Machine Head

So I realize it's been a while since my last post, and I promise I'm going to step it up a bit. For the last week I've been playing along with the Lost Experience, which is a sickness and must be stopped. If you don't know what the Lost Experience is, it's probably better for the both of us that I don't explain. The long and short of it is that I am a nerd.

In other news, I haven't had a day off of work since last Monday, and I've averaged something like 5 hours of sleep each night. I'm exhausted, and now it's time to go teach my dance class. Hopefully I don't pass out, especially since last night I was up till 2am mixing a new CD for the class, and it would kind of suck if I didn't get to hear it once all the way through before I die.

Electric Youth

Raise your hand if you care that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have had their baby.

Personally, I care only because it means that I get to stop. Hearing. About. It. I think every woman who ever crushed on Cruise as a little girl is heaving a collective sigh of relief that she never got that wish she wrote about in her diary back in '86. I think you could tell me that Tom Cruise eats babies with a chaser of his own filtrated urine and I'd believe you. He's just gotten so unbelievably creepy anymore. I mean, eating his kid's placenta? Raw?

::shudder::

Intrigued by all the press he's gotten, I tried to educate myself a little on the principles of Scientology. A dear friend of mine was once scammed into attending a Scientology meeting under the premise of a job opportunity, and, in her words, "It felt like an after-school special - 'Watch Leah enter the creepy crazy cult.'" People, this stuff is not right! Any religion that bans you from associating with non-members? Is a cult.

I think the only other non-religious entity to which I can compare something like Scientology is the technicolor world of Mary Kay salesladies. Equally fake and perky and "high on life", they will hound you relentlessly to become one of the fold. "Why don't you just come listen to this 20-minute marketing pitch? Even if it's just to help me meet my quota so I can get a pair of pearl earrings. You don't even have to listen." Of course, the unspoken subtext here is that, after attending, you will be hit with a barrage of e-mails, phone calls, solicitations, and baptisms by proxy so great that you'll eventually snap, screaming, "Smooth skin! I want smooth, alien-like skin, with absolutely no variation in color or texture! And I want to spread this Truth to all the women of the world! Please, let me join you!"

In reality, I think that Scientologists and Mary Kay ladies are the kind of equal but opposite forces you heard about back in AP physics. Think about it: Tom Cruise ate his kid's entrails so that he could forever look 35. The inevitable 3rd World War won't be fought for oil or political power...it will be fought for skin-care products.

Solitaire

I should've seen it coming. It was inevitable, really, only a matter of time. I just didn't know it would happen so soon.

I was telling my recently-married friend about my experience being hit on by "Fish Guy #2", the guy behind the fish counter at our grocery. The pick-up attempt itself wasn't very interesting, but still worth noting because last summer there was a "Fish Guy #1" at this same grocery store. Fish Guy #1 was somewhat creepy, had dreds, and was a career fisherman. He used to claim he saw me just about every day, driving around or at other stores, which I thought was a little, um...coincidental. I'm told that he's since moved to New Orleans, bought a yacht, and become a pirate. Fish Guy #2 is just a nice, clean-cut gym-rat who wasn't yet aware that I'm a) way older than him, and b) currently dating someone.

My friend and I were pondering the odds that two guys of wildly different personality types (different from one another AND different from me) doing the same job at the same store might look my way. Do creepy guys secretly crave a dash of "responsible" and "average" in their lives? Do I somehow resemble a fish? And then she said it: "Your life is so interesting. I remember being single."

......scraaaaatch!

Yeah, I should've seen it coming. All but a handful of my friends are married, engaged, or picking out rings. And me? I'm pretty sure I'm now "the single friend".

Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I'm 100% happy being single. I am in NO hurry to get married or to have babies. I've never dreamed about my wedding day, I know nothing about diamond cuts, and I can't take care of a house plant.

I'm doing my own thing on my own time, and I like it just fine. But I wonder if this is the start of that awkward period that comedians are always talking about, when married friends start to live vicariously through my exploits, or whisper among friends, "I don't know why she's still single. Poor thing." I always thought that was an exaggeration, or just sour grapes, but...should I buy myself a scarlet 'S'?

Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

Following is an encounter I recently had at a bar. The funniest part of this is that I've taken absolutely NO creative license with this one; i.e., my recounting of the conversation below is entirely verbatim.

About to head to the next bar, my friends Rita and Desi go to the restroom and Pat goes to close his tab. Standing alone by the bar, I text my roommate to see what she's up to. I'm wearing a black tank top, cropped jeans, and knee-high black boots.

Dude: Are you a pirate?
Me: Excuse me?
Dude: You're dressed like a pirate.
Me: (mildly annoyed) Um, okay.
Dude: Haven't you ever seen that movie, Pirates of the Carribean?
Me: No.
Dude: You're lying.
Me: Nope, haven't seen it.
Dude: (grabbing my hand and swinging it about) Look, I'm just trying to be friendly.
Me: Hey, I'm waiting for my boyfriend...
Dude: How many times have we made eye contact tonight?
Me: What?
Dude: I've seen the way you look at me.
Me: I don't think I've seen you before.
Dude: (getting angry) Honey, I know everyone in this bar, I can get you thrown out of here.
Me: Huh?
Dude: You know, you're not as hot as you think you are.
Me: Um, I don't think I'm hot.
Dude: Oh, whatever.
Me: Sorry, but I don't.
Dude: Hey sweetheart, if that's your thing. (walking away and shouting) Let me know how being a bitch works out for you, okay?

Clearly the most puzzling conversation I've had at a bar. Well, the one on St. Paddy's Day was pretty offensive, but I'll save that one for a rainy day. Guys, if you're looking to pick up a girl at a bar, an insult is probably not your best bet. If you do choose to forgo the standard approach of "being nice", you probably shouldn't be surprised if she doesn't want to talk to you.

The hills are alive

In search of some pseudo-spring-break fun, a group of us went to see "The Hills Have Eyes" this past weekend. Could that movie be any more disturbing? I mean, really, it pretty much bypassed "scary" and went straight on to "f'ed up." Here's the run-down:

1 crucifixion/burning at stake
1 parakeet head bitten off
1 gun pointed at a baby
1 dog limb ripped off and eaten
1 very "meta" soliloquy by a guy with a tumor the size of Dick Cheney
2 rapes
4 axe blows to the head
7 creepy back-woods mutant cannibals

...and of course...

2 hours of my life I will never get back.

Anyone looking for a good scare, skip the theater and pick up a copy of "28 Days Later". You'll thank me later.

Softly before I scream

I'm not sure why I'm so apathetic toward Valentine's day; I haven't been single once on February 14th in the last 7 years, but still I can't make myself get excited about it. I'm not even sure what I'm doing tonight to celebrate. Hm.

I just think the simplest gifts are the best ones, not the gifts you feel obligated to give. Chocolate, teddy bears, flowers, you can have 'em -- well, no, I'll take that chocolate off your hands.

I was asked recently if I'd ever been to the most over-hyped restaurant in Dallas. I said yes, that an ex had taken me for my birthday 3 years ago. "That guy likes to feel important, huh?" he said. Bingo. Is it that I can't discern whether all the uncomfortable Valentine's Day attention is to make me feel special, or just to impress upon me that you're some kind of baller to whom I should be greatful for giving me the time of day?

All these scripted acts of affection can't be replaced by true, raw appreciation of a person...and you shouldn't need a special day for that.

Are you ready for some football?

Do guys in Seattle even know how to play football? Or are they too busy eating sushi and sitting in the coffee shop at REI reading books about sports? I predict: One shiny gold ring for the Bus. Go Steelers!!

I've got those happy feet

My new coworker, who by the way is in her early 30s and a whole two salary grades above me, is currently sitting with her feet propped up at her desk, back turned to her computer, giving herself a pedicure.

Since when is that an appropriate activity for work? Really...I'm just at a loss. Aside from the obvious issue of "isn't there something you should be doing, like, oh, I don't know, WORKING?", I also happen to know that the carpeting here is not rife with good hygiene.

I guess it just wasn't enough that her lunches smelled like twice-used gym socks....

People are strange when you're a stranger

SuperCool roommate is encouraging me to set up a mySpace account, and frankly I'm on the fence as to its merits. I've already established a blog in which I rarely find time to post - New Year's resolution be damned! At roommate's urging I also acquired a profile on Facebook, at the same time securing a spot as one of the least-recent graduates in said listings. Do I really need something else that I need to periodically log into and update?

See, the Facebook is like video crack. There, I said it, and it's true. I dare you to create a profile and NOT spend hours on end looking up old friends and reading their profiles, viewing their photos, and perusing their friend lists to find still more old friends.

Making matters even more complicated for me is that fact that my alma mater refuses to reinstate my e-mail account, forcing me to list myself instead as an alum of my graduate school. See, the Facebook doesn't like it when you search for people who aren't a) from your listed school or b) in your current geography. So, shameless as I am, I've taken to friend-stealing.

Friend-stealing kind of calls to mind what we in college used to call "hijacking". Hijacking is what occurs when you introduce an acquaintance to your good friend, only to have said acquaintance completely latch on to your good friend and more or less disregard you as a result. Now that's not to say that I'm picking up friends just for accumulation's sake - I really do adore all of the friends I've rediscovered! But it's essentially the same concept...I feel bad about it, but it has to be done.

And so I hesitate to set up a mySpace page, lest I find myself going through the exact same troubles of "friending" the same people in a new medium. Is mySpace anything more than a glorified personals service anyway?

Something to talk about

Sorry I haven't checked in for a while, guys. Lately my every breathing second has been consumed by things that I'm not at liberty to talk about, so that leaves little for blog-fodder. Seriously, I can't tell you about them, or I'd have to kill you, and frankly my aim is pretty poor.

Basically, I am awaiting word from Nike (yeah, THAT Nike) corporate about whether I'm going to be able to take part in one of their most exciting product launches ever. From what they tell me, it sounds as though their new product is going to be everywhere you look come mid-February, and I would pretty much kill to be involved with it, so wish me luck!

I'll be back when I'm feeling more inspired, but for now it's nose to the grindstone time!

You Should Be Dancin'

Before I begin, a disclaimer: The people of Ireland were extremely hospitable and charming, and on the whole I thank them for the fantastic experience! Never have I met a more generous group of people, it was almost like being at home. Almost.

Regrettably, though, the countryside of Northern Ireland is a little like the mid- to late 80s. The technology, the entertainment, the sheep...and God, were there ever sheep.

At the reception, most of the music was from the BeeGees' and Abba's greatest hits catalogues. Now you'd expect the older folks to be eating this up, and the younger kids to begrudgingly dance to it, but these 14- and 15-year-olds, boys and girls alike, knew all the words and had choreographed dances to every song. Our contemporary pop requests were promptly ditched in favor of traditional Irish folk songs, one of which had a chorus that went something like, "When your mother's gone and in the ground". Charming.

Now I'm familiar with the Irish people's propensity toward potatoes, but I didn't realize they'd be served with every meal. For God's sake, my chicken curry came with "chips" (french fries). The morning I arrived in Newry, the groom's mother prepared us a traditional Irish "fry" - a word that would soon become the theme of the week. This breakfast consists of 3 types of sausage, a slab of thick-cut bacon, sweet bread, a fried egg, and a baked tomato. Screw Atkins, I think the Irish deserve some credit for pioneering in weight loss.

The wedding reception consisted of two - yes, TWO - dinners, and while the first was remarkable (soup, pot roast, two types of potatoes, veggies, and 4 desserts) the second spread was truly a sight to behold: fried chicken, chips, sausage links, and sausage wrapped in bread dough and then, of course, fried. I ended the evening as sober as I began it, with all that bread in my system. And not for not trying, either!

The men in Ireland were particularly "hospitable" to us younger women, paying for all of our drinks and offering us their seats. Of course, they were still in them. And it seems that at one point in the evening the bride's mother may have even been solicited for sex...by the groom's (married) uncle. I myself scored the younger men, an extremely intoxicated 14-year-old who grabbed my hand and whirled me around the dance floor two or three times before leaning in close and asking for a kiss. I sent him back to his table, dejected, and busied myself with trying to remember the words to "Dancing Queen".

As I said though, all the entertaining stories just happened to be about the quirky things. Northern Ireland was a beautiful place full of kind people and I'd certainly go back again. Maybe I'll give it 20 years or so, though, so I can at least get them to play some Madonna.

Where the streets have no name

Off to Northern Ireland till the New Year, for my friend's wedding and all other manner of irresponsibility. I've been training my stomach to handle a high ratio of Guinness to food. Guinness actually being liquid bread, I think I stand a fighting chance. Will write with updates if/when possible.

Happy five-or-six-hours-earlier-than-you New Year, everybody!

Don't fear the reaper

I imagine that a plague has hit the state of Ohio, rendering all civilization destroyed. That's really the only reason I can see for why no one has been blogging or commenting or breathing in my direction lately. I can't even get spammers to hit my page.

For those who are alive, I settled the great gift debate earlier this week. The end result was a birthday gift of tickets to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra (yeah, I didn't think it was my sort of thing, either, but it turned out to be pretty enjoyable!) and a custom designed t-shirt for Christmas.

I've been receiving several (intentional) hints as to what to expect as my Christmas gift. I was shown the corner of a white paper bag, presumably from the store at which it was purchased. He produced bright pink tissue paper, which I'm told was pushed on him by the sales girl at this "girly type" store. And his good friend (a girl) claims that it's "the best gift ever" and that she, in fact, wants my gift if I don't.

Having not been to a mall in months, I am completely lost. Ideas?

I see trees of green, red roses too...

So far my trip to D.C. has produced many interesting life milestones. I've been verbally beaten into submission, walked 1.5 miles in the snow, and almost was lost in a bad part of the city (an area into which two little yuppie girls should not venture alone).

Yesterday, though, I was hit on by a homeless man. He was a nice-looking, younger man, relatively clean-shaven and personable, picking up a half-gallon of milk and a sandwich at the Dupont Circle CVS. He waved feverishly at me from down the drink aisle, grinning as I turned to look behind me at whoever the object of his attention might be. The aisle, of course, was empty. I smiled, to which he bowed in return, saying, "Ah, thank you! A smile is worth a thousand words."

As we left the store, we saw him sitting outside among three or four knapsacks and trash bags, enjoying his milk and sandwich. He complimented me on my hat (it IS a cute hat), and we bid him a good evening as we continued on to our hotel.

Later on, I reflected upon what undoubtedly was my most pleasant ever experience with a homeless person. He didn't ask me for money, he didn't tell me I should've divorced Bill Clinton, and he didn't spit on my shoes. In fact, I would've liked to talk with him, to hear some of his story. And that brief encounter led me to formulate my campaign strategy for public office: Zoloft for the homeless.

"...and I think to myself, 'What a wonderful world.'"

Hot for teacher

Well it's snowing in D.C., and I'm about to leave for my second day of GWU Residency Week. The project we're presenting is the equivalent of a group masters thesis, and our evaluating professor is absolutely horrifying. He's about 350 pounds, barely speaks English, and I think he eats babies. Yesterday after my presentation, I had people...and by "people", I mean 20 of the 24 students in the class...come up to me and shake my hand for maintaining my composure through his rude and completely unintelligable questioning. Hopefully we all come out of this alive...and passing!

Santa baby

Starting a new relationship around the holidays is a high-pressure situation. Adequately gauging your new flame's approach to give-giving takes considerable time and thought, and normally is enough to send this girl into a pre-holiday tailspin.

I usually try not to spend too much, because that makes a girl seem too invested and overbearing - and I am so not that girl. Conversely, an inexpensive gift rarely seems thoughtful enough to be worth the trouble. Plus I love giving gifts now that I'm financially independent, it's one of the best ways I can think of to spend my earnings.

If this were 6 months from now, I would love to give him tickets to a Mavs game, since he used to both play and coach basketball. The good seats get pretty pricey, but that's the beauty of a gift of sports tickets: it's potentially as much a gift to him as it is to me! Far be it from me, though, to dictate how a gift is used, so I would of course have to be prepared for him to take someone else. It's too early in the game for such a financial gamble.

To make matters worse, this year, I may be stuck with the double-whammy -- the pre-Christmas birthday. I'm familiar with the pre-holiday birthday lament, those poor souls born around Easter or Father's Day or what have you, and I would never, ever commit the dual-purpose gift offense. Under normal circumstances I would need to come up with not one, but two, gifts to cover this one.

It would be a SWEET excuse for floor seats versus the Lakers, though.

Of course there's the very real possibility that he doesn't want to exchange gifts at all, and I'm fine with that -- as are my bank account and my sanity. In fact, I almost prefer it. I think I'll just go with that and hope for the best! And come up with another excuse to watch basketball.

Momma said knock you out

On Sunday morning we were watching the 1971 Ali/Blin heavyweight fight, and the announcer mentioned that they were broadasting from "the most famous sports venue in the world." The building appeared still to be in one piece, so I quickly discerned that it was not the Colliseum. Madison Square Garden? Must be. Then the byline came on at the bottom of the screen: Zurich, Switzerland. The three of us were puzzled.

A completely whacked out high school English teacher of mine once asserted that there's nothing in life that you can't look up, including your name. Always one for shortcuts, I took this theory and ran with it, earning esteem among my friends as the most efficient Internet searcher ever. With my mad Google skills, I ran a search that eventually turned up the name of this supposedly world-renowned venue.

Hallenstadion Arena. Anybody? (Bueller?)

Under pressure

So I haven't been posting a lot, mostly because I'm buried in school work. Oh, the life. Here's some free-form thinking for your reading enjoyment.

The other day we had my coworker's going away luncheon. Now the guy was only working here for a whopping 9 months before he quit, so hardly anyone in our fifty-person group really knew him. However, a grand total of 25 people showed up for lunch. He and his napoleonic complex were, of course, thrilled. Most openly admitted that they were just there for the food.

I love when professors really go above and beyond to give their students guidance. Last week my group was told that our final paper was topically correct, but "crude". When we inquired how we might remedy this grave error, we were told, "Make it less crude." Aren't language barriers fun? By the grace of God we will all graduate in three weeks.

Lisa got eliminated from America's Next Top Model on Wednesday, and much of the free world rejoiced. Me? I can't help but love her, the whole peeing-in-a-diaper-in-front-of-20-some-odd-people thing aside. Her portfolio is fantastic, and whoever said models were 100% classy anyway? Kate? Naomi? Janice? I'm talking to you.

Well since I'm in the office on my off-Friday, I may as well start doing some "real, actual work." Back in a few days when I'm a little more coherent!

Love is a battlefield

On Tuesday I received an e-mail from an ex-boyfriend, asking for money for a concert ticket from back in September -- to be exact, the weekend before we broke up. Now in discussing this incident, we'll disregard the fact that this guy took me out on a total of 2 dates in 1.5 years. We used to split the meals, I paid for one, he'd get the next, which is perfectly agreeable to me in most cases, except every once in a while you've got to treat a girl.

We'll also disregard that last year he dropped a couple thou on new wheels and tires for his second car, or that he called me last weekend to ask what brand of $200 jeans he'd contemplated buying two months prior.

Perhaps I should refrain from noting that, at said concert, he completely (and noteably, as others commented on this at length) ignored me in favor of speaking with some client of his about whom he'd talked incessently over dinner early in the week: "T, this girl is just so awesome. Really, she's the kind of girl you see and you think, wow, that girl must be a model. But she also speaks fluent Korean, and is a black-belt in Tae-Kwan-Do." Fan-effing-tastic, isn't she? I'd do her.

And yeah...we'll also not mention the fact that he broke up with me the very weekend that I drove out to Dallas to help him install $3000 hardwood flooring in his brand new condo.

But it probably IS worth noting that he saw me and the new guy I'm dating canoodling in a local, late-night taco establishment last weekend. Coincidence? Perhaps...but at least I'm on to bigger and better things.

Congratulations, Ben, you are officially a "Dallas guy."

...

And yes, I'm aware that putting up with the above-mentioned and other of his idiotic "romancing" not once (for 1.5 years when I first moved here), but twice (for another month this summer), makes me an absolute moron. Consider that lesson painfully learned.

She blinded me with science

One of my biggest office pet-peeves is peoples' inane tendency to drag their fingers along the cube walls as they walk by. It really hearkens back the days of 3rd grade, and those kids who used to absent-mindedly touch everything around them as they wandered through the halls.

You know that kid, the one with the thick eye-glasses and nasally voice. He'd pick his nose and then smear his finger along the wall, not even aware that such behavior would inevitably lose him a seat at the cool kids' lunch table.

I guess it can be inferred that 30-something years of being eschewed by most everyone makes the computer an attractive companion, because everyone here is that kid. Or is it the other way around: a scientfically curious mind precludes any consideration for the subtelties of human interaction? Nature versus nurture, I guess...at any rate, stop touching my shit!