XMAS FAIL!!!

Today at work, my coworker Laurie had her radio tuned to Christmas songs. About the second or third time I had to hear "Do You Hear What I Hear?" I pointed something out to her that even she--the woman who called me Grinchy last week--had to admit to.

"You know that part about how 'a child, a child, shivers in the cold. Let us bring him silver and gold'?" I said. She had already started laughing.

"Yeah," she replied.

"Well, how about someone brings this poor kid a blanket? Silver, gold, and a freakin' blanket? Or maybe a snowsuit for the baby Jesus? Try to be a little practical. You know?"

The woman had to have her baby in barn. Seriously, no one thought of A BLANKET??

The accidental recipient.

I got a great text message today. It said:

"There is a report of drunk and naked retard wearing snow boots riding a Big Wheel along 690. Do you need me to come get you again?"

Except I have no idea who it's from, so I don't think it was meant for me.

Die. Die. Die. Die. DieT.

Maybe it's because I've been home sick from work for two days. Maybe it's because I've gotten through all three seasons of Kids in the Hall that I own on DVD, and am now starting over at the beginning ("ballet and snacks! my two passions!"). Maybe it's because I've accomplished little but laundry and fighting off cold germs in the last three days. But I've had just about enough of diet advertisements lining the websites I'm looking at.

First let's address the one I hate the most: the stupid fucking "pink patch" that will allow you to lose five pounds in two weeks. O RLY?! Five pounds in two weeks? Chances are, if you're about to glue this thing to your torso, you don't have any real need to lose weight anyway. Where do you plan to lose it from? Your eyelids? Your ankles? Your pinky toes? Get bent. If you're bellyaching about how "if only you could lose five pounds in two weeks," you're a whiny bitch who's probably too skinny anyway. Do us all a favor and eat a sandwich. Thank you.

Second, the bowl of acai mud. I admit, I would like to taste what acai is like, just to see if it holds any of the charms of other berries I enjoy, such as...most berries, but particularly cranberries and strawberries. I enjoy most things that boast antioxidants, such as green tea, cranberries, coffee, red wine and so on, and don't particularly care if they have magical powers for making people skinny. (Which they do not.) I do have to tell you, however, that a heaping helping of what appears to be, to quote Amanda, "huckleberry diarrhea" is not going to make me run out and purchase some acai sorbet, even if I could find some somewhere.

If this whole world was more about who people actually are and the good care that they take of their bodies regardless of weight, instead of magical fucking potions to counteract McDonalds and sitting on our asses, we'd all be a lot better off.

And after a couple more doses of NyQuil or DayQuil, I promise to return to being lightheartedly cynical, instead of a railing, coughing bitch. Merci.

Celebrating Thanksgiving with soy.

Amanda has told me that Turducken is all the rage on the food network these days. I'm thrilled. I had some last Christmas and thought it was pretty good. Some might say, in these trying financial times, that turducken is overkill, or an exercise in excess. It is, after all, three types of fowl shoved up each other to make one super-fowl.

I disagree. Sure, a turducken is a turkey stuffed with a duck which has been stuffed with a chicken, and maybe to some that seems like "too much." I don't think so. And I'll tell you why: if there was no such thing as turducken, no one would get to say "turducken," which is a hilarious word because it contains the word "turd." And that, to me, is funny. Because food names are no places for poop jokes or references.

There is a delicious Chinese appetizer sampler that I can't order with a straight face, and as such, I don't order it. It's called a pu-pu platter. I KNOW that it does not mean the same thing in Cantonese or Mandarin as it does in English, but that DOES NOT MATTER. There is a discernible toilet reference in the name of this food. And all the paper-wrapped chicken and beef on skewers and those little shrimp chips in the world can't change that.

I think that the makers of the popular vegetarian turkey substitute Tofurkey should develop their own holiday hybrid. You can do awesome stuff with tofu, so why not make a tofu turducken? I even have a name ready for them. Ready? Tofucken.

Yep. It's tofu made to taste like turkey, duck and chicken. Plus it's got a swear in it.

I never want to hear [about] the following again:

* Joe The Plumber
* Joe Sixpack
* Ashley Todd
* Karl Rove
* Ann Coulter
* Rush Limbaugh
* Sarah Palin (NOT KIDDING.)
* Keith Olbermann and/or Chris Matthews (you heard me correctly)
* Bill O'Reilley
* Anyone who thinks it's a cool idea for Alaska to secede from the U.S.
* Bristol Palin. Because really, she's got enough problems.
* Any child with the last name Palin
* Jesse Jackson (sorry, but I think you've said enough, sir)
* Bin Laden, until you tell me he's dead and can confirm it.
* John Edwards
* His girlfriend
* Chocolate Skittles

I think that'll be fine for now.

Featuring Bounder and Jake the Arson Dog!

I got to spend my Saturday with my family and friends of the family, and not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR labrador retrievers, dogs who I love for many reasons. First, I love all dogs, but especially dogs big enough to take me down if they get the notion. Labs can definitely do that. Second, they retrieve. It is their job, they are good at it, and they take it seriously. Third, they come in an assortment of colors, one of which is bound to match your decor. And last, they run the gamut from exceptionally intelligent to not at all, really. It's important to remember, though: however dumb you think a lab may be, he or she is much smarter than you think. Much smarter.
We learned this yesterday with help from Bounder, who is a black lab who belongs to family friends Eddie and Jan, and who is very friendly but gives the impression of being of fairly average intelligence. This is a trick. Bounder is a genius.

A grand total of eleven humans returned to my aunt's house after shopping at kind of a craft and food market run by mennonites near where my aunt lives. So we came home with fruits and veggies and knitted stuff and baked goods and cheese and all kinds of things, among which were two dozen cinnamon sticky buns. With the humans homes, the four dogs were released and allowed back into general population to sniff the people and each other and get overly excited that we'd all come back after two agonizing hours of confusion. Concerned more about her human guests than the cunning plots of sugar-crazed dogs, my aunt put down the bag with the cinnamon buns and went to get drinks for people.

In the approximately seven minutes between putting the bag down and returning to the den, the unthinkable happened. Actually, you already know what happened. Bounder happened.

Bounder's enthusiastic nom-nomming of the cinnamon sticky buns only came to a halt when my aunt discovered him happily munching his way through the second dozen.

"Oh my God!" she yelled. "BOUNDER!"

Bounder succeeded in looking properly guilty for a little while. But honestly, what did he care? He'd just had eighteen cinnamon buns. And I bet they were great.

And so it happened that Jake, who is also a black lab and enjoys taking himself for walks whenever he feels like it, was re-installed as the canine voice of reason for the day, despite the fact that he had already that morning, taken himself on a walk. Sorry, buddy. If you wanted to keep the title, you should have eaten someone's breakfast. All of it.

Jake is probably a genius, too. He's very calm and reasonable, and he knows how to work the stove. This is a pretty hefty accomplishment, when you think about it, for a guy with out any opposable thumbs. But yes, as a teenager, Jake succeeded in turning on the gas stove at my aunt and uncle's home in Connecticut. More impressive still was that the house didn't just fill up with gas, because he managed to get the thing lit. Even more impressive was the fact that a wooden cutting board was sitting on the burner, and Jake managed to get that lit, too. And here's the proof that he's a genius: when he saw that he'd managed to start a kitchen fire, HE LEFT THE HOUSE. Didn't call 911 or anything, just saw what he did, probably thought, "uh-oh!" and left the house.

Because who would believe that a dog had started a fire by accident? Or at all, actually?

Confusing the parentage of the promising young minds of tomorrow...today!

Much like comic strip artist Bill Watterson, I have long suspected that it must be a great temptation to misuse ones parental authority for the purpose of personal jokes. And I'm sure people do. I mean, hey, let's face it: there are parents out there who use their little ones as vessels of hatred. I've seen those Jerry Springer specials, when I was in college, featuring little white supremacist children talking about how much they hate anyone who isn't white, or for that matter, just like them.

A great man named Homer J. Simpson once noted, "Kids are the best. You can teach them to hate the things you hate." And he's right. You totally can. But I wondered recently, as I watched two little kids get off the school bus and go into their house, with a McCain-Palin sign on the lawn, what if someone manipulated the data? And by someone, I mean me.

First I would have to ask the kids if they know who G. Gordon Liddy is. Then I would tell them that they should immediately go inside and tell their parents that they heard that John McCain thinks that G. Gordon Liddy is just the awesomest, and that's because John McCain is actually Richard Nixon. (By the way, I do not actually believe John McCain is Richard Nixon. That would be like believing people and dinosaurs existed at the same time: idiotic, and against all facts.)

And when their parents ask them where they heard that, I would tell them they should say "Fox News." Or Ann Coulter. Whichever. Both.

The next step would be to do this however many times I saw a little kid near a McCain sign. Then I would be famous. And sued.

Further ganks from facebook: on zombies.

Thanks to all who have weighed in on my Resident Evil/Silent Hill question. Please keep responses and theories coming. I consider this research.

So can we talk about zombies for a second? I'm actually scared of them, or at least at what a zombie apocalypse would entail. I almost entirely blame Edgar Wright for this, since I don't remember being so concerned about it before seeing "Shaun of the Dead."

Well, Emily brought up preparation over trepidation today on twitter with this site:

http://www.uncrate.com/men/style/tees-polos/prepare-tshirts/

Notice how the ZOMBIE shirt is more expensive than the robot shirt. Why is that? It's obviously because we should be more worried about zombies than the killer robots. And I am. Much more worried. So should you be.

Says who? Says me, and also says a bunch of people here http://www.zombiesurvivalwiki.com/

I searched out this site and visited it out of curiosity. From looking through it a bit, however, I am fairly convinced that some people are quite serious about zombie emergency preparedness, and have given it a lot more thought than other matters, such as who they're going to vote for in the next presidential election. I am very unprepared by these folks' standards. I do not have a go bag prepared, nor do I own any firearms (I don't think that softair pistol counts) or even a cricket bat. I have been meaning to get one. Maybe eBay?

Many of these very prepared people are 100% certain that they could survive a zombie apocalypse, and not have a lot of trouble negotiating the challenges that go with it. I think they should think it through a little more deeply. Just using Edgar Wright's offending film as a benchmark, consider this: popping stranger-zombies, even your asshole flatmate is one thing. But what if you had to deal with your zombified mom?

At present, I do wish to state that I agree with Steven's assessment of the current zombie situation. Zombies do not exist. To that, I will add the following: That we know of! Yet!

P.S. Yes. You can get cricket bats on eBay.

Ganked offa facebook: The scariness continuum continues.

Since we're in the midst of a recession right now, I think it's as good a time as any to discuss the following scary issue: what's scarier: Silent Hill or Resident Evil? I mean conceptually.

I really, really hope people respond to this query, because I want to know what youse guys think. Partially because I don't even know what I think.

My first inclination would be to say, well, obviously, Silent Hill, because you can't even name "it," you don't know what "it" is. You just know that it can get you, and there don't seem to be a lot of rules that apply to it. It bends time-space to its will. Even if the "it" or Resident Evil is complex and scientifically advanced at least you can name it. It's the T-virus. You can study it. It has rules. It can mutate, but it can't punch holes in walls and make something from nothing and invent space that wasn't there before. It is concrete and solid. Moreover, it *does not quite possible exist entirely inside one's own mind, only to destroy one from the inside out.*

But then again, because the T-virus IS concrete and DOES have rules, such as zombies with superhuman strength and stamina, and can be proven to actually exist and not be merely a manifestation of someone's guilt or rage or whatever, it *can actually kill you* and not potentially merely drive you to the brink of insanity, or past the brink of insanity.

Further, after a long time of playing Silent Hill, I have been thankful that I was not armed, because every noise behind me made me want to pull a weapon and unload. This does not happen when I play RE.

However, I am afraid of zombies, but not the descending darkness of an ancient evil. Not so much, anyway.

Please cast your vote.

I HATE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I HATE YOU! I LOVE YOU! (and so forth)

My folks are in Remsen doing a craft show (my dad does stained glass and is brilliant at it) and so they called early this afternoon to let me know how it was going with them. Small problem: sometime between yesterday and today at noon, my cell phone ceased to work at its full capacity. For instance, suppose you were to call me and try to have a conversation with me. I can hear you, but you cannot hear me. Unless I shout, which is how I talked to my dad.

And then later, Libby, when she called to see if we were still going out later. And to give her my land line number.

Then I ran an experiment, where I put my started up "No Sugar Tonight/New Mother Nature" on iTunes, dialed my house, put my phone down on my laptop. Then I shut the door to my room and went to go answer the house phone downstairs. It was highly scientific, featured classic rock, and proved that my cell phone has been rendered crap in just over a month.

I am irritated. Now I have to go to the cell phone joint and find out what gives. I love my cell phone company, too! God, I am so pissed at them. Always something, innit?



She's gettin' us all. She's gettin us all...

...Gently down the stream...

Today I felt like shite and left work halfway through the day. While I find spending the day abed usually makes me feel a little better, it doesn't exactly do wonders towards helping my brain which I cannot turn off. Some of the stuff I think of is too bleak to repeat in any kind of company that doesn't cost me $90 per hour (rim shot) (maybe) but some of it is actually sort of interesting.

There is one entertaining thing about having a brain that won't shut off, which is that you can usually trace any one random thought's origin back to something completely unrelated. Once when I was about a junior in college, I found myself laying awake at night thinking about matadors. I wondered how I had gotten there, so (partially in an effort to bore myself to sleep) I traced the thought backward through to where the process had begun. And somehow it went back to "The Simpsons." I don't know why.

It occurs to me that even if I solved all the problems I have at this moment, like most people, I would probably just manufacture more. Like I would decide that I was too fat or too thin or that my boobs weren't big enough or something like that. See? I still have actual problems, and I'm already trying to fabricate new ones.

It occurs to me--as I've been taking in and deeply absorbing "Spaced" like grape juice or a summer breeze--that if the United States had never declared its independence from Great Britain, we would not be so entertained by British comedy. And Lara Croft wouldn't be nearly so cool.

It occurs to me that, as a woman, to play Resident Evil 3 BEFORE you play the original is to eventually be horrified by what Jill Valentine once was. (A flake.)

I really enjoy eyeliner.

Most continuums of humor or scariness are relative.

Summer ends when school starts. Whether you go back or not.

I can't believe those Kashi crackers aren't higher in fiber.

Empire apples are almost back in season.

Time whips by when you're thinking...

Oh thank god, part I. (Or, 7 things about me.)

1. I always kind of wanted to be a cheerleader. That's why it's my #1 Halloween costume!

2. I enjoy doing voices and am considered by many to be fairly good at it.

3. It's quite possible that I am incapable of turning my brain off.

4. I have attention deficit disorder. (Seriously.)

5. In college, I changed my major from psychology to English Writing, despite the fact that such a degree has no practical application, as far as I can tell.

6. I once had a job as a bartender for two weeks. I saved my tips and bought a turntable.

7. The best job I ever had was also the lowest paying, relatively speaking. (Minimum wage at the bookstore in college.)

If you read it, you're tagged, mate.

Oh dear lord, part II.

...Though I guess they'll need to be longer than one line to make any difference at all. All right. Maybe something interesting will happen to me when I go downstairs to do THIS particular load of laundry. Results to follow. Stay tuned.

Oh dear lord.

I am going to write eight blogs a day if I have to in order to shove that catastrophic picture offa page one. Yeek.

Picture meme from Emily H. M.

Take a picture of yourself right now.
Don't change your clothes, don’t fix your hair...just take a picture.
Post that picture with NO editing.
Post these instructions with your picture.


Post-gym, late-night yikesness.

People LIKE my cookies. And my knitting.

I was having lunch today with Libby, and it came up that I knit. (Actually, it came up that I fell asleep Thursday night whilst knitting and watching Futurama. And that I said something about it at work Friday and got funny looks from a couple of my pharmacists. And then I said, "I'm never getting married, am I?")

"So what's up with the knitting?" Libby said.

"Well, I knit, you know," I told her. "Because I like to."

My mother taught me to knit a looong time ago, then re-taught me when I was about 19 or 20, and there's pretty much been no stopping me since. It makes me feel zenny. Creating fabric from string. I also like it because I don't think a lot of women my age do it, though a lady who runs a yarn shop near me told me not too long ago "it's making a comeback!" and I have no reason to doubt her. She's the expert! I imagine she can conjure up items with ease out of her brain that I would struggle to run up from a pattern.

I get such interesting reactions when I knit (or even mention knitting) in public, and even in private. The neutral "what's up the knitting?" of Libby, the "awwwww, you're knitting!" of my bestie and former roommate, Amanda, and the uninterpretable "I can't believe you made that" of some guy I used to work with.

So yeah. I knit. It rules. You can do it while you watch Futurama, or the news, or "Hot Fuzz," or while you listen to music, or books on tape, or while engaging in a stimulating conversation.

My work-cookies went over well at work. I made a lot of them, but of course, not enough. It doesn't matter how polite and dainty and restrained people are in their day to day...free food makes everyone hungrier. Next time, I make double. No question. Good to know those oatmeal craisin jobbers are still popular.

And ALWAYS, ALWAYS let the butter warm up to room temperature. If you don't, you only do a disservice to yourself.

Christine's secret naked journal--an addendum. And cookies.

I've decided this blog need nudity, so here comes some: I just got home from the gym, so I am about to go take a shower, for which I plan to not wear clothes. It's a brand new concept. WOO! NUDITY!

Also, on the topic of sorting my life out (like Shaun): if Peter Serafinowicz was in my non-blog journal, there would probably be more sex, or at the very least nudity, since Pete, even though he is a zombie, is naked for the better part of the movie. But I still don't think I want to have anything to do with zombies. In fact, a long time ago, I wrote a blog about how uncool zombies are, particularly the naked ones! In fact, let's just forget I brought up the zed-word at all. In fact, let's move on to a new topic.

I'm going back to work tomorrow, and I am PREPARED, with my lunch ready to go, and TWO KINDS OF COOKIES for my new/old coworkers. They never even knew I was a hella baker. Well, soon they will. They get chocolate chip and oatmeal craisin cookies. I get yogurt, an apple, Kashi TLC crackers and Shredded Wheat with strawberries. Who's clearly getting the better deal here? That's right: the people getting the free cookies. They're good. I checked.

In closing, fall has begun to fall, but I am not closing my bedroom window. It is just not that cold, and the equinox has not yet arrived. Even that might not be enough to convince me. Do your worst, nature! I have copious blankies!

Christine's secret public journal.

Aside from my blog, I've been writing in a journal again. When I do that, I'm not trying to be clever or anything, because I don't feel like I have to impress anyone. Because really, who's going to see it? Me. And, like, I guess if someone stole it from me, they would see it, at which point they would quickly be sorry, because it would be DULL. There wouldn't be a lot of naked parts or anything (probably) and there wouldn't be any opium dens or famous people or meetings of fight club or even bar brawls. There would be stuff like: knitting, and me going to the gym and talking to my mom, or Al, or Amanda. Or me going and having lunch with W.L., or talking on Twitter with Emily, or going to Barnes and Noble, or analyzing humor with Bruce or eating hummus sandwiches with sprouts on whole wheat pita bread, and talking about how Al Gore is so smart and trying to sort my life out like Shaun, only without zombies or Peter Serafinowicz. (Too bad. Although he was eventually a zombie as well. Also too bad.)

I really like my new journal, which I write in with pencil, an old habit of mine that I've resurrected. I think it'll be pretty much perfect once I put one of my Apple logo stickers in it somewhere. A couple of my entries have been the lyrics of songs, which got me to thinking. I wish there was a way to have a journal--the same compact, portable form--where you could not only write stuff, but add tunes and pics as you saw fit, and have it all wrapped up in a neat little package.

You know what? They have that. It's called a laptop, smart kid. You're sitting in it. Duh.

Sometimes I feel good and am relatively sure I'm with it and will be okay. Other times, however...life grabs me by the hair, kicks me and makes me feel like Kelso from "That 70s Show."

I think it's perfectly clear we've got the wrong Palin...

I was reading Avi's brilliant "Pirates of Penzance" blog the other day, enjoying the "modern major general" parody in the extreme, laughing like a psychotic robot, etc. So I went back to reread it today--just now in fact--and as I was skimming the intro, I got to the word "Palin" and I immediately thought "Michael."

And THEN I thought, "WOW! This song WOULD be great if Michael Palin sang it! With a chorus of...well, anyone, really! I LOVE Michael Palin! I LOVE Monty Python! I really need to watch "Life of Brian" again! I should buy that "Holy Grail" DVD with the two extra minutes of material or whatever! I wonder if I can get the "Holy Grail" video game for Mac! I...oh wait a minute."

And then it dawned on me.

Wrong Palin.

There's another Palin.

Ooooog.

Oh, Michael Palin.

Save me.

And my banjo.

And Fry.

And yourself, I guess.

Just so we are all up to speed here

I moved again. This time, back to Syracuse, which means I will be going back to work for Kinney. And yes, it also means that school has been put on hold. For those interested, I am still enrolled at RW, I just got a deferment until January. And as far as school goes right now, that's about all I know.

Other things I know include the following:

I am not entirely happy, but I am not abysmally unhappy either.

I love my friends, as Jodi would say, like WOAH.

I love my family and I am incredibly grateful for them.

I am also grateful for the people in my life who can make me smile regardless of time and place. I think you guys know who you are. I've probably cried in front of you.

I know that there's a mess of stuff I don't know.

I know that there are a lot of things that strike me as REALLY REALLY REALLY important, and I know that I'm not sure which of them is for me to chase as a career or a calling.

I know that burning bridges is dumb, and I will avoid doing it. Ever. EV. AR.

Really.

MAPS LIE. (Oh wait. No they don't.)

So I have moved. I did it yesterday, with the help of, essentially, my entire family, save for the members who live NOT in New York State. In the approximately 24 hours since I was left alone in my airy and spacious one-bedroom apartment, I have learned a few things about myself.

1) I do not do well without an actual bed. (Mine comes Tuesday.)
2) I do not do well without the internet. (Mine comes Thursday; I am coming to you live from the computer room of the laundry facility of my complex.)
3) I don't know north from south, or possibly a hole in the ground, or possibly a bagel.

Last night I spoke with my dad on the phone when my parents got home, confirming that they had arrived home safely. During this conversation, I told him I planned to go to Target today. Leaping into action, he located, via internet, the Target nearest me, and with our identical maps of the area, we figured out how to get there. At least he did. I figured out how to get somewhere else. Because it is IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO ACCEPT THAT TO GO EAST, ONE DOES NOT NECESSARILY MAKE A RIGHT TURN. I.e., north is not always straight ahead.

Today, however, to go to Target, I took north as straight ahead, and east as right, and proceeded to drive for a REALLY LONG TIME. Then I thought to myself, "wow. Maps lie. This is WAY more than an inch before this turn to the north (or left from my perspective.)"

It's a good thing I brought the map. Because I pulled over and ascertained that there was absolutely NO reason for me to have passed my college along the way. None at all. So I went back in the opposite direction.

And it *was* like an inch. And then there was Target. How about that.

BAD. MESSAGE.

Well I saw on the cover of US WEEKLY that Jennifer Love Hewitt has lost 18 pounds in 10 weeks. That's great. How did she accomplish such an incredible feat? With diet and exercise, I imagine, as a loss of 1.5 to 2 pounds weekly is considered healthy weight loss. So at first I would say "good for you, Jennifer," for losing weight like a civilian instead of a movie star.

But then it occurred to me that a few month back, there was a big hoohah about how "fat" she was (which she most certainly was not) to which she responded by saying a) no, I am not fat, thanks, and b) the fact that you say I *am* is what contributes to normal girls having horrific body images, so shut the fuck up.

I'm not a big fan of JLH, but I was really impressed with her going to bat for her own self and saying what she did say. Now I am considerably less impressed, since I don't think that losing weight is the act of someone who believes they are not fat. And even if someone who doesn't think they are fat does lose weight, they sure as shit don't go on the cover of US WEEKLY about it.

The Funk

I've re-gotten into funk music lately, because I think it has a lot of feeling to it and because it makes me want to dance whenever I hear it. This happened as a result of listening to a CD that one of my pharmacists lent me like a year ago after discovering he and I had "identical" taste in music. (This turned out to not be true, btw. Because he loves the band Rush beyond fucking reason. Sorry, charlie, but I cannot get in on that.)

Anyway, Bruce lent me this CD, and included on it was a whole bunch of what I would deem "disco" but which I believe is more correctly called "funk." So I am totally soaking it up, having transfered a whole mess of it to my iPod.

So then Amanda gets a new cell phone, which is a third generation LG Chocolate, a phone that not only looks awesome but comes with about a skillion excellent ringtones, one of which sounds like a car chase scene from Shaft. I laughed uproariously when I heard this ringtone, and I think because of that, Amanda used it for about a week, referring to it the entire time as "the funk." In fact, when it would ring while we were engrossed in conversation, she would politely excuse herself by saying, "pardon me for just a moment. I believe Shaft is calling me."

Today we were working on packing up the contents of our apartment, since we're both moving in like a week, and Amanda had gone downstairs to try to wrangle a lamp into her car. I, meanwhile, am putting empties from our wine cabinet into a box for recycling, and reassuring myself it *has actually taken us quite a while* to drink it all, when I hear Amanda's Isaac Hayes-sounding ringtone start up in her room.

I do not know why it struck me as so important, but I ran in there, unplugged the phone from the charger and ran into the hall, down the stairs and toward the front door yelling "THE FUNK! THE FUNK!"

It wasn't Shaft, by the way. It was her dad.

Perhaps it all begs for a cast of characters...

It occurs to me...well, two things.
First, that I like technology. It allows me to write and to talk about myself for absolutely no good reason. Both those things are fun. Also, it allows me to keep in close touch with people who live in parts nearly unknown without getting up off my...chair. Like I can say, "oh, I was having this conversation with Emily the other day, and blah blah blah, we were discussing zombies."

Here are the pertinent facts that are left out that sentence:

1) I have not actually seen Emily, face to face, in over a year.
2) Emily lives in Colorado.
3) This conversation was taking place over a matter of hours on Twitter, and
4) Much of this conversation consisted of trading zombie-related websites.

This is to say NOTHING of the fact that we're two 28-year-old women discussing ZOMBIES. That is to say nothing of the fact that my roommate and I (two more 28-year-old women) have ALSO recently had in-depth conversations over which we were more concerned about: zombies, vampires, killer robots or werewolves. And we were not really kidding. I mean I considered making a flip chart.

So the second thing that occurs to me is that technology is perhaps dishonest. Or at least discussing it is. Or at least the way in which I was just discussing it is. Look:

Me: Oh, I was having this conversation with Emily--
Someone Else: Oh, Emily who?
Me: Emily [Her Last Name]. My friend who lives in Colorado.
Someone Else: Oh, when did you see her?
Me: I didn't "see" her--
Someone Else: Then you talked to her on the phone?
Me: (very quietly) No...
Someone Else: Were you on AIM?
Me: (extremely quietly) No...
Someone Else: So how did you talk to her?
Me: (inaudible)
Someone Else: WHAT?
Me: Twitter.
Someone Else: TWITTER?!
Me: Yep.
Someone Else: You should probably get a life.

If it's not dishonest, it comes down to the following: I may be a dork.

And an update on the outcome of the pre-req.

I was just noticing that in an earlier blog, I mentioned a prerequisite course I needed to take this summer to be officially admitted into my grad program. And I never elaborated any further on that.

It was an elementary statistics class, two nights a week for five weeks. I was freaked out because I consider myself "bad at math," although that's not necessarily accurate.

And now it's extremely not accurate. I got an A. So, I did that, then I got to go to Martha's Vineyard with my parents for a week and drink a bunch of wine. It was pretty great.

When is the appropriate time...?

**This is from my old blog, too, dated 2/16/08. These dates are actually extremely telling! But that's a story for later, I guess...**

Eventually, you have to stop being mad about things. Staying mad forever isn't healthy. But if you stop too quickly, I'm not sure that's healthy, either.
Today I was talking to my mom, who is 60 years old and very smart, and has been through a great deal in her life, and she fairly offhandedly mentioned something she's still pretty cheesed about. It happened about three months ago, and I maintained that, given the circumstances that (reasonably) closely surrounded the event, she should drop it. She said she could not do that, because it was very hurtful to her. I pointed out that hanging on to anger is a drain on her, and (call me a hippie if you want) it's just putting bad energy in the world. She said no, the anger is not draining because she doesn't think about it or particularly ever "feel" it, and she honestly does not send out bad"vibes" toward the people responsible for her hurt.

Okay. Hint taken. Shut up, Christine.

So, is three months too long to hang on to anger, even anger you're not "feeling," really? And wait a minute! If you're angry, aren't you feeling anger? Isn't that sort of a given? Doesn't being angry entail--DIRECTLY--feeling anger? I'm pretty sure it does...
What about people who suffer harrowing or at least semi-harrowing ends to relationships and proceed to hate the other person forever? That's bad, right? What about people who lose relatives to violent crime, then have the incredible wherewithall to forgive the criminal? You look at that and then you feel like a total bitch for wondering how long you can realistically stay mad at your boss for making you come in on a Sunday. How long can you stay mad at a friend who takes their own life? That's pretty hefty compared to, how long can you stay mad at Revlon for discontinuing the lipstick you like? How long can you stay mad at yourself? For anything?

Are there actually any rules? When is the appropriate time to cut the bullshit? Is the appropriate time ever "never"?

Thank God for the Dalai Lama, because I think he may be the only guy who can get his head around all this stuff.

If someone said three years from now...

**This was originally posted in my old blog September 13, 2007. Hence, the inaccurate age compared to now. I don't know. I kinda like it**

This time three years ago I was 24. That seems so young. The saner of you might point out that 27 isn't so old, and you'd be right. It feels older by leaps and bounds, though. There's so much I've done since then. So many stories written as a reporter in Smalltown, USA. So many people I've met between there and here. So many views changed forever.
People say that kids are impressionable and adaptable, and they're lucky because they have no preconceived notions about other people. If a little four year old white boy sees a little four year old black girl across a playground of bigger and smaller kids, he doesn't see sex or race, he sees another little person very much like him. Someone to play with, who probably likes the same things he does.
I feel like I'm more impressionable by the day, and I'm more open minded by the minute. A second childhood? A midlife crisis? I hope not.
Not so long ago I was supposed to get married. Now that I consider it, it was about three years ago. It didn't actually happen (and probably for the best) but it makes me think. Where would I be had I taken the plunge? Still married, with kids, doing the work I'm doing now? At home with the kids, knitting and baking cookies? A hugely successful writer, though unable to have children of my own? Divorced with kids? Without? Some combination of all this stuff?
I don't know. I'll never know. You can't ever see what the bigger picture would be, because without all the elements in place, that picture changes. What kind of painting would Starry Night be if not for that village? If it weren't night? If the sky weren't so clear.
Things change and shift every day. I joke often about the cosmic sense, saying that if you take the broad view, I'm early for work, late for work, done ahead of schedule, running behind, old, young, just born and almost dead all at once. A silly way to look at things, but when time is overwhelming and experience seems almost too vast...it takes the edge off.

A complete list of who is great

It's really hard to compile a list of who all is great, because it seems like every day, you're reminded of someone who is, or someone new who is pops up on your radar. Like, I totally forgot about the cast of "WKRP in Cincinnati" for a while, and they're all great. So in April, if I'd tried to make a list of who is great, though I probably would have remembered Howard Hesseman, because he's in "Clue," and probably Tim Reid, because he was on "That 70s Show," I might have forgotten some others. In brief, an incomplete list.

Also, until the other day, I didn't know about the show "Clean House," so I wouldn't have been able to put the cast of that on a list of who is great. So while there are people who you'll remember, like Anderson Cooper or Mark McKinney or Rick Moranis or Bruce Dern or whoever, there will be names that just escape you. Like just now, I remembered Dave Barry. Dave Barry! How the hell did that get away from me?! Also, Michael Hedges. That guy was awesome! Rhea Perlman... Christopher Cross... Marc Chagall....

You see what I'm saying? You don't hear from people for a while, and they always pop up in your brain with a ton of frequency. So it's a difficult list to make. And... there's no accounting for taste.

That's great. It's starts with an earthquake...

First I want to start by saying that I am feeling FANTASTIC. No joke. I could actually not be better right now. So despite the fatalistic tone of my title, I am happy to announce that I am in a great mood and have been for at least a week. I am on vacation, done with my summer class in statistics (in which I earned myself a big, giant A, thanks very much!) and am therefore OFFICIALLY enrolled at Roberts Wesleyan College come this fall in the Masters of Social Work program. Also, in one month and three days, I will be completing my final shift in at Kinney HealthDirect and shortly thereafter moving to Rochester. I ditched PCs for Mac and it's made my life better.

In the vein, however, of my fatalistic title, is this: Jesse Helms is dead (not that I'm too worked up) and Rev. Billy Graham wrote some blah blah about, essentially, what a great guy he was. Far be it from me to criticize the words of a guy who has made his living being a man of God, and I know a whole lot more people care what Billy Graham has to say than what I have to say, but Jesse Helms was not a great guy. Maybe he was wicked nice to his wife, kids and grandkids (doubt it) but he was also a bigot and homophobe. How you treat your family is great and everything, but true character is judged by how you interact with strangers and what you do when you're NOT posing for a photo op, there, chuckles. Okay? In my estimation, it's even got little to do with whether you believe in God and which version you believe in if you do. There's a simple guideline that pops up in virtually every single society and form of spirituality: do not treat people like crap. Period. This includes the waitstaff, the maid, people who are a different color than you, people who are a different orientation than you, even people who you just don't like. You treat everyone with AT LEAST courtesy. AT LEAST. Not because you expect a reward. Because it's the correct thing to do. Period. 

And frankly, I would love to hear from Andy Cooper on this one, but he's too busy working on stuff that actually matters, like what's going down in Zimbabwe. 

The Inevitable (AKA, I am old) (AKA, I love Birbigs)

I do not understand why people hasten the inevitable. For instance, I know two men who consistently lie upward about their age. One in my trainer, who always makes himself a year older, and the other is one of my pharmacists who makes himself 50, even though he isn't yet, and could easily pass for being about 40.

Whenever Al, my trainer, says he's 54, I say, "Al, why do you hasten the inevitable? You're 53." And Al says, "Yeah, I know. What's the difference?"

Whenever Bruce, my pharmacist, says he's 50, I say, "No you're not, you dork! Why do you insist on saying that? You're not even 49!" And Bruce says, "Yeah, I know. But what's the difference?"

What's the difference?! I am sure not the person to ask! I *freaked out* when I turned 27! I actually thought, "Well, what's a good lie? How old can I say I am, but still be, like, a grownup, and have my timeline of work experience not be suspect?" I think I settled on 24, but it was a moot point, because nobody asked me once, in 12 months, how old I was. Then I turned 28 and stopped giving a shit. Because I'm NOT old. I guess.

I was leaving my apartment the other day with my roommate, and at the last minute, I shot back in because I wanted to grab this CD I just bought. Amanda said, "Oh, what CD is it?"

I said, "It's that guy I was telling you about that I LOVE, Mike Birbiglia!"

"Oh yeah!" she said.

"Oh man, he is so freakin' awesome, " I said, engaging in my new favorite pastime, aside from talking about how awesome Seth Green is and how awesome Beck is, which is talking about how awesome Birbigs is. "He's like wicked young. He's our age."

Medium-length pause. Followed by, "Oh."

"What?" I said.

"Well, when you said young..." Amanda said.

"Oh, right," I said. "I forgot. You don't think we're young."

"We're not," said Amanda.

I do not feel quite as comfortable lying about my age now, which I apparently should be doing, see as how I am now old. Again. And what with all the views and stereotypes of the so-called "mature" or "non-traditional" student, which I am due soon to be, I really need to get my ass to work on tricking people. Alas, I think it might not work. Here's why.

Last night I was at a liquor store in Skaneatles and I happened to spy a bottle of the particular kind of dry sherry my dad favors, which I was unable to find around the holidays. Anywhere. I picked it up and took it over to the counter for purchase, whereupon I asked the lady, "Do you know why this stuff is so difficult to find?"

"No, I don't," she said. Which was fine. Almost nobody (myself included) knows anything about sherry, because almost nobody (myself included) drinks it, because it's repulsive.

"Okay, well. I'm glad you have it," I said, and pulled out my wallet, which contains my money and my driver's license.

WHICH SHE DID NOT ASK FOR.

Didn't even bat an eye! Just told me my total and sent my on my merry way with a bottle of alcohol as if to say, "Sure! You look old enough to drink that!"

Well that's true! I do! But I wasn't going to, because it's repulsive, and she didn't have to imply such a thing!

And I didn't even notice that she didn't ID me, until today, when I saw the same item for six dollars cheaper elsewhere, got annoyed about that, and then got annoyed about the other thing.

Hence, the Inevitable.

Seth Green, Beck and Mike Birbiglia are awesome.

I know stuff about drugs

Today I was at work, working (I know that kinda sounds like a gimme, but trust me: unless you're me, or a small, select group of others, it is NOT) when Stephanie, one of the keyers calls my office (read: CAVE) and says, "Hello?"

"Hello!" I say, making an effort to be cheerful despite the fact that I am really in the mood to either crash to the floor or drink a whole urn of coffee.

"Do you have any Tylenol #4 back there?" she says.

"Nope!" I say confidently, because I do not.

"No?" Stephanie says. "Okay. Thanks."

And then she hangs up.

And then it occurs to me that I did not even know there was such a thing as Tylenol #4, or "acetaminophen with quite THAT much codeine!"

There is.

In fact, I didn't even know there was such a thing as Tylenol #1. I guess it stood to reason that there would be, since there's #2 and #3. But all I know about those is that no one ever gets #2 and that #3 has a big "3" on it and comes in really handy if someone takes out all your wisdom teeth. (In my case, there were 3 of them. How interesting...)

In case you were curious, Tylenols #1, 2, 3 and 4 contain, respectively, 1/8, 1/4, 1/2 and 1 grain of codeine.

Also in case you were curious, Platypi have venom in their hind claws and it's possibly that only half of a shark brain sleeps while the other half is awake, and then they switch. And I love Wikipedia. And Target.

-C

The thing is...

Original title: The thing is...
Original date of publication: November 3, 2007*

The thing is, it should have been easier.
Trading empathy for understanding
Understanding for reproach
And reproach for indifference set into motion under the influence
Faded into the background one autumn night.
Volumes of writings, it turns out, can't be set aside
Can't be bonfired away, even when you make me too mad to even tolerate.
Sooner or later, a window opens. Through it, a woman catches a glimpse of a figure
Moving in a crowd. Adapting, shifting, moving forward into the future. His future.
Someone's future, anyway.

My friend, there was no indifference.

Reproach, all right, and a lack of understanding
Of what in the world had happened
Of where one can go so wrong.

She thought of you often, however.
With fondness and with anger
And with hope that you'd put your head on straight.
There are times when we pull the blame all over and around ourselves
Like the blankets on a January morning, and times
When we just cannot get far enough away.
If you ever wondered why…?
If every headline is a love note
And ever letter to the editor an exercise in candor
No need remains to be in any way dishonest.

*As to when exactly I wrote it, I couldn't tell you.

(To the tune of "Saturday Night" by the Bay City Rollers) G-R-A-D-U! A-T-E! SCHOOL!

After weeks and weeks and weeks and weeks (okay, I think it was actually four weeks. Or maybe three) of being touchy and impatient
and breaking out at even the thought of makeup touching my skin,
and getting a canker sore,
and I think an ulcer,
and not being able to sleep,
and kicking stuff
and wondering HOW ON EARTH I COULD HAVE WRITTEN A BETTER FREAKIN' ESSAY (I couldn't have) and WHY I DID NOT WORK HARDER AS AN UNDERGRAD (ummmm...I was a little bit of an idiot then...) AND WHY OH WHY I COULD NOT JUST PLEEEASE GET AN ANSWER TO MY APPLICATION...

I got a call Monday morning from one of my prospective graduate schools telling me that I have been accepted to their MSW program for this fall! YAYYYY!

There is nothing quite as refreshing, following a long spell of crippling self-doubt--you know what, maybe it wasn't exactly "crippling self-doubt." More like...the slowly creeping, greatly disconcerting notion that perhaps you are not quite as smart as you thought you were, or as determined, nor do you necessarily know what you are doing so much. Let's call it, in brief, the sneaking suspicion that you might suck. Anyway, following that, there's nothing quite as refreshing as someone sort of telling you, "No, you were right in the first place. You kind of rule. Come rule here. We feel good about your ruling, and the possibility of you continuing to rule in the future."

The impending work ahead does not freak me out. Not even the stats class I have to take as a pre-req over the summer. I feel really, really positive about this. Super positive. Yeah.

The "Old Person" blogs, part the deuce

Original title: Grown-up/Not a grown-up
Original date of publication: September 18, 2007

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You have conversations with other grown-ups about IRAs and 401-Ks.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*You are secretly pleased when you've made better investment choices than they have, and they have 20 years on you.

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You and your roommate buy a whiteboard to keep on the fridge in order to exchange vital information such as groceries you need and where you can be reached if there's an emergency.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*It immediately becomes home to vital information such as movie quotes and how good kettle chips are. It also serves as "the leaderboard;" a list of who is "on notice" and/or "dead to me."

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You pay NiMo and your landlord on time every month, along with your insurance, credit card bills and student loans.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*With the rest of your hard-earned money, you plan to purchase a Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man.

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*When your shift ends, if your work isn't done, you stay to finish it instead of bolting out the door and hoping you're faster than your boss.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*You gloat almost audibly when you see even ten bucks of overtime on your check.

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You're a stickler for spelling and accuracy.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*When people spell poorly or make silly mistakes, you threaten to "kick their ass for an hour."

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*A good night's sleep becomes more important to you than a fun night out.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*Wine is still more important than...well, a lot of stuff.

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*Yankee Candles fall into the "luxury" category.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*You still keep buying 'em.

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You have intelligent and well-reasoned political opinions.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*You're not above calling the opposing candidate a "dumbass."

How you can tell you're a grown-up:
*You think kids today are not as smart as you were at their age, and are complete wusses.
How you can tell you're not a grown-up:
*You announce frequently that kids today are not as smart as you were at their age, and are complete wusses.

The "Old Person" blogs, part the first...

Original title: How to tell if you're becoming an old person
Original date of publication: April 2, 2007

This morning while I was getting ready for work, I was watching "That 70s Show" on DVD in an effort to both wake myself up and make myself cheery for work. Used to be that Hyde was my favorite character, because he's an evil genius and not as much of an asshole as he pretends to be. (NONE OF US are as much of an asshole as we pretend to be. Some of us are way less of one, some are significantly more!) Plus, if you ignore his scientology leanings and longhaired-ness, Danny Masterson is fairly hot. So there you have that.Then Jackie became my favorite character (and to some degree still is) because of the fact that she tells things like they are, and her eventual emotional growth.But anyway, this morning I found myself thinking that the best character on the show, bar none, from start to finish, is Red. That's right, the hard-ass parent who likes nothing better than to rain on his only son's parade and make life difficult for every person who walks into his house. I even find myself frequently using one of his most inspired quotes, "If it weren't for rules, we'd all just be sitting in trees flinging our crap at each other."Yes, Red. YES WE WOULD.Add that to the fact that I've been considering my budget very carefully these days, watching what I eat and drink, setting up elaborate paramenters for myself and considering my 401-K at LENGTH, and I have come to the conclusion that I'm becoming an old person. I have actually said (and meant!) "That is not music, it's noise/screaming!" I am usually in bed by 11:30. Good grief, I'm dull.But there really are so many dumbasses out there...

Movin' on up to the B-side...

So here is my "blogger" blog, which I am planning to flop my particular favorite myspace blogs
to, in case I actually decided to really and truly quit myspace.

I keep saying I will. I never do.

I imagine myspace is more difficult to quit than some other, more legitimate addiction, such as gambling or crack. Because at least with myspace, it's free and you get something out of it--i.e., remaining in touch with people.

From what I've heard, gambling and crack just cost money, and there's really no benefit.