Twenty Ten

I bid you adieu, 2010.  We had good days.  We had bad days.  We had many days in between.  I look forward to not missing you.  I look forward to looking forward and living presently. 

Victory shall be mine!

The AF Melt - Melts in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand

I’m thinking about food.  I know- you’re shocked.  Well, actually, you’re probably indifferent.  If you knew me personally, though, you wouldn’t be shocked at all.  I’ve had a 20+ year love affair with food.  I don’t know when or if it will ever end.

“Dear Food,

I wish I could quit you!  (said in gay-cowboy-accent)

Yours Truly,

Aastasia Firmbottom”

I won’t delve into our sordid history.  Just know that my and Food’s facebook relationship status is, “It’s complicated”.

Anyway, if the magical food fairies wanted to pay me a visit for dinner, this is what I hope they would bring me:

The Anastasia Firmbottom Melt:

Succulent charbroiled chicken breast

Thick, applewood smoked bacon (with the fat already cut off- don’t gross me out)

Bean Sprouts (warm)

Caramelized onions

Cooked spinach and/or a bit of arugula

Monterrey Jack Cheese

Honey Wheat Bun

Get. In. My. Belly!

I may add ketchup.  Some pesto sounds really good right now but I’m not sure it would taste good with everything else.  I also wouldn’t say no to some creamed corn or sweet corn, or some peas, or some of Nanners’* delicious tomato/squash/onion “casserole” on the side.

Yes, sir, if the food fairies want to pay me a visit, I won’t turn them away.  Wait, Food Fairies, don’t go!  I have someone on the line for you: a Washington…a George Washington…eh?  He brought his buddy Lincoln, too.  They want to say what’s up.  They want to roll with you, if that’s cool.  Get back to me.

*Nanners is my boyfriend’s mother.  She’s a wonderful woman- very nice, sweet, and an amazing cook.  I’m thankful she’s a part of my life.

I've come bearing three gifts.

I don't have Frankenstein, Gold or Myrtle, but as an act of symbolic gratitude to you for reading my musings, today I'm going to share three tidbits about myself, three days before Christmas. 

- I can't stand it when windshield wipers are going an inappropriate speed for the amount of rain falling.  Driving in the rain involves a constant wiper-adjustment for me.  If they go too fast, the mania of the blades drives me crazy and if it's too slow, well, I'm just blind.  It has to be just. right.

- I am afraid of cockroaches...and failure.  True story.

- Although it surely denigrates my professional reputation, at work I dress to amuse myself.  Example: This week, I'm wearing my ugly Christmas sweater to work.  No, we are not having a contest.  No, others are not also dressing up.  I just think it's hilarious and awesome to walk around in a hideous sweater like there's nothing out of sorts about it.  I do this because I would want someone else to do it.  I would think it was funny.  It would probably make my day.  So really, I'm treating others how I would want to be treated.  I'm practically a saint.

Friday Night Lights and Sunday Afternoon Banquets

If I had been born in a small town where high school football was the biggest thing since Jesus was toilet trained, I would be a crazy person.  I went to my cousins football banquet and saw him get “lettered” (woot woot!).  While I was proud of and excited for my cousin I spent most of the time thinking, “Really?!”

My reasons?

A. The banquet was a luncheon, scheduled to start at noon.  While the event started at noon, for some reason unbeknownst to me and all other lunch-eating, logical human beings, food was not scheduled to be served until 2pm.  What did they think this was, Thanksgiving?  WTF, people. 

B. The schedule was not respected.  The events went over their allotted times and lunch was not served until 3pm.  Again, WTF, people?  Oh yeah, and hurry your eating the fuck up because we only have the room until 3:30pm.  Tee-hee. 

C. Several grown men cried during the presentation…the presentation of awards for a high. school. football. team.  Call me a cynical beeyotch, but really? 

A part of me was flabbergasted.  I know it’s not nice, but my first thoughts were, have these people really lived?  How sheltered have they been?  Have they ever traveled, maybe to another country, or at least out of the state?  Have they been to college?  I just wonder because it seemed like this, high school football, was the biggest thing in life.  Like stop the fuckin’ clock, this is where I want to be- forever.  Some men said that “Friday Nights” brought feelings they’d only experience again when they got married or had children.  And I am not sure how that’s possible.  I am not proud, but honestly, I was judging. 

But then my dad said something that turned my thoughts around.  What he said was akin to what the gorgeous Paul Rudd* said in Knocked Up: “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.”  Actually, knowing me, what my dad said was probably nothing like that, but in my head it all made sense.  These men loved what they did.  They lived and dreamed football.  They were proud of their team and they did everything to make it special for the kids.  This truly brought them happiness.  It almost seemed like when people find religion.  They just get it, whatever it is, even if I don’t.  And so I find myself thinking that if I find anything in life that brings me that much joy, I’ll consider myself lucky.  Really.

*Seriously.  Paul Rudd- marry me. 

Dance, Monkeys!

So my dear friend, Sarah Magilla, talked me into joining her for a Zumba class.  Neither of us had ever been before, and she found a place that offered a class free for first-timers.  I’ve been interested in joining a class or trying something different, to mix up my health regimen, which as of now consists of skipping second-desserts and occasionally walking on my work breaks, weather-permitting.  I wanted to join another friend’s softball team, but the moment they started sending information about twice a week practices, I knew we weren’t on the same page.  I can stomach a once a week commitment, but anything more gives me sweaty palms, or whatever that saying is that means it makes you nervous.*  So we went to Zumba.

Now, in my younger days, I danced.  I took jazz and ballet classes.  It was a great workout, and I think it made me a bit lighter on my toes.  I wasn’t half bad at dancing.  I’ve been entertaining the notion of returning to a class, to help get back in fighting form and to regain that “lightness”, which translates well into being limber for soccer.  Zumba is a fast-paced dance class.  While I was a little nervous, because my good friend KChang had an unfortunate stomach-to-bottom incident after her first crack at Zumba, overall I felt confident that I could handle it.

Since participating, I now can only assume that if God wanted me to dance, he’d have made me 50 pounds lighter and given my rhythm.  I realize that when I was younger I was able to fake it, because the instructors, God bless ‘em, counted everything out.  When you were in class, they walked through every single step in a routine and counted it out, usually counting up to four or eight.  Then it was repeated it until it was beaten in your skull and you could do the routine in your sleep.  At Zumba, they perhaps go over the steps once with you before the music starts, and then you just go go go, and try to keep up with the instructor if she adds more steps.  There is no counting.  I would try to follow along, but invariably I would misstep, twirl when I wasn’t supposed to, turn and be facing the wrong direction, or doing completely wrong hand motions.  I found that my body does not move like our instructor’s.  My limbs are not as loose, and they have a very slow reaction time.  When I tried to count it out in my head, it helped, but by the time I felt I sort of had the hang of it, the song was over.  And then we were on to the next song and a new routine.  In the end, I tried to mimic the instructor to the best of my ability, and surrendered to the ridiculousness of it all and persisted even when I was doing something completely different.  I endeavored to get a good workout, if nothing less.  I tried very hard not to trip.  And I laughed through a good third of the class. 

Honestly, I’m not sure who’s less graceful between Sarah Magilla and me.  She just may be my petite, in-shape rhythm twin.  This made the class far more enjoyable.  This whole experience was reminiscent of the times I’ve tried to mimic Turk from Scrubs or Morris Day and the Motherfuckin’ Times’ Jungle Love dance.  Many a time, I’ve jumped around in my apartment, with Mini-Bottom, Sweet B, or my old, awesome roommate, Mija, trying to nail the dance moves.  Each time, I’ve failed.  And each time, I’ve laughed hysterically with my girls. 

I may be out of shape, and I may have the grace of a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex, but at least I am greatly amused by all of it.   

*I am such a good writer.  Honestly, I’m thinking I have Nobel-prize potential. 

You've just been thunderstruck.

Totally and completely: bad-ass.

And right about then is when I gave up.

So if I were to use one descriptive word to…uh…describe how this morning was, I would use “shitty”. 

An issue at work got blown out of proportion.  There was miscommunication and general clusterfuckery all around.  Emails were fired off, decisions were made, reconsidered, and changed again, all before one could exhale.  I guess that’s what to expect when you work in an ER.  But I don’t work in an ER, I work in an office.  And usually I can laugh things like this off, or at least let it roll off of me.  But this morning I got frustrated.

Here are the email highlights.

AF (to everyone): As discussed, here are notes from the meeting, revised to include your comments.  Again, please let me know if there are any comments, questions, concerns, or suggestions.  Thank you!  (Right here, I’m still trying to be diplomatic and helpful.)

Manager A (to everyone) – Manager B, please let me know ASAP if these changes are okay.  Thanks!  (I’ve begun to paraphrase.)

My Boss (to everyone) – I asked AF to review changes with Manager B to see what she’s okay with.

AF (to Boss) – Boss, I spoke with Manager A and asked if he’d like to review the changes with Manager B and he said he didn’t have time so to just forward him the email and he’d confer with Manager B.

Manager A (to everyone) – I didn’t know that was the plan.  AF, please review with Manager B and let me know any changes ASAP.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – Clearly we’re not all on the same page.  Please let me know if I’m now responsible to meet with Manager B and relay the changes.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – And now Top Boss said he may meet with Manager B to discuss the changes.  Or he may want to meet with Boss and Manager A and Manager B.  In any case, I should probably be there to make sure I know all the changes.

Boss (to AF and Manager A) – We are all a team.  I am anticipating concerns from other departments.  (Insert lesson on how to work with other departments for the good of the team, and how I should do things whether or not they’re my responsibility.  It’s supposed to be helpful but feels eerily similar to a reprimand.)  That’s called politicking.  (Editor’s note- I still don’t know if I’m responsible for discussing the changes, making the decisions, and relaying this information to our consultants.)

Manager A (to AF and Boss) – Top Boss wants to have a meeting this afternoon.  I won’t be there.  Take good notes!

I’m not invited to the meeting, nor do I know when or where it is.  About here’s where I realize that I still have no real power, I still don’t have any answers, and I will still be held responsible for all changes. 

AF (to Manager A) – I certainly will.

I realize that the countless emails I’ve sent out with simple to read, detailed notes have not been read.  The meetings I’ve had in person where I’ve gone over everything have not been remembered.  The meetings wherein I’ve invited other managers when these items were discussed, were not attended.  I make probably a third of what these managers make.  And I will still be held accountable for any misunderstanding, oversight, or disliked thing that happens.  Despite my numerous efforts to keep people informed and encourage participation, this incident has lent an unfavorable light on my communication and organizational skills.  This makes me a sad panda.

I am trying not to cry.  When you’re a kid, crying is an acceptable form of communication.  It conveys pain.  When you’re an adult, crying conveys that you’re a whiny pussy who can’t handle a big tough grown-up job, and perhaps you would be better suited braiding hair and baking pies in the kitchen after getting pregnant.  Or maybe just that you’re a bit emotional, and your overreaction is unfavorable.  It could be both.  Or I could be unclear on specifically how that act reflects on me; I may be exaggerating.  It’s hard to tell.

Manager A (to AF) – Wow!  This has all been blown way out of proportion!  Good luck!

And right about here is when I gave up.

AF (to Manager A) – Yes, it appears as though it has.  I am ready for Thursday.  You see, Thursday is the day after today.  Which means that this day is over.  Which is a fine thing, if one were to ask me.  Which one has not.  But I am a giving person, so I give my opinions.  And that was one of them. Another one?  Zombies- overrated.  If I want to watch a movie where everyone is going to die I’ll watch “An Inconvenient Truth”.  At least I can recycle.  Recycling isn’t going to cure Zombies. 

I’m pretty sure the work discussion is over when you bring up zombies.  And his silence reinforces this belief.  Which, by my count, makes me the winner. 

I think the lesson to be learned here is that when you’re having a day like this, all before lunch no less, under no circumstances should you give, loan, or sell, a fuck.  It only leads to impotent rage and frustration.  It is only when you accept the absurdity of your situation and truly look at the events in light of this grandiose context we scholars refer to as “life”, that you begin to relax.  A year from now, I won’t remember this moment, or this day.  Unless I re-read this post, of course.  You’ve got me there, smarty-britches.  Regardless, I likely won’t recall this day without assistance, and for that reason alone, I shouldn’t waste my tears or energy. 

And by the way, I’m serious about the Zombie thing.  I’m sure it lowers my “cool” points but I don’t get the obsession.  I thought “Shaun of the Dead” was hilarious just like everyone else did, but I’m not spending sleepless nights planning my escape route for the rise of the dead.  I’d rather spend my time trying to think of efficient ways to store mass-produced energy, or which foods are not improved by the addition of cheese.  Plus, I was raised Catholic.  I’m pretty sure “dead people walking” is called a resurrection.  Like Jesus.  And Lazarus.  If someone shot Lazarus, I imagine Jesus would be pissed.  He’d be all, “Awww hell no I did not see you just do that after I spent all day trying to wake him up.  Martha, hold these.”  Then He’d take out his earrings and his Halo and whoop. your. ass.  And once He was done He’d heal you, but then He’d say, “And what did we learn today?  That’s right: we don’t shoot the resurrected.”  And then He’d hug you, because Jesus is Love, after all.  And if you still didn’t get it, because you’re inexplicably slow, He’d show you an old “Goofus and Gallant”* cartoon, and He’d ask, “Now, do you want to be a Goofus or a Gallant?  That’s right, nobody wants to be a Goofus.”  And you’d sniffle and apologize to Lazarus, and it would be okay, but quite frankly, the whole thing would be really embarrassing for you.  For everyone, really. 

"DUDE!  NOT.  COOL."  Let the holy brawl begin.

*If you don’t know what “Goofus and Gallant” is you’re either a lot younger than I am or you’ve never been to a dentist or a pediatrician.  Or both.

Nobody's paying me to bitch, so this one's on the house

“Do you ever wonder how someone could even like you?” – Knocked Up

I wonder this all. the. time.  Well, half the time.  See, half the time I’m convinced I’m awesome and wonder how anyone could not like me.  I don’t recall if it was Mini-Bottom or Sweet B, but they nailed it with, “We’re fuckin’ awesome.  How come we don’t have more friends?”  I’m smart, nice, easy to get along with, have a good sense of humor, have a good job, and looks-wise have never even on one occasion scared a small child.  I’m doing alright.  Some may even call me a catch.  On good days, I accept this, and I feel good about it.

Other days, I wonder how anyone could ever like me.  I like cheese and ice cream too much to ever look like a model.  I can be needy.  I can be jealous.  I wonder if I’ll ever accomplish anything truly noteworthy.  I wonder if I’ll ever “grow up”.  I know my man loves me, but I wonder if he’ll ever love me enough to marry me.  I wonder if anyone could ever believe in me enough to take a big chance on me.  I wonder if someone could ever want it bad enough and trust me enough to say “fuck everything else, I want a life with you.  All of it – the marriage, the house, the kids.”  I wonder why these things seem to come naturally to other people.  They grow up, they find someone, they get married, and live happily ever after.  Or they grow up, get a great job, get rich, and have an awesome house and take awesome vacations.  Or they grow up, throw a middle finger to the establishment, and travel the world, alternating between camels and bicycles to do so.

I realize people shouldn’t go through life trying to prove themselves worthy.  I know to be a healthy person capable of giving and receiving love you have to love yourself and truly believe you are worth loving.  You see, I’m a logical person.  My practicality is both a gift and a curse.  But at times, it’s altogether absent or may as well be, because while I can rationally accept these things, emotionally I struggle.  How exactly do you like yourself more?  Will accepting myself be the magical key, and once I unlock this, everything will fall into place?  I hope so, because at the risk of sounding self-absorbed, entitled, or whiny, I really do want to just feel at peace with everything.  I want to feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, that I have good things in store for me, and I want to feel happy.  I don’t just want to be amused, I don’t just want to have fun; I want to be truly happy. 

And make it snappy! 

The Most Outrageous Update You Ever Seen If Up Until Now You've Never Seen An Update!!

Dear Blog,

It’s been a while.  A lot has changed since we last spoke.  Allow me to fill you in:

1 - I have brown hair now.  I know, I know- it’s been a while.  But reactions have been overwhelmingly positive.  People say the color “brings out my eyes” which seems nice at first glance if it weren’t for the fact that I’m legally blind.  I kid, I kid!  Nobody is talking about my eyes.

2 - The birthday train makes a stop for me on Friday.  I have really positive feelings about turning 27; I finally feel ready for it, ready to embrace it, ready to feel “twenty-seven”.  Except that I’m turning 28.  Twenty-eight feels like a kick to the crotch.  So I have a message for you, “28”:

Please try not to suck.  26 buh-lew for me, and I’ve about lost all my gawddamn patience for year 27.  Yes, there have been some awesome highs, but those were sprinkled in between way too many lows.  I’m tired.  I’d really appreciate a year without the following:

-loved ones dying

-one fucking mini-health crisis after the next.  Honestly, I’ve given more to doctors this year than I have to Dairy Queen, and if that doesn’t strike you as downright wrong, you clearly don’t have an unhealthy affection for ice cream like I do.  Also, I don’t believe my health issues and my DQ issues are related, so don’t go trying to pull a “perhaps you should eat healthier and exercise more” punch on me- I know your tricks.  Sneaky.    

-one “what-am-I-doing-with-my-life” crisis after the next.  Let’s just calm down for a minute or a year, shall we?  Let’s just accept the fact that we have a lot of “potential” and it’s okay if we don’t know exactly where it will best fit yet.  All of the oxygen plants create would be a waste if we didn’t breathe it and expel carbon dioxide. ß And by that I’m pretty sure what I’m trying to say is that every chemical reaction needs a catalyst, and I could be wrong about that, but then again, I’m a lover, not a scientist. ß And by that, I think I’m trying to say that all of the awesome things I am capable of will only be fulfilled if placed in the right circumstances, and sometimes this requires patience.  And I don’t have a whole hell of a lot of patience, but let’s not go pointing fingers.  This is yet another thing to accept.  So maybe the message should be “calm down and work on accepting yourself”.

-living paycheck to paycheck.  Let’s pepper in a healthy raise somewhere, shall we?  Mama’s tired of mooching internet and making false promises of new, long over-due spark plugs to her overworked Mustang. 

Thank you for your time, in advance, year 28.

3 - I’ve had some crazy ass dreams lately.  I shan’t fully recount them, but they included the following:

-my teeth falling out, but not the one that I’m genuinely afraid will fall out- the good ones.

-a plane ride with my boyfriend, his ex-brother-in-law, and my ex-boyfriend.  The plane dropped in elevation, flew low, and this was to go under a bridge to avoid enemy fire, which we then had to reciprocate.  We blew something up that was trying to down the plane.

-a lesbian marriage.  She was someone I’d never seen before, she dressed in an Alexander McQueen-type punk formal dress; I inexplicably chose a magenta satin prom dress with a black fur stole.  There was no ceremony, but I was late to it (which is about the only true to life element of this dream), and afterwards I was upset because I hadn’t gotten to wear a white dress or have the wedding the way I wanted it and I married a woman!  I was upset.

-I was involved in some sort of criminal gang with Jesse James.  Not the original Jesse James- the motorcycling, philandering, his face graduated from the Beauty-School-of-Hard-Knocks one.  We would burglarize companies, I think, and had plans to hit a place but backed out because it felt wrong.  We were lucky because it was a sting operation.  I told him I wanted out, and cried as I told him I needed to do something that my parents would be proud of.  He let me out of the gang, but I was immediately suspicious of him because I thought surely he’d sold me out to the feds.

-We (me and other people in “my group” I don’t know or remember) were surrounded and the only way to get out was to “fish” by throwing out lines with razor blades attached.  They’d sink into peoples’ cheeks and foreheads.  We’d take them out, and they’d go away.  It was like catch and release, with blades for people.  Disturbing.

Going to sleep is an adventure every night because while my dreams are amusing, they are also very uncomfortable and disturbing, and often times I desperately want to wake up but cannot.  If anything, it reaffirms that people should not do drugs before bedtime.  Or anytime, really.  I don’t do drugs.  This is like a public service announcement!  You’re welcome, America. 

If I think of anything else, dearest blog, I’ll get back to you. 

God Bless

*Did you see what I did there?  I gotta be the craftiest motherfucker alive!

And *that's* how you land without a parachute OR Gas Station Valet and Orcas: Think about it!

Someone is going to get a stern letter about this.

So last night I was on a road trip with some friends, and it may have been for pleasure, just as it may have been because we were running away from bad people.  It’s anyone’s guess.  However, we’d stopped and were nestling into our beds to go to sleep when we all realized that the reason none of us were tired was because it was only 6:30pm.  I decided I wanted to go sky diving, so I left and found a field where this was happening.  I jumped out of an airplane and remembered feeling very curious because I didn’t feel like I did the last time I went sky diving.  The last and only time I’ve been sky diving was in 2005, in some remote field around the northeastern coast of Australia.  It was a tandem jump from a small plane, at 14,000 feet.  I felt at first amazing weightlessness, then cold air rushing at me from all angles as I plummeted at alarming speeds towards the ground, before floating at a quickened pace towards land.  This time, however, I just felt light, and like I was floating.  Also different this time around: my parachute didn’t deploy.  Unlike most normal people, I didn’t panic.  I merely noticed the issue, continued to try to deploy it, and decided that I’d better figure out a good way to land.  I also remembered thinking about how I was totally going to blog about this, and how I was going to draw a picture of me without a parachute.  Lucky for me it turns out that I am a champ-lander, and I landed effortlessly, merely jogging in place until I hit the ground.  I was glad I was safe, however, giving people faulty parachutes is just bad business, so I had to speak with the management.  I told the HMFIC about the incident, and she immediately understood, apologized for the situation, and asked me to standby while she spoke with some others and tried to figure out how to handle it.  While waiting, I met another man who apparently had the same issue I did.  He reminded me a lot of my friend Nick, the traveling Welshman, but he was a little older and had children.  He was also interested in history, and liked to read- this I discerned from our brief conversation.  I wondered about what my compensation for this grievous mistake would be- would I be given several thousand dollars?  Would I at least get several free passes to come back and have my friends join me on a different jump?  I’d mentally settled on this last possibility, when the manager lady walked back in.  She handed the gentleman a stack of books, I think about World War II, and about British history.  This was to make up for that whole bad-parachute incident.  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, and said she must have gleaned from a statement he’d made that he liked history.  Apparently he didn’t love it, but he liked it, so he guessed it would do.  Then the manager lady gave me, in recompense, a rifle.  Either that or a large BB gun- hard to tell.  I wondered what in the world I was going to do with this, since I don’t shoot and don’t really have need or want of a gun.  I remember feeling slighted because I had my heart set on those passes.  I remember thinking, “Well, I guess I should figure out how to use this thing, since I now own it.”  And then I was somewhere else entirely, doing something entirely different. 

I guess that’s how dreams work. 

Aren’t dreams wonderful?  I had a dream recently wherein I had to get gas, so I drove to a gas station near the beach.  This was no ordinary gas station, though.  You had to wait in line for a long time, so basically you gave your car to a gas station valet, who would fill it for you when it was time.  In the meantime, you waited in the stands, because underneath and around the gas station was a massive tank for the Orcas.  It was like SeaWorld, while you waited!  Between the whales and the ocean in the background, it was the most beautiful, coolest gas station in the world!  And I went to it! 

Sometimes I wish reality was more like my dreams.  Only when they’re cool dreams, though.  I’ll pass on the ones I have about people trying to kill me.  Those people need to lighten up. 

This is why I don't watch TV

So, I haven’t had cable or satellite television for over a year and a half.  I didn’t miss it for the longest time, but recently I’ve been thinking it would be nice to have it back.  Watching tv is one of the cheaper alternatives when I’m bored, and it’s pretty inconvenient to “borrow” other peoples’ couches if there’s something you really want to see.  However, since money’s as tight as my weave* I won’t be getting cable anytime soon.  

Nevertheless, when talking to my boyfriend on the cellular mobile phone yesterday, I heard Wheel of Fortune in the background and became jealous.  I jumped to action!  I reconnected my digital bunny ears to my tv, and set it to start searching for channels.  I waited and watched, quivering with anticipation.  Would any channels show up?  The scan percentage ticked by, 25%, 52%, 86%.  I was stoked to find that I had 10 digital channels and 1 analog.  I crossed my fingers that I’d soon be watching Wheel of Fortune, guessing letters and sharing with the contestants’ annoyance over their horrible excuses for clues. 

Clue: “Thing”

_ _ _ _ D_ _

_ _ _ K _ _

_ R _ _ B _ _ _

“Ahh!  ‘Holiday cookie crumbles’!  I should have known!”

Worst. Clues. Ever.  I still love it. 

Anyway, as it turns out, I have two channels below channel 18, and these are channels 5.1 and 5.2, which I’m pretty sure only exist in some robot’s fantasy.  Of the other channels I can get in my apartment, three are Korean, one is Armenian, one is I’m fairly certain in Yiddish, and at least three are in Spanish.  As it turns out, I’m a little rusty with my Korean, Armenian, and Yiddish.  So my options are turn on one of these stations and white-noise-tune-out, or try my hand at the Spanish and English stations.  Of these stations, one is a strange, B-level movie channel, a few seem to be local public access, and one is a Spanish channel that frequently shows “Top 5” lists that show 5-second clips of songs in between commercials, and has English MTV shows in Spanish closed caption.  Clearly the latter was my best hope.

I made myself dinner, a fine leftover/hot pocket/watermelon combo, and turned on and tuned in.  What was on the telly?  None other than “16 and pregnant”.  I recognized this girl on the show because recently on some gossip sites there have been clips of her beating the shit out of her baby daddy.  I was intrigued.  What could have precipitated this shocking display of violence towards someone that’s shared her Lady Garden?  I didn’t learn much, except that she carries around a strange sense of entitlement, and likes to yell.  Also, some gawdamn gypsy that was going to deliver the baby told her delivering is a lot like pooping.  Then she went into labor and went on to experience what looked like the most ferocious bowel movement ever.  Basically, it was terrifying.  I want babies someday but I’m still lost on when the  “beautiful” part of childbirth is, that people keep talking about.  All I saw was pain, exhaustion, and frustration.  Yes, there was a baby at the end of it all that but lets not pretend the in-between part was pretty.  Because I saw it.  And it wasn’t. 

Anyway, I finished this television experience feeling a little dirty and a little disgusted.  Kind of like my television had just sexually harassed me, but I was still too confused to report it to my HR rep.  It reaffirmed my previously held belief that tv shows today are mostly shit.  I certainly can and will give respect when respect is due, but most reality shows today are simply awful.  And they are everywhere.  It feels like writers just gave up.  “Why write something witty and entertaining when I can just put a camera on this asshole and they’ll douche it up like there’s no tomorrow?  You know, because if there was no tomorrow, who wouldn’t want to go out swinging like a dick-face?!  Now that’s entertainment!”

*sigh*  So as long as these are my only television options, I’ll probably continue to not watch much.  Either that or I’ll learn Korean. 

*I don’t have a weave.  But it would be awesome if I did because a) waiting for my hair to grow out when I’ve cut it short, sucks and takes for-ever and b) then I could say cool things like, “My weave is sweatin’” and be sincere.  Also, I’m fairly certain this would be my ticket to looking like Kim Kardashian.**

**No, it wouldn’t.

Analogies, expressions, and insults.

I’m not good with any of those.  This has been a lifelong issue, and I believe, hereditary. 
Anytime I hear a situation in which I’d like to expose or highlight the absurdity of it, my mind immediately jumps to an analogy.  The problem is, my analogies are obtuse at best, and sometimes just flat out don’t make any damn sense at all to anyone else.  Here’s an example. 

I was chatting with Mini-Bottom and Sweet B about dating.  They are not in to dating men that are younger than them.  I almost said they don’t like dating “younger men” but then you may believe I encourage cougar-ism, which despite some very poorly phrased things that I’ve said, I’m not trying to push.  I just think it’s okay to date someone a year or two younger, if you get along.  Anyway, the point of the matter is, while I think it’s okay to date “younger men”, it becomes a turn-off when the age differences are constantly highlighted.  It’d be weird to see a “Class of 2008” Letterman’s jacket hung over a chair, or have him confused about what Fraggle Rock was, or watch him play beer pong eight nights a week.

Let’s skip to another thought.  I don’t like eating meat that looks like the animal it used to be.  I honestly believe there’s nothing wrong with eating animals, and that we were engineered to do so (if you look at our teeth, how we get energy, etc.).  Props to all you vegetarians out there, but I like meat, and I’m not sorry for it.  However, just because I love me a cheeseburger, doesn’t mean I want a patty shaped like a cow.  In the same vein, I don’t like eating fish when it’s staring at me.  By the time my meat reaches me, it should be processed and prepared enough so that I don’t have to constantly think about eating Bambi or whatever meat I’m working with. 

Do you see how those two thoughts could be tied together?  Neither did Mini-Bottom or Sweet B.

AF: When you get to be my age, dating younger men is like eating meat.  Just like you don’t want your meat to be shaped like an animal, you don’t want to constantly be reminded that the guy is younger than you.  (Obviously.)

MB: Wait…huh?

SB: (as she is wont to do, Sweet B heard something entirely different.  Seriously, sometimes I am concerned about her hearing.)  Whoa whoa whoa…why are you dating animals? 

FAIL.

My inability to properly use expressions does not arise from English being my second language.  This is because English is my first language.  It may be due, in part, to my mom’s side of the family being from Kentucky, and having very colorful expressions like, “If you feel froggy, jump”.  My grandma may be the worst at this:

“…like a bullfrog in a china cabinet!”  Actual expression: “…like a bull in a china shop.”

Or my personal favorite:

“F&*% you and the horse you’re chasing!”  Actual expression: “F*&$ you and the horse you rode in on.”

Oh, Granny…

Maybe I’m overly cautious because I’ve heard expressions fouled up so much in the past.  If I try to say something, I usually say it, then stop and ask if I used the expression right. 

AF: That’s a horse of a different color.  Wait, it is horses, right?  That’s the expression? 
AF: A tiger doesn’t change it’s spots.  Wait, I mean a leopard doesn’t change it’s spots.

I also don’t understand expressions sometimes.  I’m sure they were borne because people wanted to express a thought in a very quick, easily understandable manner, but sometimes they just lose me.  I always thought the expression was, “You can’t see the forest through the trees.”  You know, because sometimes you could be so bogged down in details you couldn’t see the much bigger picture?  No, apparently it’s “You can’t see the forest for the trees.”  And now I’m lost.  Does that mean that you can’t see a situation for what it really is?  I have no idea. 

I think part of my problem is that I look for a much deeper meaning in everything than I should.  For years I didn’t get the Kay Jewelers slogan, “Every Kiss begins with K(ay)”.  I thought the implication was that kissing, nay, love and romance, could only be set into motion upon the receipt of a piece of jewelry.  The sheer cynicism was offensive.  Then one day it occurred to me that it was just a clever play on the letter “k” because in fact, the word kiss always begins with the letter “k”.  So, while I guess the implication is still that romance is promulgated by gifts, the slogan is, in fact, a true statement.  This is how my brain works, people.  Holy shit on fire, that ad is only a 15 second radio commercial; can you imagine how long it takes me to figure other stuff in life out?

All let’s talk about insults.  As you may have guessed, I’m not so good at them.  I can joke around and make witty comments with the best of them, but I can’t get the insults or trash-talking thing down for the life of me.  I tried, in high school, to trash-talk while playing soccer.  We were playing a school I hated, because not only were their girls corn-fed behemoths that liked to run us over and just embarrass us on the scoreboard, the girls themselves were mean.  They talked trash all the time and were really good at making a person feel like shit.  So one day I decided to fight back.

I don’t remember exactly what was said, but the Giant Mean Girl said something along the lines of you suck (insert personal insult) blah blah blah.

AF: (I may have stood up a little straighter; I spoke more forcefully.)  What did you say?!

GMG: (she repeated exactly what she had just said, only this time, it was accompanied by a stronger, ruder voice, direct eye contact, and the head roll bitchy girls do so well.)

AF: Oh, okay. 

I’m pretty sure she won that round.  The thing is, she called my bluff.  I didn’t have a backup plan after the initial challenge.  I hoped that my question would be appropriately interpreted as a rhetorical one, albeit as a demand for some respect.  It was not.  Again, I’m putting too much thought into this, probably. 

Today I mostly don’t bother trying to be quick-witted when insulting someone or trash-talking.  You know why?  Because when I think of things to say, they aren’t funny, they’re mean.  My brain inexplicably jumps to responding with disproportional force.  I’m like the Israel of insults.

This is how badly things could go:

Random rude person: “You so ldjalsdjla;j that ya mama ldja;lsdjfl;ksdjf;ladj!  Ahahaha!”

AF: “Yeah, well you clearly have self-esteem issues, probably due to your lack of education and appropriate parental supervision while growing up, and this probably explains why you let men take advantage of you.”

Crickets.

See? Not funny.  When I’m insulted, if it’s not clearly intended as a harmless joke, my brain immediately recalls every flaw in the other person, every negative thing about their current circumstance.  It’s not becoming; I don’t like being judgmental and callous.  So, until I can learn to bring up something humorous and mostly harmless, I mostly just take it.  If I do anything these days, it’s respond with something like, “Aw, that’s not nice” or “I don’t appreciate it when you talk to me like that.”  I guess that’s more mature, but I wish I could be that person that diffuses tension with a quick retort or good joke.  I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have very many trash-talking encounters.

Probably the coolest. thing. ever.

Have you ever walked in a room with a light occupancy sensor, only it didn’t go off when you entered and so for a split second you worried that maybe it was because you had no soul, and then thought, “oh my god, maybe I’m a vampire!” but then a second later the light did go on, so you relaxed?

Yeah, me neither.

Here’s a picture I drew of a unicorn shooting lasers out of his horn.  Apparently a unicorn’s horn is called an “alicorn”, a distinction I find pretty amusing.  It’s like me stating authoritatively that a dragon’s wings are technically “velociflugens”.  I can make words up, too, people.

"Do you SEE what happens when you mess with a warrior?!?!"

The price is wrong, bitch!

So guess what I did yesterday?  Yes, yes, besides "be awesome". 

I'll give you a hint:


Yeah, that's all hand drawn.  Almost Picasso-like.

 If you guessed "win the showcase showdown!", you are wrong.  Wrong but sweet.  I didn't get selected to "come on down" and neither did my team.

Left to Right: Mini-Bottom, Sweet B, Nick the flying Welshman, Boyfriend, Anastasia Firmbottom

The executive producers didn't call any of us, and I can only assume that it was because he'd taken anti-awesomeness pills that morning, rendering him immune to all things awesome.  It's the only logical way we could have been overlooked!  I mean, I don't mean to toot my own horn, but beep beep, our group was kind of a big deal.  We had five attractive, interesting, energetic, intelligent, outstandingly attired people on our Team, one of whom was pausing from a motorcycle trip around the world to make an appearance on the show.  Alas, it was not meant to be.  It's okay, though, because where we were positioned in the audience, we made it on camera quite frequently.  Look for me on "The Price is Right" in mid-November!  I'll be the one with the hair and the shirt.   

Stop staring at my skippy-doos; my eyes are up here.

**WARNING** This post deals with mature subject matter and is not intended for anyone under 18 or my mother.  Please skip this post and view the next, for my truly outstanding Picasso imitation.

Coworker: “My vibrator’s not working!”

That. Just. Happened.

Of course, she was talking about the vibrating function on her cell phone.  Still, perhaps there was a better way to express that concern.  A good rule of thumb is, if someone can say, “And that’s what she said!” after your statement, perhaps you should re-think how you’ll say it.

In any case, now that we’re on a completely inappropriate subject path, I’ll continue. 

My Welshman friend has been visiting me, and while out at dinner the other day with him and Sweet B, the obviously appropriate subject of genital euphemisms came up.  I cannot recall how this subject came to be, but in any case, it was an amusing topic of conversation.  The Union Jackers apparently like ax wound and furburger for their lady-part names.  I don’t recall the male part names but they weren’t as funny, and they all tended to be obvious ego-boosting names. 

In any case, the lady-part names all sound violent or gross, so I’m offering new suggestions:

Her Eternal Majesty

Secret Garden

Treasure Trove

Pot O’ Gold

Lovely Lady

Princess Buttercup

Cave of Wonder

Butterfly Spirit

Santa Bella

Almond Joy

Bad-a-bingo

Golden Delicious

Pink Lady (It’s not my fault these apples sound suggestive.)

Earth Spirit

Luz del Mundo

Hoo-ha and Special Purpose are also still fun to use.

For the upper lovely lady lumps I prefer to keep things light-hearted: Tiddly-winks, Skittelybops, Skippy-doos, and Boppy Bops.

I suppose one could take the mature route and refer to these anatomical parts with their correct names.  But that wouldn’t make me giggle quite as much, and I’m pretty sure life is meant to be giggled.