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. 

It's a Picasso kind of Friday.

Picasso's Le Rêve:

Anastasia Firmbottom's Le Rêve:

I chose a black matte frame because I'm classy like that.

As it turns out?  Not easy to paint like the Masters.  Who knew?

I have a Milk Stalker

Today started out like any other normal day.  I cursed the alarm clock as it brought me out of my hazy reverie and into another work day, I ate an unhealthy breakfast, and I made it to work almost on time.  I sat through an incredibly long meeting and tried to make sure I didn’t look as bored as I felt.  And then I got a text:

Unknown number: I just drank soooooo much milk.

Anastasia Firmbottom: Who is this and why was I not invited to the milk party?

Uknown number: Mmmmmmmmmmmm.  2%, 1%, whole or chocolate.  I loooooooove it. 

Now, upon occasion I have been known to invite friends for a good old fashioned milk party.  Nobody’s really taken me up on the offer, and it’s probably a good thing because besides drinking milk, I’m not sure of what more the party would consist.  I just know that from time to time, it’s nice to celebrate and indulge in things that are delicious.  Milk is on the list, alongside it’s great competitors for my affection, cheese and ice cream.  I can’t really say which of these is best, but let’s just say when God decides he’s had enough of my shenanigans, I’m sure he’ll punish me by inflicting lactose intolerance or something.  I think the etymology of the phrase “milk party” goes back to a stilted, awkward conversation I had with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.  I felt pressed for time and wit and during a lull in the conversation, told them we should get together some time soon and have ourselves a milk party.  I’m just saying, sometimes when the golden goose is under a lot of pressure, it doesn’t deliver golden eggs, it just poops.  That’s a metaphor, kids.  Learn it; live it. 

In any case, my friends and I embraced the phrase and idea, as we are wont to do with all things ridiculous, and occasionally would speak of having these parties.  So clearly when I received the aforementioned texts, my thoughts jumped to friends I’d invited previously.  This number didn’t match any of those friends.  And it continued:

UN: There is soooo much milk in my mouth as I’m texting this it’s spilling out of my mouth.

UN: A little bit just got on my sleeve.

UN: My favorite black activist is obviously MLK.

Clearly, I had a milk stalker on my hands.  Now, all my phone numbers were erased recently, so it was entirely possible that it was another friend that hadn’t updated their information with me.  But I couldn’t be sure.  Anastasia Firmbottom, PI, was on the case. 

AFPI: Have you only texted to bring me pain?  Clearly you know of my affinity for milk products.  Either that or you are a pervert.  Or a history buff.

UN: You know what would be awesome?  A Milkata.  It’s like a Piñata only full of milk. 

Side note: I hate piñatas.  I have a disdain for them that’s only shared by mayonnaise and those that have brought me chocolate syrup, claiming it’s hot fudge.  They are not the same thing, people.

Clearly, we were getting nowhere.  I advertised my stalked status on Facebook.  He noticed.

Milk Stalker: Not wise of you to advertise my activity on your facebook.  Just for that I’m going to buy $5 of Vons finest milk and throw it away unopened.

AFPI: You wouldn’t!  What about starving children?  What about the cows????

Number one, that’s just wasteful.  Throwing away food out of spite is like kicking hungry kids in the stomach: unneighborly.  Number two, if I was a cow and people were just throwing away my milk, I’d be pissed.  “Why am I working my nips off here so you can just throw it out?!  Oh, because I have an udder it must be easy.  No, no, you’re right; just keep squeezing.  Asshole.”  I’ll probably feel the same if I have kids and decide to breastfeed.  “Look, we have to talk about this spitting up business.  You’re making a mess, and you’re wasting the milk.  Just stop when you’re full; don’t be greedy.  I know other cultures find it complimentary to belch after a meal, but here in the good old U S of A, we just say, ‘thank you’.  Get with the program, kiddo.”

MS: My favorite basketball legend is Milk Chamberlain.  Obviously.

MS: I bring milk to the gym.  Not to drink it, obviously, just to have it.

AFPI: I’ve wallpapered my walls with the Got Milk ads.  Because I DO got milk.

Bad grammar aside, I’d made the tactical decision to dive in.  I don’t actually have any wallpaper on any walls, but this was not the time to split hairs.  I had to lure my milk stalker into more casual conversation, like they do on “To Catch a Predator”, except without all the false promises of a seemingly potentially sexually victimized youth.  (It probably goes without saying, but I do not associate with sex offenders.  They may have friends, Mini-Bottom and Sweet B and I never could decide, but they certainly don’t have friends in us.  Don’t bother.)

MS: I once drank milk as a chaser for a whiskey shot.

Let’s try bluntness.

AFPI: Are you going to tell me who you are?

MS: Generic fruit punch.

MS: Graham crackers.

AFPI: Grilled chicken salad.

AFPI: Bacon egg and cheese biscuit.

MS: These are all hints from me, to help you decipher my anonymity. 

AFPI: Oh, I thought we were sharing what we’ve eaten today.  Now I feel silly.

MS: I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch today.  I’m appalled you haven’t guessed who I am yet.

AFPI: We are connected by milk and chicken.  These that bind us run deep. 

MS: White shirt, navy pants!

AFPI: Blue sweater, plaid pants!

AFPI:  Wait, you know who I am.  I’ll stop giving you clues. 

MS: Curly hair?

AFPI: Sometimes!

Damn!  I was still giving him clues about myself.  I’m not good at this.  The credibility of my detective skills were in serious question.  Here’s the thing: I don’t associate with people I don’t like, ergo whomever this was, he certainly was a friend.  Because he was a friend, I obviously cared about him, and as such didn’t want to offend him by guessing mistakenly.  Like what would happen if we were at a party, playing a game, and you said, “Name a genius!” and I shouted “Benjamin Franklin!” and it turns out Thomas Edison was in the next room?  He’d hear and get all butt-hurt I didn’t pick him, and I’d have to go into how I find him incredibly talented and I appreciate light, regardless of the whole Joseph Swan or Nikola Tesla controversies.  Then he’d sulk, and I’d feel like an asshole, and people at the party would pull on their collars and look around because they felt awkward.  The music would stop, the party would grow silent, and the crickets outside would valiantly perform Kabuki theatre to distract from the discomfort, but the damage would be done.  And that’s why you never guess a mystery texter’s name.

It turns out my Milk Stalker was an old friend I’ll call Lunch Box, not because he’s fat or shaped like a yellow plastic square with pictures of Transformers all over him, but because he always had cool lunch boxes in elementary school.  At least, that’s what he tells me.  He’s really proud of it, and clearly because it’s a funny thing to be excited about, I, too, am proud of it. 

The mystery was solved; the case was closed.  I put my feet on my desk, and leaning back, threw my hands behind my head.  Then I took my feet off the desk because I didn’t want to get the stink-eye if someone walked by.  They can be a bit uptight around here.  I think it's because they don't understand victory.  Regardless, the smug feeling of satisfaction swept over me.  I’ll be waiting for your call, Chris Hansen.

Just stop it already

I appreciate the diversity the world has to offer, and I realize it is our differences that makes the world an interesting, exciting place.  However, I also realize that part of my uniqueness as an individual is that I possess my own opinions about a variety of things, and I currently have a forum to share those with the world.  It is in that light, I bring to you: Just stop it already. 

Glee – I’ve never seen this show, but my disinterest is confirmed when I hear re-caps on the radio or in conversations between friends.  Nothing about this show sounds appealing to me.  In a re-cap this week I heard a clip wherein a cast member befouled a Beatles song and somebody had a grilled-cheese-God sandwich.  Just stop.

Shows about teen parents – Why in god’s name is this so fashionable lately?  Look, people, I’m not worried about those of you that watch these shows, lament the poor decisions that were evidently made, and move along in your responsible lives.  I’m worried about the dip shit youth that see that these young people are famous because of these piss-poor decisions and instead of learning from others’ mistakes, they glamorize those peoples’ lives and seek out to imitate them.  Question: How many teenage, unwed parents immediately benefit from their situation and lead happy, productive, fulfilling lives and would do absolutely everything the same if they had to do it all over again?  Answer: Not many.  If you’re one of those people that say you have no regrets and would do everything in your entire life the exact same way if you had a re-do, you’re likely either a Buddhist or a liar.

Instructions on voicemail – Does anyone in the entire world where cell phones are common not know how to leave a message these days?  I think not.  Just leave a message after the gawddamn beep.  If you need to be told that every time, perhaps you shouldn’t operate a phone.  Even my grandparents, who still fear if they use the internet at home their stocks and bank accounts will surely be hacked and stolen, know how to leave a message without instruction.  Just. Stop.

Texting entire conversations – For some reason, the mentality appears to be, why have a 3 minute simple conversation when instead I could have a 45 minute ambiguous text conversation, and still have unanswered questions later?  It’s just inefficient.    The amount of time it takes to think of something, type it out, and send it in no way can compete with the amount of time it takes to have a give and take live, audible conversation.  You are wasting my time.  You are wasting your time.  Both of us could be doing something far more productive, like writing a novel or jogging or researching lower intestinal disorders or something.  Stop (text, send).  It (text, send).  Already (text, send).

Real Housewives – Another show I have no desire to watch, because why in the world would I care about some older, rich, self-involved bitchy women?  If I want to watch a show about assholes, I’ll turn on Seinfeld or It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  At least then I can rest in comfort knowing that their sometimes deplorable attitudes and acts are fictional, and I can pretend that most people are nice and compassionate.  I can laugh because I think, “Why, that’s absurd!  Nobody does that!”.  When it’s thrust in my face and presented as reality, I no longer have that option.  And it makes me sad.  A lot of reality television is like that.  Just stop.

Women having millions of kids – Your uterus asked me to please ask you to give it a rest.  Having shit loads of kids back in the day made sense- miscarriages, disease and famine were commonplace.  Having multiple kids was probably much like planting a garden- you throw a bunch of seeds out and hope a few grow to maturity.  If you had 12 babies, you were crossing your fingers that at least 7 would make it into adulthood.  These days we have better odds.  I have to ask, what are we trying to accomplish by having this many kids?  Yes, you love them all.  Yes, God said to go forth and multiply.  That’s all very admirable and special.  I just don’t want you to feel like you have to pick up the slack for others, because just so you’re aware, the population is going strong.  It’s not so much looking like the human race is going to die out anytime soon.  It’s okay to stop.

It's one of *those* days.

I don't actually get paid to eat cheese...yet

Boss: Hey there! 

AF: Hello.

Boss: Are you still sick?  You look sickly.  Wait, unless you’re feeling better.  In which case, pretend I didn’t say that.  You look great!

And so begins another week at work.  Here are some occupations I’d rather have or jobs I’d rather do:

Be professionally good looking but only when I want because I do it for me, despite the paycheck

Cheese and Ice Cream taste tester that never gets fat

Massage therapist and Aesthetician for the sexy

Professional stylist and make-up artist for a good friend that got famous

Creative director for concept photo shoots

Travel author and host of television’s “This place is the shit: Your Guide to Traveling the World”

Peace negotiator for the world

Psychologist and professional psychiatric observer that writes the best-seller: “You crazy!”

Popular advice columnist- “I know everything so feel free to ask”

In fact, I see no reason why I shouldn’t do all of those things.  Sometimes it’s a real bummer that there are only 24 hours in a day.  I wish I could rewind about eight years, keep everything I know now, and get cracking on getting the twenty or so degrees and certificates I’d need to do the work I want to do.  I still haven’t figured out that time machine thing, though, and in any case, if Back to the Future I-III have taught me anything, it’s that changing the past is very tricky business, and Michael J. Fox is sexy, and runs a lot in his movies.  He’s like a non-Scientologist Tom Cruise, minus the cleans-up-nice-but-still-can’t-act wife.  Wait, I actually don’t know much about Michael J. Fox’s wife, so perhaps that last part isn’t true.  But I do know she’s a lucky lady.  Oh, MJF, you had my heart at Family Ties.  *sigh…

Anyway, I’m not sure why this deteriorated into a post about how awesome Alex Keaton is, but the point of the matter is that, yes, I *am* still sick.  Luckily, my awesomeness remains in tact. 

Nick and Rudolf: Not just Christmas Porn

...or: He's One in a Million!

Contrary to popular belief the world is neither flat nor round; it's elliptical.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, my friend, Nick.  He is a traveling Welshman who, in the fall of 2008, embarked from his fair city on an “around the world” tour.  He rides a trusty motorcycle named Rudolf and made it all the way down to Cape Town, South Africa.  From there, he hopped-skipped-and-jumped on over to South Korea, where he taught English to children for about a year.  Now, he’s landed on American soil and is embarking on part two of his world tour.  He will pass through California on his way towards South America.  He is fully bad-ass.

Nick is one of my heroes, because he is actually doing something I’ve dreamed about since I was at least 16 years old.  My plan isn’t to go solo on a motorcycle around the world, but him saying, “By god the world is too big to just sit here all day!” and setting out to see all of it is immeasurably inspiring.  My vocabulary is far too limited to appropriately convey how cool I think Nick is.  I envy his courage, I respect his fortitude, and I hope that all his experiences are positive and gain him wisdom and insight beyond his wildest dreams.  I hope someday he and I can swap stories about African sunsets, and French vineyards and Incan ruins.  Until I’ve completed my plans for world domination, though, I’ll look to him for adventure. 

If you’d like to follow Nick on his tour, you can visit his website, called Tales from the Saddle.  He has cool stories and plenty of photos. 

Nick, may the wind always be at your back, and may drug wars never impede your travels!  Good luck and God speed!