As you may or may not know, I've been living in the same apartment for the past nine years. For the most part, it's been okay. But certain recent events have led me to question my living situation. You know, the bad kids setting booby traps on my staircase...that whole nation's-largest-meth-lab fiasco...and, yeah, those three bombs. Well, two bombs, I guess. One was only a threat. I suppose a person must have a serious aversion to moving to stay in a place like that. Yep. I was totally preparing to sign another year lease. I admit it. My name is Brooke, and I am addicted to stagnation.
Long story short, Lindsay put her foot down and forced me to leave my alarmingly uncomfortable comfort zone.
So I found a really great, sunny little place in an upscale city much closer to work. My 80/mile a day commute is now 14. There are these things all over my apartment called windows. Hank and Ollie are somewhat frightened of them...but we're adjusting to this daylight phenomenon. Slowly but surely.
The apartment isn't perfect. It was built in 1946, so it definitely has its drawbacks...such as paper thin walls, stubborn window frames, troublesome pipes, ancient phone lines (that have frayed and broken apart), and wild settling noises. This place settles quite a lot, and each time it does, it sounds like a freakin' gunshot. It's enough to wake you out of a dead sleep. But, hey, that's better than a bomb detonation any day, especially considering the fact that it only sounds like a gunshot.
The biggest issue I have here is my assigned parking space. It's dinky. And there's a wooden beam on one side. And there's a Jeep Grand Cherokee on the other side. And Big Red is not a compact car. If it were, I would have named it Compact Red. It's not like me to be imprecise.
The first time I pulled in next to that Jeep, I tried my best to stay as far to the left as I could. Even so, there was barely an inch between us. The poor guy must have climbed in his passenger side to get in, whoever he is.
So, about those troublesome pipes. They clog up. Badly. I had to have a plumber come out after one week of residence (only because I didn't have time to handle it on my first day of residence). Naturally, he brought along a trainee, and they parked their van in the No Parking zone behind my space. So, of course, I decided to try to slip past them into my spot. And I scraped the rear driver's door of the Jeep. Dammit!
You know Big Red. Right as rain. But the Jeep was not so hardy. After I endured the plumber and his student laughing their asses off and pointing at me, we went upstairs where they got to work scratching the hell out of my bathtub, and I wrote an apology note with my insurance information attached. And since I don't know who this person even is, I had to address it, "Dear Jeep Owner."
Though I filed a claim right away, I still felt terrible about my actions. I never should have attempted to fit into that postage stamp-sized space when it was partially blocked. That was a boneheaded move. I wanted to do something more. So, I went out to get a Starbucks card and a apology greeting card. Katie, my favorite colleague and close friend, came with me.
Obviously, I felt bad and had a serious reason for card-shopping. I wanted to send just the right message. But hilarity ensued when Katie and I finally found the apology section. We would pick out a card to read aloud, adding "Dear Jeep Owner" to the beginning. Turns out, CVS has a woefully small apology card selection and, what it does have, seems rather intimate for such an occasion. I felt like a cheating husband just reading these detailed remorseful lines. Of course, I don't remember any of them verbatim, but most of them went something like this:
Dear Jeep Owner,
No words can possibly express my sorrow. I never meant to hurt you. It's the last thing I'd ever want to do. You are such an important part of my life. I don't know what I'd do without you. I messed up. And I have to live with that. Day and night, I think about what I've done, and I am so sorry. I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me. I care about you more than I can say. Without you, my life will never be complete. Etc., etc., etc.
We started to think that, just maybe, these cards didn't send quite the message I was shooting for. I chose something blank from my mom's stationary set.
And finally, after days of waiting and worrying, Jeep Owner called me. And he was so nice. I had been hoping for a chance to apologize for victimizing his Jeep, but, every time I said how sorry I felt, he defended me by stating that the spaces are way too small, the wooden beams are intimidating, the No Parking zone is always occupied. Apparently, the person who parked in my spot before me also had a larger vehicle, and Jeep Owner had to climb in his passenger side door every single day. So, actually, a minor car accident is an improvement. Who knew?
So, all in all, I'm very pleased with my (Lindsay's) decision to move. It was the right thing to do. My new place is lovely, it's perfectly located, and all of my neighbors are delightful...and childless.
I'm glad I scratched that nine-year itch. Now, if I ever find myself in a romantic relationship and am tempted to scratch the fabled seven-year itch, I know where to find the perfect apology card.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
I brought my cats to a sunny place full of windows and even a screened back door, and they spend 95% of their time lying in the small, dark space between my bed and the wall. Or, even better, under my bed. I get that they're unfamiliar with this whole natural light deal, but come on!
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Friday, January 27, 2012
Wait. It's 2012?
Soooo...I hope these past four months have treated you kindly. It's 2012 now -- the year the world ends. Except that it better not end. Not until I have a chance to enjoy the fifth installment of the iconic Die Hard franchise. A Good Day to Die Hard, set to release in 2013. Yippee-ki-yay, melonfarmer! (Props to the TBS network for the most creative dubbing of all time.)
And then, of course, my one and only life goal is to purchase a 2014, 50th anniversary Mustang. In red, naturally. I'd like at least a year to enjoy it. Therefore, I propose that we postpone Armageddon until, say, 2016. Sound good?
Switching gears...
Several months ago, I read a somewhat fascinating article. Scientists conducted a study and discovered that brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand builds new pathways and connections in your brain. So, obviously, I tried this...with disastrous results. But I did learn something valuable. Are you ready for this? There is what appears to be a tiny magnifying glass in the handle of my new toothbrush. No joke. I took it into the living room and tried it out on a library book. Works like a charm! I'm not certain this will ever come in handy, though. I spent quite some time pondering it. I imagined myself (in great detail, but thinner) rifling through the dewey decimal cards and pulling out my special magnifying toothbrush to aid me in my search. But I did so with stealth...because imaginary me was slightly embarrassed by the situation.
Then, imaginary me was on a hike in the wilderness and bent down with the magnifying toothbrush to identify an impossibly tiny new breed of insect. But who wants their toothbrush that close to vermin? The only realistic scenario I could come up with was a case in which I may need to read the small print on the toothpaste tube. But...damn my 20/20 vision! Hopefully, some poor soul out there can get some use out of this toothbrush/magnifying glass (probably accidental) invention. Someone a little less eagle-eyed.
The weirdest thing about this (and yes, even I think this is weird) is that, while the magnifying glass works with uncanny precision, the actual brush portion is disappointing. Perhaps Oral B should consider diversifying their product line. Just a thought.
It's always nice to discover a dual purpose for a household item, though. Am I right?
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
I have a serious issue with drivers who park their cars in my designated carport space. Just the other night, my next door neighbor lost her mind and parked two spaces over in my spot. Of course, I didn't know she was my neighbor. I had no idea whose car it was. No, I had to wait 20 minutes for security to show up with their trusty tome of bar codes so they could look her up. Then, when their incessant knocking finally got her out of bed, she refused to move her car to the proper spot, arguing that she shouldn't have to be inconvenienced in the middle of the night. Never mind how inconvenienced I was! I have to commend the guard, though. He told her that if she didn't get down there and move her car within five minutes, he'd have her towed. The main reason this is so terribly unforgivable is that the guy who parks in the space next to mine wraps up his brand new Camaro in a huge, billowy car cover every night. It's like a Cirque du Soleil performance tent. Impossible to overlook. I mean, I'm all for not paying attention to stuff, but it's usually a good idea to watch where you're going when you're, you know, BEHIND THE WHEEL!
And then, of course, my one and only life goal is to purchase a 2014, 50th anniversary Mustang. In red, naturally. I'd like at least a year to enjoy it. Therefore, I propose that we postpone Armageddon until, say, 2016. Sound good?
Switching gears...
Several months ago, I read a somewhat fascinating article. Scientists conducted a study and discovered that brushing your teeth with your non-dominant hand builds new pathways and connections in your brain. So, obviously, I tried this...with disastrous results. But I did learn something valuable. Are you ready for this? There is what appears to be a tiny magnifying glass in the handle of my new toothbrush. No joke. I took it into the living room and tried it out on a library book. Works like a charm! I'm not certain this will ever come in handy, though. I spent quite some time pondering it. I imagined myself (in great detail, but thinner) rifling through the dewey decimal cards and pulling out my special magnifying toothbrush to aid me in my search. But I did so with stealth...because imaginary me was slightly embarrassed by the situation.
Then, imaginary me was on a hike in the wilderness and bent down with the magnifying toothbrush to identify an impossibly tiny new breed of insect. But who wants their toothbrush that close to vermin? The only realistic scenario I could come up with was a case in which I may need to read the small print on the toothpaste tube. But...damn my 20/20 vision! Hopefully, some poor soul out there can get some use out of this toothbrush/magnifying glass (probably accidental) invention. Someone a little less eagle-eyed.
The weirdest thing about this (and yes, even I think this is weird) is that, while the magnifying glass works with uncanny precision, the actual brush portion is disappointing. Perhaps Oral B should consider diversifying their product line. Just a thought.
It's always nice to discover a dual purpose for a household item, though. Am I right?
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
I have a serious issue with drivers who park their cars in my designated carport space. Just the other night, my next door neighbor lost her mind and parked two spaces over in my spot. Of course, I didn't know she was my neighbor. I had no idea whose car it was. No, I had to wait 20 minutes for security to show up with their trusty tome of bar codes so they could look her up. Then, when their incessant knocking finally got her out of bed, she refused to move her car to the proper spot, arguing that she shouldn't have to be inconvenienced in the middle of the night. Never mind how inconvenienced I was! I have to commend the guard, though. He told her that if she didn't get down there and move her car within five minutes, he'd have her towed. The main reason this is so terribly unforgivable is that the guy who parks in the space next to mine wraps up his brand new Camaro in a huge, billowy car cover every night. It's like a Cirque du Soleil performance tent. Impossible to overlook. I mean, I'm all for not paying attention to stuff, but it's usually a good idea to watch where you're going when you're, you know, BEHIND THE WHEEL!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Remember me?
Hi. My name is Brooke, and I'm...an infrequent blogger. I understand that the first step is admitting you have a problem. Well, I have a problem. Surprisingly, it only took me two tries to get my password right. Perhaps if I logged in more than once every few months, I could even manage to get it on the first try. I won't make any promises. But it's definitely something to shoot for.
And speaking of nonsensical conditional language (such as "something to shoot for"), my old manager is history! Woohoo! You know, the annoying guy who couldn't ever answer a question with a yes or no (and who screwed me out of the position I deserved)? He left the company a couple of weeks ago to move to New York City and work on his "relationship." I didn't know robots could have relationships. I'm not so sure he knows it, either. Hence, the working on it part. The good news is that I never have to see his face (via that obnoxious webcam) ever again. Hooray!
Would you care to read an excerpt from my performance review last month? It was actually face-to-face. He made a special trip.
Scott: This is the portion of the review in which you can provide me with feedback on my performance as your manager. Is there anything you feel I could improve?
Me: Well, I often find that it's impossible to get a straight answer out of you. You never respond to questions with yes or no. Instead, you use a lot of conditional language, and I find that confusing.
Scott: Hmm. I'm not sure I follow. Can you give me an example or two?
Me: Sure. Whenever I ask you a question, you respond with phrases like, "that's certainly one option" or "this is definitely something we should consider" or "it might be something to try," etc. Sometimes, all I want is yes or no.
Scott: Some people may see me as excessively diplomatic. I've often thought that may be the case. But giving more definite answers is something I'll have to shoot for.
Me: Is that a yes?
(I thought it would be fun to bold Scott's conditional nonsense for you. You're welcome.)
Now, I seem to be working for the invisible manager. She's been in charge of our team for three weeks, and we've never actually spoken with her. I know her name, and I've seen her face on the video conference...but that's about it. One of my coworkers is convinced that she's attempting to manage us through our project editor. And that makes some sense...considering his sudden Jekyll and Hyde personality transformation. He's gone from a sweet-tempered, docile team player to a raging micromanager. It's been unpleasant, to say the least. One of my teammates went so far as to unfriend him from Facebook. That's practically the kiss of death, as you know.
In other news, I wear glasses now. Turns out that creepy eye trick is less of a trick and more of a disorder. Remember way back when Emilie and I went to that 3D movie and decided that, instead of a lazy eye, I had an "ambitious" eye? It wasn't that my eyes didn't want to look; it was more that they wanted to look too much! Well, it's actually closer to being a lazy eye, after all. If this problem had been worse when I was a child, it could have ended up that way. My advancing age has made the issue harder to control. Hence, the glasses. Over time, it'll continue to get worse, but, happily, I am past the age where a lazy eye is a possibility. The doc said 3D movies are a total waste of money for the lazy-eyed. As long as I wear my glasses underneath the 3D glasses, I'm all set!
The weirdest part is that I have 20/20 vision. So, my glasses are just prisms, designed to trick my eyes into thinking they're looking at the same thing. Otherwise, they're just glass--no prescription at all.
Meanwhile, I've been thinking that my eye doctor could probably set up shop as a fortune teller for extra cash. At my appointment, he noticed the problem and said, "Your sister has this, too." And I was like, "How do you know I have a sister?!" Sure enough, Lindsay was just diagnosed with the exact same eye trick. I mean, disorder. And I'm thinking Bridget has it, too. It's entirely possible that my eye doctor's prediction will come true for all of my sisters. If so, I'll have to nominate him for the Ripley's Believe it or Not show.
By the way, if you aren't sure what prism glasses look like, they look like regular glasses. After my diagnosis, I attempted to look them up online and was horrified by what I found at SkyMall. Just so you know, I can't actually lie on my back and read a book like this:
Never believe anything you see on SkyMall. This is a valuable lesson you don't have to learn the hard way. Just take my word for it.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
You know when you download a free book on your Kindle, and it turns out to be practically the worst piece of garbage you've ever read? And then you feel overwhelming guilt for having wasted so much of your time reading it? You figured it was free, so why not? But it wasn't really free, was it? Because it cost you precious time that, at the end of your life, you'll wish you could get back...but you never can. A lot of the time, they're heavily religious. And Amazon fails to mention that in the labels. That really gets my goat! Although, not all free books are bad. That book about the human replacements who look like an amalgamation of cats, reptiles, and people was pretty good. Unlike the main character, I probably wouldn't want to date a guy with razor-sharp claws and spiky teeth...but I respected her choice. And, hey, he seemed like a good guy. If we were all killed off by a super-parasite, I, for one, wouldn't mind if a man/lizard/cat species took over the world. As long as they were like that guy.
And speaking of nonsensical conditional language (such as "something to shoot for"), my old manager is history! Woohoo! You know, the annoying guy who couldn't ever answer a question with a yes or no (and who screwed me out of the position I deserved)? He left the company a couple of weeks ago to move to New York City and work on his "relationship." I didn't know robots could have relationships. I'm not so sure he knows it, either. Hence, the working on it part. The good news is that I never have to see his face (via that obnoxious webcam) ever again. Hooray!
Would you care to read an excerpt from my performance review last month? It was actually face-to-face. He made a special trip.
Scott: This is the portion of the review in which you can provide me with feedback on my performance as your manager. Is there anything you feel I could improve?
Me: Well, I often find that it's impossible to get a straight answer out of you. You never respond to questions with yes or no. Instead, you use a lot of conditional language, and I find that confusing.
Scott: Hmm. I'm not sure I follow. Can you give me an example or two?
Me: Sure. Whenever I ask you a question, you respond with phrases like, "that's certainly one option" or "this is definitely something we should consider" or "it might be something to try," etc. Sometimes, all I want is yes or no.
Scott: Some people may see me as excessively diplomatic. I've often thought that may be the case. But giving more definite answers is something I'll have to shoot for.
Me: Is that a yes?
(I thought it would be fun to bold Scott's conditional nonsense for you. You're welcome.)
Now, I seem to be working for the invisible manager. She's been in charge of our team for three weeks, and we've never actually spoken with her. I know her name, and I've seen her face on the video conference...but that's about it. One of my coworkers is convinced that she's attempting to manage us through our project editor. And that makes some sense...considering his sudden Jekyll and Hyde personality transformation. He's gone from a sweet-tempered, docile team player to a raging micromanager. It's been unpleasant, to say the least. One of my teammates went so far as to unfriend him from Facebook. That's practically the kiss of death, as you know.
In other news, I wear glasses now. Turns out that creepy eye trick is less of a trick and more of a disorder. Remember way back when Emilie and I went to that 3D movie and decided that, instead of a lazy eye, I had an "ambitious" eye? It wasn't that my eyes didn't want to look; it was more that they wanted to look too much! Well, it's actually closer to being a lazy eye, after all. If this problem had been worse when I was a child, it could have ended up that way. My advancing age has made the issue harder to control. Hence, the glasses. Over time, it'll continue to get worse, but, happily, I am past the age where a lazy eye is a possibility. The doc said 3D movies are a total waste of money for the lazy-eyed. As long as I wear my glasses underneath the 3D glasses, I'm all set!
The weirdest part is that I have 20/20 vision. So, my glasses are just prisms, designed to trick my eyes into thinking they're looking at the same thing. Otherwise, they're just glass--no prescription at all.
Meanwhile, I've been thinking that my eye doctor could probably set up shop as a fortune teller for extra cash. At my appointment, he noticed the problem and said, "Your sister has this, too." And I was like, "How do you know I have a sister?!" Sure enough, Lindsay was just diagnosed with the exact same eye trick. I mean, disorder. And I'm thinking Bridget has it, too. It's entirely possible that my eye doctor's prediction will come true for all of my sisters. If so, I'll have to nominate him for the Ripley's Believe it or Not show.
By the way, if you aren't sure what prism glasses look like, they look like regular glasses. After my diagnosis, I attempted to look them up online and was horrified by what I found at SkyMall. Just so you know, I can't actually lie on my back and read a book like this:
Never believe anything you see on SkyMall. This is a valuable lesson you don't have to learn the hard way. Just take my word for it.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
You know when you download a free book on your Kindle, and it turns out to be practically the worst piece of garbage you've ever read? And then you feel overwhelming guilt for having wasted so much of your time reading it? You figured it was free, so why not? But it wasn't really free, was it? Because it cost you precious time that, at the end of your life, you'll wish you could get back...but you never can. A lot of the time, they're heavily religious. And Amazon fails to mention that in the labels. That really gets my goat! Although, not all free books are bad. That book about the human replacements who look like an amalgamation of cats, reptiles, and people was pretty good. Unlike the main character, I probably wouldn't want to date a guy with razor-sharp claws and spiky teeth...but I respected her choice. And, hey, he seemed like a good guy. If we were all killed off by a super-parasite, I, for one, wouldn't mind if a man/lizard/cat species took over the world. As long as they were like that guy.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Rock 'n Roll is the devil
One of the only positive aspects of an 80-mile daily work commute is that it affords one time to think. About anything and everything. Yet, when one reaches the year mark, anything and everything starts to run a little thin. Now, you know that I think about loads of crazy shit--and very seriously, too. Even so, there is only so much time a reasonable person can commit to the contemplation of extraterrestrial life forms, desirable super powers, time travel, cannibalism, catastrophic volcano eruptions.... You get the point. As a result, I have lately turned my thoughts to the song lyrics I hear on the pop radio stations. And, I have to admit, I'm disturbed. You read the list of topics above, so you know that's saying something.
What, pray tell, is the fascination with this Nicki Minaj character? Just because the words "vindication" and "syndication" sound cool and rhyme does not mean they make any kind of sense when slapped together in a lyric. "Umpire" and "vampire" don't work so well together, either. This is the problem with modern rap: it's just a bunch of random rhyming. To quote the ever-controversial yet brilliant Eminem, "I'm about to lose my mind / You've been gone for so long ... Call me a doctor." And, just like Eminem, I mean the doctor: Dr. Dre. That man knows what true rap should be; he gets "funky on the mic like a old batch of collard greens." Nicki Minaj? Not so much. She does have a sense of irony, though. Take, for example, the way she sings the following:
I wish that I could have this moment for life, for life, for life
'Cause in this moment, I just feel so alive, alive, alive
She attempts to convey animation while singing in a completely expressionless monotone. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I would go so far as to say that she sounds like nothing so much as a glitchy robot, based on the way she skips like a scratched CD at the end of each line. No vocal inflection. Nada! Kinda reminds me of when someone programmed Mom's computer to say, "Oh, balls, balls, balls."
Honestly, though, I would listen to Nicki Minaj all day before I would subject my fragile psyche to the horrors of Katy Perry. I'll admit, I originally found her song "E.T." quite catchy. And then I started in with that pesky thinking again, and I realized that, according to good old Katy, nothing says I love you like a song full of violent imagery. Allow me to point out a couple of my favorites:
Take me, ta-ta-take me
Wanna be a victim
Ready for abduction
My translation:
Hey, let's go on a date. I could really go for some kidnapping and assault.
Stun me with your lasers
I don't even know what to say about this. I'm at a complete loss.
Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me
Infect me with your love and
Fill me with your poison
My translation:
And while we're at it, it's been quite some time since I've contracted an STD. I sure hope you're packin'. If not, roofies are always a good alternative.
Oh, that Katy. Such a romantic. A real class act! Seriously, though, this kind of language is giving kids the wrong idea. And how about that Rihanna?
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But chains and whips excite me
Hmm. This is a somewhat puzzling message, considering this very songstress was recently beaten and nearly choked to death by her boyfriend. And who could forget that heartbreaking television appearance during which she condemned domestic violence? I don't mean to point fingers, but ... hypocrite of the century. Right here. If it's so wrong, Rihanna, don't sing a song about how much you love it. Duh!
It's almost as alarming as that Elvis Presley and his swiveling hips. If we don't do something about this, we'll be facing Armageddon.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Nonsensical "laws" that serve no purpose other than to stifle personal expression. For example, did you know that it is illegal to form your index finger and thumb into the shape of a gun and point it at the insane asshole who just put your life in peril through an act of reckless driving? Apparently, that's considered a death threat. The PO-lice (that was for you, Christian) will literally hunt you down and throw you in jail for brandishing a finger gun. LAME! After all, most people employ the finger gun gesture while passing the insane asshole. I mean, you're never going to escape him/her unless you get in front. Mom taught me that. So, if you're in front with said insane asshole following behind you, how can you possibly be expected to act on your "threat"? Unless you have the magical power to shoot real bullets out of your index finger (how cool would that be?!), you would have to stalk this spaz to a stopping point and use a real gun. You cannot stalk a person who is behind you. Therefore, this "law" is useless. Those of us who are prone to road rage have one less healthy outlet. Great!
What, pray tell, is the fascination with this Nicki Minaj character? Just because the words "vindication" and "syndication" sound cool and rhyme does not mean they make any kind of sense when slapped together in a lyric. "Umpire" and "vampire" don't work so well together, either. This is the problem with modern rap: it's just a bunch of random rhyming. To quote the ever-controversial yet brilliant Eminem, "I'm about to lose my mind / You've been gone for so long ... Call me a doctor." And, just like Eminem, I mean the doctor: Dr. Dre. That man knows what true rap should be; he gets "funky on the mic like a old batch of collard greens." Nicki Minaj? Not so much. She does have a sense of irony, though. Take, for example, the way she sings the following:
I wish that I could have this moment for life, for life, for life
'Cause in this moment, I just feel so alive, alive, alive
She attempts to convey animation while singing in a completely expressionless monotone. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. I would go so far as to say that she sounds like nothing so much as a glitchy robot, based on the way she skips like a scratched CD at the end of each line. No vocal inflection. Nada! Kinda reminds me of when someone programmed Mom's computer to say, "Oh, balls, balls, balls."
Honestly, though, I would listen to Nicki Minaj all day before I would subject my fragile psyche to the horrors of Katy Perry. I'll admit, I originally found her song "E.T." quite catchy. And then I started in with that pesky thinking again, and I realized that, according to good old Katy, nothing says I love you like a song full of violent imagery. Allow me to point out a couple of my favorites:
Take me, ta-ta-take me
Wanna be a victim
Ready for abduction
My translation:
Hey, let's go on a date. I could really go for some kidnapping and assault.
Stun me with your lasers
I don't even know what to say about this. I'm at a complete loss.
Kiss me, ki-ki-kiss me
Infect me with your love and
Fill me with your poison
My translation:
And while we're at it, it's been quite some time since I've contracted an STD. I sure hope you're packin'. If not, roofies are always a good alternative.
Oh, that Katy. Such a romantic. A real class act! Seriously, though, this kind of language is giving kids the wrong idea. And how about that Rihanna?
Sticks and stones may break my bones
But chains and whips excite me
Hmm. This is a somewhat puzzling message, considering this very songstress was recently beaten and nearly choked to death by her boyfriend. And who could forget that heartbreaking television appearance during which she condemned domestic violence? I don't mean to point fingers, but ... hypocrite of the century. Right here. If it's so wrong, Rihanna, don't sing a song about how much you love it. Duh!
It's almost as alarming as that Elvis Presley and his swiveling hips. If we don't do something about this, we'll be facing Armageddon.
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Nonsensical "laws" that serve no purpose other than to stifle personal expression. For example, did you know that it is illegal to form your index finger and thumb into the shape of a gun and point it at the insane asshole who just put your life in peril through an act of reckless driving? Apparently, that's considered a death threat. The PO-lice (that was for you, Christian) will literally hunt you down and throw you in jail for brandishing a finger gun. LAME! After all, most people employ the finger gun gesture while passing the insane asshole. I mean, you're never going to escape him/her unless you get in front. Mom taught me that. So, if you're in front with said insane asshole following behind you, how can you possibly be expected to act on your "threat"? Unless you have the magical power to shoot real bullets out of your index finger (how cool would that be?!), you would have to stalk this spaz to a stopping point and use a real gun. You cannot stalk a person who is behind you. Therefore, this "law" is useless. Those of us who are prone to road rage have one less healthy outlet. Great!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
My Hero
I thought about putting this off until tomorrow, but the idea that I might forget even one moment of this story is more than I can bear. I figure it's not everyday that something like this happens, and it is just too funny (way, way too funny) to go untold. You're welcome.
It all started with two sexy Mustangs and a touch of the road rage.
I find that I frequently enter that emotional state while driving within my apartment complex. You see, I live in a giant maze. There are too many buildings to count, but, all in all, the number of units is right around 3,000. Within the complex, the six phases (each one named after some kind of wood) are situated around a huge circular drive with unnamed side streets shooting off in every direction. It's almost impossible not to get lost here. And get this: When I enter through the security checkpoint (which includes a mechanical arm and a swinging, wrought-iron gate--as if that weren't overkill), I have to make four left turns to get to my parking space. And you'd better believe I've clocked it. It's a quarter of a mile!
Tonight, that quarter of a mile took an eternity to traverse. It was interminable. And all because of Big Red's evil twin, a lovely silver Mustang. If not for the ultra coolness of the vehicle, I would have automatically assumed I had been caught behind a half-blind, weak-legged grandpa. Our speed did not even register on my speedometer. I kid you not! The needle just sat there, two dots below the five mile-per-hour mark. Terrible!
Finally, about 20 minutes later, I saw the end in sight. My parking space was just ahead. And then, of course, grandpa pulled to a stop with the engine running. Right. In front. Of my space.
I honked.
I honked again.
Minutes later, the passenger door opened and a shady-looking character swaggered up to my window and started striking threatening poses like some sort of deranged supermodel. I locked the doors and grabbed my cell phone. We recently received notice that our complex hired a new security firm. And, since one hundred million people live here and half of them are rowdy and/or suspicious, I programmed the number into my phone immediately. Before I could get out more than two or three sentences, though, the officer told me he'd be right over. And then he hung up on me.
After a few more seconds of serial killer charades, I pointed to my parking spot, my tormentor got back in his car, and they pulled into a space a few cars down from mine. Whew!
I thought about waiting for the security officer, but my impatience got the better of me. I grabbed my laundry from the trunk (thanks, Mom!) and headed for my apartment, which happened to be several yards past what now had become two shady characters. And, as luck would have it, they were waiting outside of their still-running vehicle for me.
A bit of swearing and a few more tough-guy poses later (them, not me), I entered my apartment and locked the door. But then I got to thinking: What if those miscreants try to take out their delinquent urges on my innocent car? Better I should be beaten to a bloody pulp than one tiny scratch mar the beauty of Big Red. So, I called the security office a second time and asked them to take down the license plate number of the silver doppelganger.
Turns out, the officer had already made it to the scene of the crime (which is an inappropriately melodramatic description of what turned out to be nothing), and he was wandering around, very confused but with a look of great purpose.
"Is it this one? I bet it was this one!" he exclaimed, pointing to a black Mustang many years newer than mine.
"Uh, no. It definitely wasn't that one," I replied, "because, as I said on the phone, it was silver."
"Are you sure it wasn't this one? I think it was this one."
"I'm positive. It was pale silver."
"There are just so many Mustangs parked over here. I can't decide which one."
I looked around and noticed three Mustangs parked in the vicinity: two black and one red. No silver. They had obviously fled the scene.
"It's not any of these," I said. "They must have left already. I don't think they live here."
"Is it this one?" he asked, pointing to Big Red (which was parked in my space, the number of which I had given him over the phone mere moments before).
"Nope. That's my car."
"Oh. Well, I guess they must have left already. I'm sorry I was late getting here. I got lost," he explained. He looked quite dejected, so I tried to cheer him up.
"That's okay. It wasn't really that big a deal. It's just that, you know, when a couple of burly young men approach a lone woman in a dark parking lot and start swearing and making threatening gestures, it's a little worrisome. But no harm done."
"I'm really sorry, Ma'am. I swear I zoomed over here as soon as you called. I really did. I zoomed. But I went to Building 3," he said, pointing to Building 9, "and then I drove around some more until I found Building 5. It's really confusing around here."
"Yes," I agreed. "It's very confusing."
"Ma'am, maybe next time," (and there will be a next time--we both know that), "don't get out of your car if strange men are threatening you until I get here and tackle them." And, I swear to you, he made a tackling gesture when he said that. No joke. "If I hadn't have gotten lost, I totally would have tackled those guys!"
"Wow," I said, "that's really extreme. I appreciate it."
"You know, since this place is so hard to find, maybe next time you could say the street name instead of the building number. You could say, like, that it's right next to Capitol," he recommended, pointing to Snell.
"Oh, uh, I think that's Capitol over there," I said, pointing to the perpendicular street. "I think this one here is Snell."
For at least ten seconds, the earnest and seriously overzealous officer turned first to Snell and then to Capitol, whispering their names under his breath. "I think you're right," he finally decided.
"If this ever happens again," he went on to say, "you just call us. Do you have our magnet? And I will zoom right over here, and I will tackle them! I mean, I zoomed tonight, too, but I got lost. But anyway, just stay in your car until we can tackle them for you. That's the safest way."
Hmm. I don't know. All that tackling seems a little unsafe to me. In any case, this guy was obviously disappointed that he didn't get to rescue me. And I really did appreciate his extreme overreaction. So, I asked him for a business card.
"Oh, we don't have cards. But we do have a phone number." Yeah, I sort of got that, seeing as how I called twice this evening. But I didn't point that out, of course. Instead, I explained that I simply wanted to know his name so that I could praise him to his manager.
"That's really nice, but I am the supervisor around here." Of course, he is.
He did write down his name for me, though. Officer Santos. My hero!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Ridiculous alarmists who have nothing better to do than freak people out for no reason. And by this, of course, I mean the HR department at my workplace and the media. It was supposed to "snow" in the Bay Area today. I heard the term "Snowpocalypse" bandied about quite a bit. So, on Thursday, the entire company got an email from HR detailing a contingency plan. You know, in case the drifts and ice-slicked roads should become too hazardous to travel. Come on! Last week, it was in the 70s. There is no possible way that snow could stick, considering the temperature of the soil. Plus, all weather sources predicted that it would be 46 degrees. Is it just me, or does that not make any sense? It did snow in some places. For about a minute. But not anywhere near my office or my home, which is 40 miles away. So, yeah. Thanks for the contingency plan, you fools!
It all started with two sexy Mustangs and a touch of the road rage.
I find that I frequently enter that emotional state while driving within my apartment complex. You see, I live in a giant maze. There are too many buildings to count, but, all in all, the number of units is right around 3,000. Within the complex, the six phases (each one named after some kind of wood) are situated around a huge circular drive with unnamed side streets shooting off in every direction. It's almost impossible not to get lost here. And get this: When I enter through the security checkpoint (which includes a mechanical arm and a swinging, wrought-iron gate--as if that weren't overkill), I have to make four left turns to get to my parking space. And you'd better believe I've clocked it. It's a quarter of a mile!
Tonight, that quarter of a mile took an eternity to traverse. It was interminable. And all because of Big Red's evil twin, a lovely silver Mustang. If not for the ultra coolness of the vehicle, I would have automatically assumed I had been caught behind a half-blind, weak-legged grandpa. Our speed did not even register on my speedometer. I kid you not! The needle just sat there, two dots below the five mile-per-hour mark. Terrible!
Finally, about 20 minutes later, I saw the end in sight. My parking space was just ahead. And then, of course, grandpa pulled to a stop with the engine running. Right. In front. Of my space.
I honked.
I honked again.
Minutes later, the passenger door opened and a shady-looking character swaggered up to my window and started striking threatening poses like some sort of deranged supermodel. I locked the doors and grabbed my cell phone. We recently received notice that our complex hired a new security firm. And, since one hundred million people live here and half of them are rowdy and/or suspicious, I programmed the number into my phone immediately. Before I could get out more than two or three sentences, though, the officer told me he'd be right over. And then he hung up on me.
After a few more seconds of serial killer charades, I pointed to my parking spot, my tormentor got back in his car, and they pulled into a space a few cars down from mine. Whew!
I thought about waiting for the security officer, but my impatience got the better of me. I grabbed my laundry from the trunk (thanks, Mom!) and headed for my apartment, which happened to be several yards past what now had become two shady characters. And, as luck would have it, they were waiting outside of their still-running vehicle for me.
A bit of swearing and a few more tough-guy poses later (them, not me), I entered my apartment and locked the door. But then I got to thinking: What if those miscreants try to take out their delinquent urges on my innocent car? Better I should be beaten to a bloody pulp than one tiny scratch mar the beauty of Big Red. So, I called the security office a second time and asked them to take down the license plate number of the silver doppelganger.
Turns out, the officer had already made it to the scene of the crime (which is an inappropriately melodramatic description of what turned out to be nothing), and he was wandering around, very confused but with a look of great purpose.
"Is it this one? I bet it was this one!" he exclaimed, pointing to a black Mustang many years newer than mine.
"Uh, no. It definitely wasn't that one," I replied, "because, as I said on the phone, it was silver."
"Are you sure it wasn't this one? I think it was this one."
"I'm positive. It was pale silver."
"There are just so many Mustangs parked over here. I can't decide which one."
I looked around and noticed three Mustangs parked in the vicinity: two black and one red. No silver. They had obviously fled the scene.
"It's not any of these," I said. "They must have left already. I don't think they live here."
"Is it this one?" he asked, pointing to Big Red (which was parked in my space, the number of which I had given him over the phone mere moments before).
"Nope. That's my car."
"Oh. Well, I guess they must have left already. I'm sorry I was late getting here. I got lost," he explained. He looked quite dejected, so I tried to cheer him up.
"That's okay. It wasn't really that big a deal. It's just that, you know, when a couple of burly young men approach a lone woman in a dark parking lot and start swearing and making threatening gestures, it's a little worrisome. But no harm done."
"I'm really sorry, Ma'am. I swear I zoomed over here as soon as you called. I really did. I zoomed. But I went to Building 3," he said, pointing to Building 9, "and then I drove around some more until I found Building 5. It's really confusing around here."
"Yes," I agreed. "It's very confusing."
"Ma'am, maybe next time," (and there will be a next time--we both know that), "don't get out of your car if strange men are threatening you until I get here and tackle them." And, I swear to you, he made a tackling gesture when he said that. No joke. "If I hadn't have gotten lost, I totally would have tackled those guys!"
"Wow," I said, "that's really extreme. I appreciate it."
"You know, since this place is so hard to find, maybe next time you could say the street name instead of the building number. You could say, like, that it's right next to Capitol," he recommended, pointing to Snell.
"Oh, uh, I think that's Capitol over there," I said, pointing to the perpendicular street. "I think this one here is Snell."
For at least ten seconds, the earnest and seriously overzealous officer turned first to Snell and then to Capitol, whispering their names under his breath. "I think you're right," he finally decided.
"If this ever happens again," he went on to say, "you just call us. Do you have our magnet? And I will zoom right over here, and I will tackle them! I mean, I zoomed tonight, too, but I got lost. But anyway, just stay in your car until we can tackle them for you. That's the safest way."
Hmm. I don't know. All that tackling seems a little unsafe to me. In any case, this guy was obviously disappointed that he didn't get to rescue me. And I really did appreciate his extreme overreaction. So, I asked him for a business card.
"Oh, we don't have cards. But we do have a phone number." Yeah, I sort of got that, seeing as how I called twice this evening. But I didn't point that out, of course. Instead, I explained that I simply wanted to know his name so that I could praise him to his manager.
"That's really nice, but I am the supervisor around here." Of course, he is.
He did write down his name for me, though. Officer Santos. My hero!
B
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Ridiculous alarmists who have nothing better to do than freak people out for no reason. And by this, of course, I mean the HR department at my workplace and the media. It was supposed to "snow" in the Bay Area today. I heard the term "Snowpocalypse" bandied about quite a bit. So, on Thursday, the entire company got an email from HR detailing a contingency plan. You know, in case the drifts and ice-slicked roads should become too hazardous to travel. Come on! Last week, it was in the 70s. There is no possible way that snow could stick, considering the temperature of the soil. Plus, all weather sources predicted that it would be 46 degrees. Is it just me, or does that not make any sense? It did snow in some places. For about a minute. But not anywhere near my office or my home, which is 40 miles away. So, yeah. Thanks for the contingency plan, you fools!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Old Red
Have I mentioned yet that I drive 80 miles to work each day? Well, I do: 40 up and 40 back. Five days a week. Good thing I've got Big Red! Someone once told me (or, come to think of it, several people have often told me ... and it might even appear in the Bible) that it's wrong to love an inanimate object. To those people, I say this: Mind your own goddamn business. Big Red and I will be celebrating our twelfth anniversary in February. Can you say the same?
Sure. We have our squabbles. Like, sometimes, Big Red spontaneously (and violently) flips on the windshield wipers just to scare the shit out of me. Or, on occasion, it inappropriately shifts gears, tossing me around in my seat like a rag doll, leaving me fearful that I will be stranded along the mostly deserted freeway in the middle of the night. And, yes, I'll admit it: I sometimes resort to name-calling. "Christine!" I shout, referencing Stephen King's evil-spirit-possessed Mustang, "I'm taking you to the junkyard if you don't knock it the hell off!"
But, honestly, it's nothing we can't work out.
I suspect that Big Red worries about a younger model catching my eye. But that's just not gonna happen. Those new-fangled, blue-tinted lasers they're calling headlights these days are the bane of my existence. They're downright counter-intuitive. That's what I say. The whole point of headlights is for the driver to have a better, clearer view. It's all about safety. But these lasers are positively (and I mean that negatively) blinding to other drivers. Tonight, in fact, I nearly ran off the road when a laser-equipped sedan sped up behind me in the fast lane. The reflection in my rear view mirror is now forever burned onto my retinas. At the same time, I can see (around the new dark spots in my field of vision) why people like to purchase cars with lights like these. Once I flipped my mirror down and could almost see again, the laser lights from the car behind me shone the way for what seemed like miles.
Big Red's lights are dim and clouded with age, much like an elderly person suffering from cataracts. I've started to think of it as Old Red. You know, like Old Yeller ... but without all the heartbreaking tragedy. That's the best thing about loving an object: The chances of it contracting rabies are slim to none. I'll never have to take a shotgun to my beloved Big Red to spare it the misery of an agonizing death. Yeah, that's a big plus.
Anyway, in case any of you were wondering what to get us, I understand that silk/linen is the traditional gift for the twelfth anniversary. Hmm. I'm thinkin' ... silk seat-covers? A linen window shade or floor mats? Really, you can be as creative as you want. It's the thought that counts.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
I was going to say those blue-tinted lasers that pass for headlights on new cars ... but never mind. Um. Oh! I know. Every one of my (admittedly awesome) co-workers seems to have some kind of negative opinion about my lunch-time Cup O'Noodles. Yes, I know they contain more sodium than the Dead Sea. Yes, I realize the potential dangers of Styrofoam chemicals. Yes, I'm feeling okay. But, people, 27 cents. Need I say more? On the bright side, these same opinionated co-workers are concerned enough about my health that they have started bringing me home-cooked meals that I can defrost on my desk all day and eat when I get home. Just this evening, I enjoyed a pot of minestrone soup made by Megan, one of our senior engineers. That girl is amazing! Not only can she cook like Martha Stewart, she's a whiz with code. Tomorrow night, I might go over to Angelica's house so that her husband can cook me a fabulous Japanese dinner. He might not speak a word of English, but that guy has a real passion for the culinary arts. Mere days ago, Scurvy and Rickets were a real threat. High-tech publishing has changed all that. Nothing warms the heart like co-workers who don't want you to die. Even so, I wish they'd stop criticizing my Cup O'Noodles.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Illegal Spelling at Legal Aid
I used to have the world's best downstairs neighbor. Were we friends? No. Acquaintances? Uh, nope. Did we ever speak even one word to each other? Certainly not. In fact, I couldn't pick this woman out of a lineup if my life depended on it. My one and only glimpse of her was of her back as she walked into her apartment in the dark. And I wouldn't recognize her voice because I never heard it. Not even once. She was completely silent -- all the time. That's why I loved her. That's why I currently miss her so desperately. Since she moved out (whenever that was), I've acquired a new downstairs neighbor -- or should I say eight new downstairs neighbors? Yes, that's right. Your eyes are not deceiving you. Three adults and five children have moved into the one-bedroom apartment just below mine ... and I definitely know they're there.
As I feverishly worked on a particularly difficult section of my client's thesis -- hoping to get it back to him by this evening -- one of the many children down below began to scream. Sure, I love my peace and quiet, but I'm actually pretty cool about the neighborhood kids screaming and running around in the courtyard during daylight hours. They're kids. They need to play. (I know. That's very magnanimous of me.) But this boy wasn't just screaming. He was screaming bloody murder. Over and over and over again. And he was about to get his wish, because the sound was enough to inspire bloody murder in me. He must have screamed like that for a good ten minutes. And for no particular reason, as far as I could tell. So, I walked outside and yelled at him from my balcony to stop screaming. But he couldn't hear me over his screaming. It took quite some time for me to gain his attention. And when he finally stopped to take a breath and heard me, he shut up ... because, as we all know, kids are scared of me. Hoorah! Colleen was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop him, since he doesn't appear to speak English, but I assured her that I can say "shut up" in Spanish just as well as I can say it in English. I may not be able to say anything else (like where's the bathroom, thank you, hello, or I like you), but I can say that. In any case, it worked. And Colleen was grateful ... as well as amused.
"You know," Colleen said, "there are eight people living down there now."
"Are you kidding me?!" I exclaimed. "In a one-bedroom?"
"Yeah. Five kids and three adults."
"Is that even legal?" I asked, sure there had to be a health code against it or something.
"I don't think so," she replied with a thoughtful look.
"Well, I'm going back inside. I have to get back to work."
But did I get back to work? What do you think? Instead, I typed "occupants of a one-bedroom apartment in santa clara county" into the Google search bar and found myself at the Legal Aid website. If these people continue to be disruptive, I want some leverage. Can you blame me?
And then I saw it.
Under the Housing / Fair Housing tab, in the Dos and Don'ts section: "Do wright down." No. Freakin'. Way. The fact that I once saw a similar error on my jury duty summons was bad enough. I could NOT let this pass.
What? You think I'm joking? Exaggerating? Well ... I can see how you would think that. I know me even better than you do. So, here's the proof: http://www.legalaidsociety.org/housing.html
Well, obviously, I went to the "Contact Us" link and wrote them a kind but firm email entitled "Embarrassing spelling error on your site." And I really hope they take it as seriously as they should. Grievous public spelling errors do not inspire confidence in clients or backers. I mean, really. Do you want legal advice from a person who can't spell the simplest of common words? I certainly don't. That's why I won't let my sister be my lawyer. Hee hee hee.
As I understand it, here in this great nation, any person can sue any other person for any reason. That's a lot of anys. That's a lot of freedom. So, I'm thinking about suing Legal Aid for illegal spelling. Then again, it would be just my luck if their knowledge of the law happened to surpass their knowledge of the basic rules of spelling. Not that I'm counting on that. The documentation they put together for the trial might be riddled with horrendous language errors, but it just might make some real legal sense. So, perhaps I'll hold off for now. If they ignore my email, however, I just might reconsider. And if Bridget can pass my spelling test, I just might allow her to represent me ... and the English language.
Meanwhile, on my way to Barnes and Noble after work this afternoon, while stopped at a red light, I observed an old ice cream truck emblazoned with blue and pink letters: "Popsicles, Banana Split, Nachos, Sundaes." Hmm... One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Apparently, here in lovely Santa Clara County, you can not only find your legal advice spelled illegally, you can also buy your nachos off an ice cream truck. It's no wonder we've got so much overcrowding. Who wouldn't want to live here?
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream ... and nachos!
I'll keep you up-to-date on my blog posts via my Facebook status updates. Never fear. And be expecting to see more and more of said updates. I've started carrying a tiny notepad around with me so that I can jot down hilarious and/or disturbing events in my day-to-day life. This way, I don't forget all the funny stuff before I can write it out for you. I've got quite a list going already. And none of it is included in this post. You're welcome.
Stay tuned.
B
P.S. -- It's been a long time since I've read "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," but I do recall that he winds up dead in the end. It could have been a wolf, but I'd be willing to bet that kid was actually murdered by a disgruntled neighbor who was sick of his constant screaming. I think I might annonymously leave a Spanish copy of that story on my new neighbors' patio. Unless that seems threatening. Hmm.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Minivans. 'Nuff said.
As I feverishly worked on a particularly difficult section of my client's thesis -- hoping to get it back to him by this evening -- one of the many children down below began to scream. Sure, I love my peace and quiet, but I'm actually pretty cool about the neighborhood kids screaming and running around in the courtyard during daylight hours. They're kids. They need to play. (I know. That's very magnanimous of me.) But this boy wasn't just screaming. He was screaming bloody murder. Over and over and over again. And he was about to get his wish, because the sound was enough to inspire bloody murder in me. He must have screamed like that for a good ten minutes. And for no particular reason, as far as I could tell. So, I walked outside and yelled at him from my balcony to stop screaming. But he couldn't hear me over his screaming. It took quite some time for me to gain his attention. And when he finally stopped to take a breath and heard me, he shut up ... because, as we all know, kids are scared of me. Hoorah! Colleen was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop him, since he doesn't appear to speak English, but I assured her that I can say "shut up" in Spanish just as well as I can say it in English. I may not be able to say anything else (like where's the bathroom, thank you, hello, or I like you), but I can say that. In any case, it worked. And Colleen was grateful ... as well as amused.
"You know," Colleen said, "there are eight people living down there now."
"Are you kidding me?!" I exclaimed. "In a one-bedroom?"
"Yeah. Five kids and three adults."
"Is that even legal?" I asked, sure there had to be a health code against it or something.
"I don't think so," she replied with a thoughtful look.
"Well, I'm going back inside. I have to get back to work."
But did I get back to work? What do you think? Instead, I typed "occupants of a one-bedroom apartment in santa clara county" into the Google search bar and found myself at the Legal Aid website. If these people continue to be disruptive, I want some leverage. Can you blame me?
And then I saw it.
Under the Housing / Fair Housing tab, in the Dos and Don'ts section: "Do wright down." No. Freakin'. Way. The fact that I once saw a similar error on my jury duty summons was bad enough. I could NOT let this pass.
What? You think I'm joking? Exaggerating? Well ... I can see how you would think that. I know me even better than you do. So, here's the proof: http://www.legalaidsociety.org/housing.html
Well, obviously, I went to the "Contact Us" link and wrote them a kind but firm email entitled "Embarrassing spelling error on your site." And I really hope they take it as seriously as they should. Grievous public spelling errors do not inspire confidence in clients or backers. I mean, really. Do you want legal advice from a person who can't spell the simplest of common words? I certainly don't. That's why I won't let my sister be my lawyer. Hee hee hee.
As I understand it, here in this great nation, any person can sue any other person for any reason. That's a lot of anys. That's a lot of freedom. So, I'm thinking about suing Legal Aid for illegal spelling. Then again, it would be just my luck if their knowledge of the law happened to surpass their knowledge of the basic rules of spelling. Not that I'm counting on that. The documentation they put together for the trial might be riddled with horrendous language errors, but it just might make some real legal sense. So, perhaps I'll hold off for now. If they ignore my email, however, I just might reconsider. And if Bridget can pass my spelling test, I just might allow her to represent me ... and the English language.
Meanwhile, on my way to Barnes and Noble after work this afternoon, while stopped at a red light, I observed an old ice cream truck emblazoned with blue and pink letters: "Popsicles, Banana Split, Nachos, Sundaes." Hmm... One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Apparently, here in lovely Santa Clara County, you can not only find your legal advice spelled illegally, you can also buy your nachos off an ice cream truck. It's no wonder we've got so much overcrowding. Who wouldn't want to live here?
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream ... and nachos!
I'll keep you up-to-date on my blog posts via my Facebook status updates. Never fear. And be expecting to see more and more of said updates. I've started carrying a tiny notepad around with me so that I can jot down hilarious and/or disturbing events in my day-to-day life. This way, I don't forget all the funny stuff before I can write it out for you. I've got quite a list going already. And none of it is included in this post. You're welcome.
Stay tuned.
B
P.S. -- It's been a long time since I've read "The Boy Who Cried Wolf," but I do recall that he winds up dead in the end. It could have been a wolf, but I'd be willing to bet that kid was actually murdered by a disgruntled neighbor who was sick of his constant screaming. I think I might annonymously leave a Spanish copy of that story on my new neighbors' patio. Unless that seems threatening. Hmm.
Pet Peeve of the Day:
Minivans. 'Nuff said.
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