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Friday, September 23, 2005


Reasons why I'll never be able to survive an office job after working from home for a year:

1. The concept of wearing shoes, make-up or a bra during most of the work week has become completely foreign to me. In fact, last time I tried to put on a bra, I nearly choked myself.

2. My idea of work attire consists of:
-velour track pants, fraying at seams
-tshirt, sans bra
-un-brushed teeth
I will wear this ensemble for four days straight, then rotate in a new shirt.

3. Ever afternoon at 2pm, I watch Sabrina the Teenage Witch while updating my status reports. I have cancelled meetings with customers and my manager, because they interfere with my Sabrina time.

4. I have developed an unhealthy addiction to webcomics, which I read and re-read about 1000 times a day. I am particularly fond of White Ninja, Penny Arcade and Normal Life.

5. Because I work by myself at home, no one can see when I'm making faces on a business teleconference, or better yet, when I'm mooning them. And yes, I have gone to the bathroom during a call. The mute button was on, you perverts!!!

6. I compulsively update my blog and check for comments every 10 minutes. Sometimes, when I'm on a roll, I'll blow entire hours of my day blogging.

7. My daily commute: about 30 seconds...45 if I trip on the way across the hall.

when in doubt, blame it on that 40 ounce of malt liquor

So, I've committed myself to writing down every single mildly humorous thing that pops into my head throughout the day. I feel like the only times I'm actually clever are completely random and inconvenient...Like when I'm slumped up against the shower wall, half-asleep. And later, when I can repeat my funny observation to an actual person, it's impossible to remember what I had thought up in the shower. Alcohol has killed off my slowest and my fastest brain cells, and left in its wake a vast and empty tundra of brain goo. Quite honestly, with the amount of Mickey's Ice and Adam Sandler movies I've consumed, I'm lucky if I wake up and remember what pants are used for.
But I digress.
It has been a challenge to write down every little" gem" that I think of, especially if I'm stuck in an elevator with just a Sharpee and the back of some guy's neck. It takes at least 10 dollars for him to let me write on him, and another $20 to follow me home, so I can transcribe his neck onto my laptop. And sometimes its one of those hairy Armenian guys, and the entire experience is just plain unpleasant.

I have managed to capture some thoughts however, and after typing them out and reading them out loud, I've come to realize that stuff said in my brain sounds a lot better than when I introduce it into reality. Maybe that's because I say everything in my head with a cheeky English accent. But too bad for you, I'm posting them all anyway.

Random thoughts while lying in bed at 12:45AM

- Why does grape or banana "flavor" taste completely unlike the actual fruit that its supposed to be imitating? Shouldn't we just stop kidding ourselves and give these flavors completely new names to reflect their drastically different tastes? Or at the very least, if we can't assign names, we should treat these flavors like a red-headed stepchild and make it clear to the world that grape or banana flavor does not have any natural relation to the parent fruit, whatsoever. So just stop acting like you're part of the family, you brat!

- Wouldn't it be embarrassing if you died by choking to death on a piece of "Death by Chocolate" cake?? God, the irony of it would be mortifying. If the chunk of cake didn't kill you, I think the total humiliation would.

- Why did that Mexican guy yell at me the other day when I accidentally ordered him to pull out maracas and sing La Cucaracha? I wasn't trying to be insulting, I just wanted to be entertained, dammit!! I couldn't make out a word he was saying anyway, it was series of grunts laced with Spanish profanity. Look, sir, I don't know much Spanish beyond the value menu at the local 24 hour taco stand. And as far as I'm concerned, burrito means "$1.99 worth of post-drinking goodness."**

**Mexico is a diverse country, rich in culture and tasty burritos, and I do not mean to disrespect any of it's fair citizens. For every false and hurtful Mexican stereotype I used in this post, I will give one dollar to the man I harassed. After he sings me that song, of course.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Idiosyncrasy is the new black

Here, for your reading amusement, is a random sampling of my daily idiosyncrasies. (A better title might be, Stupid things I do on a Regular Basis, but "eccentricities" or "quirks" sounds much more adorable).

1.) I literally spend fifteen minutes in the soup aisle at Ralph's agonizing over the sodium content in each brand of soup. I finally choose a few cans with only 3% sodium per serving and triumphantly scamper home, knowing that I will live another day without hardened arteries. But as soon as I get home and heat up a can, it only takes one spoonful before I realize (yet again) that salt = tasty. I end up pouring about 2 inches of rock salt into my bowl and feel my organs practically pucker from dehydration. Of course, I will repeat this entire process next week.

2.) I buy one of those eye masks you wear at night so that I can fall asleep faster; by wearing one I won't be distracted by pesky lights or shadows in the room. It only lasts about ten minutes on my head before I have a panic attack: What if I won't be able to see the burglar/rapist/vampire that is creeping towards my bed? I can't have this thing covering my eyes!!! I rip the mask off and revert back to my old way of sleeping: with my head sandwiched between two pillows, clutching a head of garlic.

3.) I avoid making phone calls and answering my cellphone at all times to avoid any minute possibility of awkward conversation or long, embarrassing pauses. Friends and family members stop calling me because I refuse to answer my phone, even when I'm standing across the room, making direct eye contact with them while they're dialing. Even though I snub all phone conversation, I of course feel incredibly sad and neglected when no one calls or leaves me voicemails. This depression further deepens my anxiety; the fewer phone calls I get, the greater the pressure to not sound like a retard! Eventually I will end up selling all my possessions, moving into a cave and talking to my hand in order to avoid normal conversation with ANYONE.

4.) Every three or four days, I find myself in the throes of a terrible stomach ache. These are always brought on by eating my bodyweight in some kind of food (sushi, tortilla chips, cookies, shoe leather, etc). And each time, I swear on the grave of Bettie Crocker that I will never ever again eat so much of the said food (cooking lard, jelly beans, scrapple, etc). And inevitably, three or four days later I'm in the super mark-down aisle at Smart and Final, clutching a 5lb bag of expired Mexican pork rinds and saying, "Made from real Mexican pig and pig-related parts? Sounds delish!!"

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

like being in middle school again

So, I submitted my blog to a big site that advertises your blog and lets people search your posts based on subject matter. I put mine under, "Comedy/Humor". They didn't have a category for "long, pointless rants".

The only problem is, they check for profanity in your blog, and if they think you have too much, they'll reject you!!!! (They also check to make sure your blog is written in English. Don't worry, I deleted that post I wrote entirely in Portuguese. You know, the one I wrote after I drank the juice from an expired bottle of martini olives and blacked out?)

Anyway, I'm worried, because I do .... on occasion...tend to dabble with "blue language". Actually, my last post had nine swear words in it...but they were in the form of a poem, so doesn't that sort of cancel them out? Hopefully the blog-auditor people will not use that one post as a representative of my entire blog. Even though I may curse, I'm really as sweet at sugar and sunshine!! Ask any of the old people I read to down at the nursing home. Well, don't ask that one lady with the eyepatch. She accused me of cheating at dominoes and I had to throw down...so now she has a slightly skewed view of my personality. (Literally!! a skewed view!! hahahahha, its fun to mock the afflicted.)

I guess my point in all of these sentences I threw together is....don't judge my blog by a few silly little cuss words. I think finding swear words offensive is so objective. What if I, conscientious citizen, really truly hate the sound of the word "tuba" or "hoodwink" or "Jessica Simpson"? Would I have the right to ask that those words be BANNED from most writing because it bugged me? (Actually, pending the 1,000th signature of my petition, Jessica Simpson WILL be forever banned from the english language).

But really, my apprehension over the swear words is really masking a deeper fear. I'm afraid the blogger people will accept my blog into their little family...but that once it's released into a greater audience...no one will care. Or worse yet, no one will think its funny. So far, I've had nothing but positive feedback about my blog and that makes me feel very happy. So happy I no longer need the highball of scotch every morning to feel better about myself. But the thing is, the only people that seem to have read this thing are my friends. And their views don't count. I've bought all of my friendships through blackmail, threats and good old-fashioned mail order catalogs. It's the opinions of strangers and non-friends that matter to me. And isn't that odd? I hate most people, regardless of race or creed, yet I really really want them to think I'm funny, to have their approval. I feel like I'm in 7th grade all over again.
(Literally. I've heard of late-bloomers, but I think this whole, "not reaching puberty" thing I have is rooted in a serious medical problem).

It's funny, because you think you have a thick skin, and then you put time and effort into something you really care about and suddenly you're absolutely terrified about any criticsm. I guess this is what it will feel like to give birth to an ugly child. But at least you can throw a sack over an ugly kid or give him to the circus...when you write something, you can't really take it back. It's there forever...etched into the very fabric of human history.
What's that? Delete button? Ohhhh riiiight. I forgot about that. Ok, scratch everything I just said. If anyone says that this post sucks and isn't funny, I'll just stand by my convictions, hold my head high and say I've never written anything in my entire life; it must have been the old lady with the eye patch from the nursing home!!!!

(Don't you like how I tied up a scattered collection of non-linear thoughts with a quick conclusion and a reference to a previous sentence?! I may not have made any kind of coherent point, but I brought the post full-circle dammit. Oops!! I mean dag-nab-it.)

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

haiku you doing?

I thought I'd spice up an otherwise mundane post about my everyday activities by composing them in the ancient form of haiku. Ok, lets get this party started!

Fuck! how many words
are in a haiku again?
wait, syllables? shit!

Okay, I'm ready
no really, I got it now
wait, do commas count?

shit shit shit shit shit
okay, take a nice deep breath
haiku doesn't suck

there once was a man
from nantucket, who walked with
his foot in a - damn!

okay, not limericks
this is poetry, dammit!
pull it together!

I ate a cookie
chocolate and peanut butter
it was delicious

I need a shower
but I'll probably skip it
because I am gross.

Yesss! I just needed to warm up. It's like a verbal ballet. Now I need to lay down, that was really hard.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

how to register for wedding gifts and avoid being beaten by teamsters

Sorry I haven't posted in awhile!! Well, I don't really know who I'm apologizing to, its not like the Blogger cares. It's like when people write "Dear Diary" on the top of every entry in their journal, as if "Diary" is a real person that cares about their dreams, fears and acne. Actually, I used to do the same thing, only I'd address each journal entry to a different citizen of McDonaldland. As in "Dear Mayor McCheese, a funny thing happened to me while I was get fitted for my orthopedic shoes..." I wrote primarily to Mayor McCheese; I thought an elected municipal official would be the best person with whom to voice my concerns and feelings. Plus, I had a big crush on him when I was seven.

But anyway, the real reason I've neglected posting for so long is because I'm so BUSY! Aside from my normal routine of small-arms dealing to small-armed children and practicing full-contact origami, I now have to do a registry for my wedding. (In case you haven't heard, I got engaged. I'm the future Mrs. McCheese!!)

I know the phrase "registering for gifts" may sound as great as "hot girl on girl action" or "world's largest rice krispie treat" to the untrained ear, but trust me, it's not fun. At least it's not fun if you're a neurotic person like myself.
It's difficult enough for me to ask a bunch of people to give me presents, and then on top of that, specify the exact color, kind, quantity, price and gender of the gifts that I want. In addition, I find myself battling conflicting emotions when choosing anything for the registery. Even picking something as simple as a blender triggers a whole series of internal conflicts:

The modest altruist in me says,
"I don't need gifts! I want all of my guests to donate an orphaned baby to Africa. Or, something along those lines."
The cheap-ass in me then says, "These blenders are WAY too expensive! I don't need a blender for $12.99!! I can just mash together the smoothie ingredients with my bare hands!!"
Inevitably, however, the greedy biatch in my wins out:
"A $200 blender? I don't know...ooh, it comes in PINK!? I'll take three!!!!"

My poor wedding guests. I basically used this thought process to pick all of my items, which is why I'm registered for a two panda bears, a solid-gold toilet and a small family of Mexican children to wait on me hand and foot.

But seriously, it's not like you get to register for anything fun. I'm thinking, "play station!! lifetime supply of kettle corn!! giant keyboard you play with your feet like in the blockbuster Tom Hanks movie, Big!!!!" But proper etiquette tells me I need to pick things like "towels", "kitchen gadgets" and "China". (Tip: China is actually plates and other dinnerware, not the communist country located chiefly in continental East Asia. You cannot register for it. Don't even try. You'll save yourself a couple of hours of torture and UN hearings, trust me.)

The worst thing about china is that its so boring. I get to choose from white, off-white, and "whitish". My grandmother tells me I should register for twelve place settings. Twelve?! I don't have twelve friends!! The only people I hang out with are the local railway teamsters I play poker with every other Thursday. There aren't twelve of them, and besides, its BYOPH (bring your own prison hooch). I hardly think we would need platinum lined gravy boats or cereal bowls for that. Besides, even if I did set out my best china for them, they'd probably just swipe it...those no-good plate-stealing card-cheating teamsters!! (Note: I know absolutely nothing about actual teamsters, who they are or what they steal. If you are reading this and you are a teamster, please do not bludgeon me with a crow bar, or whatever blunt object members of your union prefer. Thanks.)

So, you can see my predicament. And the worst part is, I may have to register again even if I stay married (which is not likely since I'm marrying a fictional mascot for a fast food company). My mom mentioned the other day that you register for gifts when you have a BABY. If I'm having this hard of a time picking stuff myself, how the HELL am I going to be able to pick out gifts for a baby I don't even know!?!? Maybe I can just skip the baby shower altogether. The only people that would come are those damn teamsters, and they won't show up unless there are free finger sandwiches and Mad Dog 20/20.

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