there.
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