I'm burnin', I'm burnin', I'm burnin' for you

Last night I made a tasty green chili with broiled habanero peppers. Despite having washed my hands six times with about a pint of soap, I still can't get the habanero spice off my fingers. Putting my contacts in this morning was quite an adventure.

Lather, rinse, repeat, as needed

Yesterday marks the third time in a month that I've walked into an abandoned university rec center locker room and noticed that someone left the shower running. Not dripping, as if they tried to turn it off and didn't quite make it, but running at full blast, with the curtain open. Come on, guys; I realize this isn't a top 20 school - or even a top 50 - but surely you've mastered the mechanics of the faucet by now.

And get off my lawn!

Its a marvelous night for a moondance

I've been peer pressured into reading Twilight. I'm not proud to admit this, but it's not like I really have anything better to do, aside from watch reruns of Rehab: Party at the Hard Rock Hotel on TruTV.

So, I'm halfway through the book last night, and I realize not a damned thing has happened. The only real action in the book, after 200 pages, occurs when it's insinuated that the main character, Bella, may be about to be raped. This is never explicitly stated, of course; the author just uses approximately 1,578 words to describe that Bella is followed down an alley by a group of older dudes, and that one or more of said dudes may have had nefarious thoughts about her. Truly riveting literature.

I can understand teens and pre-teens enjoying this book - it's their generation's Sweet Valley High. What I don't get are the millions of housewives that are simply ga-ga over this weird, teenage forbidden love story in which no actual love acts take place. Seems to me like a Harlequin novel would be a more...fulfilling alternative.

Until it sleeps

Someone in the cubes behind me is listening to heavy metal on their computer. A) They have terrible taste, and B) It's giving me a headache. What is the best office retaliation?

That's just my baby daddy

I'm terrible at Halloween. Each year, I deliver the most uninspired "costumes" known to man, if I bother to dress up at all. This year, I was prepared to sit at home and watch Night of the Living Dead while eating a year's supply of Reese's cups, but a last-minute house guest had me digging through my closet at 9:30pm for any semblance of a Halloween costume.

Although I could've easily joined the ranks of the 13,549 Sarah Palins wandering about that night, I knew I would've given myself a headache trying to do the voice. Plus I didn't want to get shot. And so, after ten minutes routing around through my closet, I emerged as a pregnant prom queen. (I'll admit to being somewhat inspired by my recent high school reunion on this one.) I put on an old evening gown and some tacky silver shoes once purchased for a wedding, tossed a small throw pillow under my dress, teased my hair, and popped in about 5 pieces of chewing gum, which I proceeded to snap obnoxiously all night long.

It was met with rave reviews, and was apparently pretty realistic, judging by the two older ladies who stood slack-jawed at the bar as they watched me prop my beer on my faux belly. They were so offended that they even left the bar, although that may have been more immediately prompted by my fiance, the "corrupt cop", doing lines of flour off the pool table with a Cobra Kai student.

Live and let die

So I thought the foundation of the Republican party was that it's anti "big government", i.e., the government shouldn't be able to tell people what to do. But what I can't resolve in my head is how that came to be coupled with the "pro life" (a stance I'd rather be called "anti-abortion", because really, who isn't for being alive?), pro death penalty, and anti gay marriage aspects of modern Republicanism. Why should the government be allowed to tell people what to do in issues related to what I guess you'd call morality, but not in the environmental or economical sense?

I'm not asking to be cheeky, I'm asking because I really don't understand.

Tribal spaceman and all thats in between

My 10-year high school reunion is this weekend, so I've decided to prepare by listening to Yahoo!Music's "Big Hits of the 90s" station at work today.

Here's a little trip down memory lane for you all:
"Pony", Ginuwine
"Wild Night", John Mellencamp
"More Than Words", Extreme
"Save Tonight", Eagle-Eye Cherry
"Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm", Crash Test Dummies
"Spice Up Your Life", Spice Girls
"All My Life", K-Ci & JoJo"Baby I Love Your Way", Big Mountain

In other words, the music of our youth was pretty terrible. Maybe even as terrible as the pop music of today. I mean, what are the Pussycat Dolls if not this decade's Spice Girls? Bad clothes? Check. Uninspired dancing? Check. Undeserved success...?

At least we didn't have anything as bad as Nickelback.

I weep for the children.

Same as it ever was

I believe I may try this again. I'm not sure that I have anything interesting to say, mind you, but since when has that ever mattered?

I hear the secrets that you keep

The other day I was a witness to one of the most terrifying moments in a parent's life.

I was on travel in L.A., and had gone to a skewer restaurant in Manhattan Beach. The restaurant was set up like a small sushi joint, with maybe 4 tables and a bar. Not wanting to take up a whole table on a busy night, I seated myself at the bar and placed my order.

Moments later a middle-aged man walked in with his seven- or eight-year-old son. Following is a transcript of that conversation:

Dad: How's your skull?
Kid: Fine.
Dad: You know, you've really got to cut out the acrobatic stuff, you're going to hurt yourself. Plus you could wind up in the circus. Do you want to wind up in the circus?
Kid: (pouting) Yes.
Dad: No you don't, that makes me sad.
Kid: Good.
Dad: Now that's mean, why would you say that?
Kid: Because you're bad.
Dad: (laughing) Why am I bad? Did I do something wrong?
Kid: I can't tell you.
Dad: C'mon, you can tell me. What did I do?
Kid: I can't tell you, because it's inappropriate.

Now here's when I began to try very hard to NOT listen to them. I attempted to immerse myself in the hockey game on TV behind the bar, but that cut to commercial, so I had little choice.

Dad: Tell me, you have to tell me now.
Kid: (pausing...) Okay, well...the other day I wanted to watch cartoons, and so I came into your room, and I saw you...on TOP of MOM.
Dad: I was on top of her? What do you mean?
Kid: (laughing) Yes you were on TOP of MOM. And I told my friends about it and they laughed.
Dad: (laughing) We were wrestling. Why would you come into our room without permission?
Kid: (shouting) I wanted to watch cartoons! And YOU WERE ON TOP OF MOM!
Dad: Well yeah, we were wrestling...and I was on top of her because...I was winning.

It was at this point that the cook behind the counter tried to hand me my food, and I was trying to valiently not to CRACK UP that I clipped the straw in my glass with the plate and dumped an entire glass of ice water directly into my lap.

Embarassing. But I like to think I helped that poor guy, in that everyone in the restaurant turning to look at me and laughing HAD to have broken the tension of that moment. I have to say the guy handled it pretty well, but man, is that kid going to turn out to be the "I Win" guy!

All apologies

When I walked into my cubicle this Sunday morning, I noticed my phone's message light flashing. Thinking my mom must have been trying to reach me, I picked up the receiver and skipped right past the message details to the message itself. I wasn't prepared for what I was about to hear.

The call was placed at 4:16pm Saturday evening. It sounded as though a woman's phone had dialed my number from insider her purse, or maybe that she'd dialed a number and then placed the receiver on a table. The entire 4-minute message was muffled, but I could distinctly hear two women yelling in the background, presumably at passers-by their house. Well, "house" may be too kind an assumption - from the story that unfolded, "trailer" seems more appropriate.

Following is my best attempt at a transcript of the message. Imagine all of this read in the scratchiest, highest-pitched smoker's voice you possibly can.

That b*tch...c'mon baby, let's go. I'm taking my baseball bat with
me

(muffled conversation)

And that mother-f*ckin...f*ckin.

Wooooo-hooo! Yes I will. I'm taking my bat. He'll
never do that to me again. Ever.

(baby noises)

Ahhhhh! I hate all you motherf*ckers!!

(dog barking)

Crackhead Joe!

(muffled conversation)

I hate this. I'm crazy.

Crackhead Joe. Crackhead. Uh...get out of here, Joe, and go
home. (bark) Nobody wants you up here, so lay off, b*tch.
F*cking crackhead b*tch. Go f*ck some (??) with Joe.

I'm taking my bat with me, you f*ck with me, you f*ck with the wrong
mother. Crackhead Joe! (bark)

(singing) In the sun, in the sun I feel as one, Maaary.

I'll kill him, Goddammit...now I ain't got no (muffled).
No!

How 'bout that, Dean? (laughing) He thinks he's so f*cking bad

Can anyone tell me if this is from a movie? That's the only logical explanation I can formulate. Aside, of course, from the obvious explanation that some crazy broad went on a meth-fueled rampage through her trailer park.

My favorite part is when she sings the Nirvana song. Maybe I should forward this to Courtney Love. Hmmm...maybe it is Courtney Love.

Happy feet

So yesterday I learned something new about myself. I've had a ton of knee problems and when doctors ask me about my medical history, I really have nothing to say except, "Well, I remember this picture of me as toddler with casts on both legs, but I don't know why." So I called my mom yesterday and learned that I was born with club feet.

No seriously.

And it's weird to learn this about yourself, but it's even weirder to learn it at 25. I mean, I wouldn't hold it against my parents for not telling me, because it's not exactly something you bring up at the dinner table.

"Hey, remember that time when you had that horrible birth defect?"

But it's like I've been living a lie. And I mean that in the most humorous way possible, because guys? I teach DANCE.

So anyway, I'll just add it to my list of maladies. For the folks keeping score at home, that's:

• mild scoliosis,
• chronic migraines,
• crippling allergies,
• hypothyroidism,
• damaged knee cartilage,
• arthritis, and now
• club feet

Sister Christian, now the time has come

Way to go, Delta Zeta.

All the personal battles my sisters fought to get the Greek system represented as something more than a casting couch for one-night stands...

All the hours we spent planning ways to recruit bright, interesting women with something to say...

All the philanthropic programs and presentations we participated in to make our little college town, our whole world, a better place...

All pushed aside by one national council's impetuous and tasteless decision. Get ready, folks, the Greek system is about to collapse on itself like a dying star.

I'm not going to lie, when I joined a sorority at LSU, my chapter had a reputation similar to that of the DePauw DZs: a group of largely undesirable women. So many of the active members weren't motivated to study, they weren't interested in their community, they were looking to catch a good buzz and a place to spend the night. But after our initial disappointment on bid day, my pledge class banded together and, with some help from our own national council, took the reins to lead our chapter where we wanted it to be.

And it wasn't easy. There were so many tears and several tough decisions, but within four years we were reeling in the biggest pledge classes on the row. Bright, motivated, outgoing, beautiful women who I'm proud to call my sisters. They're the kind of people I would (and do) surround myself with even today. And we wouldn't have them if it weren't for the efforts of every single member who was willing to do something about it.

I have no doubt that, had Delta Zeta left the chapter in-tact, some concentrated help from their national officers could've turned it completely around. It's one thing to have a "core" group of individuals leading the charge, but as passionate as the existing membership was described as being, I can't imagine they could have hindered progress. There was no need to clean house like that - trust me, I've been there.

Instead of focusing on the alleged "negative" qualities of some of the members, they should have instead sought ways to draw out the positive qualities of all members. Qualities like confidence, friendliness...ability to hold a coherent conversation about meaningful topics. Because for every girl who is looking to a sorority as a status symbol, there are four others like me. Women who'll see through all that pomp and circumstance for the people within. People you can relate to, who you can learn from. Real sisters.

I'm sitting here at work eating delicious Goldfish crackers, and am reminded of the jingle they had for like, 2.5 seconds:

Here's our Jingle for goldfish
Yes, baked and not fried Goldfish
The tasty snack that smiles back
Until you bite their heads off

Did you know they're made with real cheese
Even though they look like fishies?
The snack that smiles back, Goldfish!

Does anyone else remember this? They must have run the commerial about six times before it was pulled, because every time I refer to it in conversation, people start looking at me like I have 3 heads. And I wonder why it wasn't more successful, because I know I was thoroughly amused by the random acts of violence against harmless, smiling crackers. In fact, I think the guy who wrote that jingle should win some kind of award. Which is probably why I'm not in advertising.

Back in black

Okay, so I'm told my blog has recently caught the fast train to suck-ville, and for that I offer my deepest apologies. I hearby swear that this will not happen again. As much. I will try to post more frequently, but I must warn you that the trade-off for more frequent posting is that there will often be posts that are lame/weird/or otherwise not your cup of tea.

Let me put this in terms Tom will understand: you can now expect to get 16 bottles of white zin when you visit this blog instead of 1 nice bottle of port. Bottoms up.

And now for the important stuff. I need to know if this happens to anyone else. Do normal people sweat from their hips? I don't mean when you're running a marathon, I mean when you're sitting at your desk or in your car. I don't know if this is something that has happened to me forever and I just never noticed, but lately when I stand up it's like the rainforests have migrated to the waistband of my pants. And I'm not sweating anywhere else - no pit stains, no neck or back sweat. Nothing.

Do I need to start applying deodorant to my hipbones?

She don't use jelly

So I bought these tangerines and brought one to work as a snack. The trouble is, these things are chock-full of seeds, which means every time I finish a slice, I'm forced to pick up my trashcan and spit 3-4 seeds into it. I'm excited for the time someone walks into my cube mid-spit, which I imagine will happen very soon.

Don't stand so close to me

The guy who sits in the cube behind me just started snoring! It's loud but intermittent, like he's waking himself up every couple of rips. I'm debating throwing a pen over the wall.

Strange things like this are a natural occurrence at my job, and fortunately the good folks over at the TWoP "Office" forums help me realize that I'm not alone. As it turns out, the same weird things happen all over the country...even all over the world.

We have a bathroom cell phone talker. I truly walk into the restroom at least twice a week to find her chatting it up by the sink. I'm a pretty private person, especially when it comes to bathroom activities, so it makes me antsy that she witnesses everyone walking into the stall, hears them flush, and watches them wash their hands. From what I hear on the forums, though, it could be worse - at least she's preoccupied enough that I don't have to worry about her trying to strike up conversation!

I've always wondered whether the people she talks to can tell where she is by the background noise. Wouldn't that come across as a little disrespectful and/or weird, depending upon the circumstance? But I figured that she probably wasn't close enough to the action for it to make a difference. This morning my concerns were revisited, as I walked into the restroom and heard her unmistakable voice. She herself was nowhere to be seen. That is, except for her feet. She was seated in the stall furthest from the door, and apparently ahd made herself quite comfortable. I quickly and quietly got the hell out of Dodge.

Is behaviour like this normal? Do lots of people multitask like this? I feel like you have to draw the line somewhere, and I think "somewhere" is probably right around "poop."

Happiness is a warm gun

My friend and neighbor (we'll call him Mr. Wilson) dragged me with him to see "The Pursuit of Happyness" with him this weekend - unbearable! Honestly, the story had a lot of promise, but the plot just dragged on, showing us the same things in a different way, over and over and over. By the mid-way point, we'd started our own Mystery Science Theater episode. With half an hour left, we were actively rooting against the main character, despite the feel-good ending having been telegraphed by Samual Morse.

So imagine my surprise this morning when I learned that Will Smith got an Oscar nod for his role in the film. Now hear me out, guys. I think Will Smith is a fine actor. I enjoyed Enemy of the State. I guarantee I love him more than Phillip Banks ever did. And I think he did a fine job with the script he was given for "Happyness". But I'm puzzled by this nomination, because that movie is just plain bad.

I guess I just wonder why an actor should get accolades for picking a terrible script. It's like putting Chad Johnson on a Pop Warner team; the field is skewed. I mean, look at Robert DeNiro. DeNiro is arguably one of the best actors of the 20th century, and he didn't get nominated for "Meet the Fockers", because that movie was what it was. "Fockers" wasn't trying to redefine the motion picture industry, or make a statement, or shatter archaic stereotypes. And "Happyness" tried too hard to do all those things, so, to me, it failed. Why reward that?

Bottom line: If you're a good actor in a bad movie, you should get a new agent. Not an Oscar.

You're as cold as ice

It's raining outside. I know this because the hole in the ceiling tile is dripping. At least it doesn't smell bad. Yet.

And seriously, Texas, what's the deal? I was in a car wreck on Sunday night on a highway ice rink...I mean, on-ramp. I missed work on Monday from a combination of icy road conditions and anxiety from the aforementioned events. Wednesday morning it took me over an hour to get to work because it was snowing-slash-sleeting and also icy. By yesterday evening, we'd thawed out a bit, but tonight it's supposed to start all over again.

The best part of this weather thing is that my company doesn't give us inclement weather provisions. That's right, they'd rather I risk my life and limb to get here, or? If I have it, I'm allowed to take vacation. Oh boy! I'm also explicitly NOT allowed to use pre-approved absence or sick time, of which I'm allotted 5 days a year and rarely use. I knew this on Monday, so I knew the risk I was taking by staying in.

On Wednesday, I looked out the window and said, "Hmm, snow. This is unexpected." Not having 9 spare vacation hours laying around, I got my happy butt out of bed and began my journey. I arrived at work at 8am after a crawling commute and proceeded to go about my day. At 3pm, I received the following broadcast e-mail:

"We’ve experienced an unusual situation this week with two days of snow or ice in the same pay period. Due to today’s conditions, many people arrived at work late or decided to stay at home because of road conditions. With that in mind, we have approved the use of the weather or calamity code by all salaried employees for up to three (3) hours of time missed on Wednesday, Jan. 17...Please note that the code cannot be used retroactively to charge for time missed Monday."

I'm sorry, is this a joke? How can you possibly tell me that Monday's commute was not just as bad as Wednesday's, when I was in an accident the previous night and a) the temperatures had been below freezing since, and b) the sun had not been out? Furthermore, how are you going to send this e-mail out at three pm, after I've wasted my whole day here?

Having 2.2 hours left to work, I immediately packed up and high-tailed it out of there. Because you must have lost your damn mind if you think I'm not charging as much of that three hours as I can. That said, I am dying to see what they do tomorrow when we get yet another "winter blast".

Update: Would you believe that, at the very minute I posted this story, we received another broadcast e-mail allowing us to use the weather/calamity code on Monday?? I can't win for losing.

It's been seven hours and fifteen days

Every year, somewhere between April and June, I forget one of the greatest loves of my life. It's not until it resurfaces in January that I'm able to recall my obession, and once I do it's all I can do to keep my mind from wandering, dreaming of the next time I can experience it.

I'm talking about Thin Mints. You know those delicious Girl Scout cookies in the green box? That vibrant green is almost as recognizable to me as Tiffany blue is to your average female. And every winter they sit in the back of my freezer with aspirations living to see the spring.

But alas, it's not to be. The great annual tragedy plays out in exactly the same way each time. Upon receipt of the box, I immediately treat myself to one serving (4 cookies, to be exact). I attempt to trick myself into forgetting that they're there, but I'm inevitably back for four more (!!) within the hour. I spend the next 30 minutes feeling guilty (and a little sugar-sick), convince myself to eat something healthy - you know, to balance it out - and then head to the gym for 80 minutes of cardio.

Within eight days, both boxes are diminished to crumbs, and my subconscious says, "Finally!" And really I think that's part of why I eat them so quickly - because if I don't, then I have to deal with the temptation that much longer, and people? I have the resolve of a gnat.

The next week, Target puts their swimsuits out on display. I stand in the dressing room wondering why there's a Stay Puft marshmallow man sticker covering the mirror. It's then, through bitter tears, that Thin Mints and I break up.

It's the most unhealthy relationship that ever was. But nothing compares...nothing compares...to high-fructose-corn-syrup.

We got to move these refrigerators

So it's January 11th and I think maybe I'll take down my Christmas tree. Man, putting up a Christmas tree is so much work, but at least it's fun to put all the ornaments and lights up. Taking that thing down is just as much work, and it's also B-O-R-I-N-G. If my man-friend's parents weren't coming in town tomorrow, I would probably just leave it up another week. As it is, though, it's kind of embarassing.

It's just that, after coming home from a full day of work (and on Wednesdays, teaching), the last thing I want to do is park myself in a room for 3 hours without furniture or a television and try to fit Christmas lights back in those impossible little boxes. And yes, there is no furniture in my dining room right now, although I did just buy a table. That's what happens when you put the contents of a 700 sqft apartment into a 2000 sqft house: empty.

Well, it's really a choice between empty or impoverished. Not a huge fan of "poor", I've convinced myself that I'm just streamlining a bit. There are currently 2 rooms in my house that are completely unfurnished; that count will rapidly grow to three once my roommate moves to Dallas next month. Well, actually it grows to four, but now I have that table, see? So that means I have a dining room that contains one table, and a kitchen with a big empty spot.

Thinking about this too much could potentially drive me nuts, so I choose to focus on the positive: Less dusting. Eating dinner on the couch. Okay, continuing to eat dinner on the couch. Lower heating and air conditioning bills, once I close off those vents. (Who am I kidding? I probably just won't use heating or air conditioning.) And maybe in a year, I'll have enough money for dining room chairs!