The Ugly Truth #1

Many of us have been conditioned to accept that we should believe certain things in life and regard those things as absolute truths. If we do not believe these things, we should keep those dissensions to ourselves due to risk of complete social ostracization (I'm not quite sure if that's a word, but you get it). For example, we are supposed to believe that dogs are awesome. If you do not, keep that to yourself lest you offend the rest of the general public (see for example: Friends, Season 7, “The One Where Chandler Doesn’t Like Dogs”). If you think maybe the Tea Partiers aren’t bat-shit crazy, keep that to yourself, dude, or others may think you are also bat-shit crazy. And if you believe that dinosaurs are myths and mermaids are certifiably real then, really, don’t tell that to anyone because you actually are bat-shit crazy so maybe that's not a good example.

But there is one belief with which I firmly do not agree and I think it’s time we stop being afraid to say how we really feel.

All babies are not cute.

I’m sorry, but they’re just not. There are some trollerific babies out there. We’ve all seen them but we keep those beliefs inside because we have these visions of being labeled heartless and being handed our one-way tickets to Hell, which we'll undertake in a vehicle with Nirvana and System of a Down on a constant loop and Easy Rider repeating infinitely on the screens in front of us and our riding partner who just so happens to be Kathy Griffin and she just will not shut up.

This needs to end. You shouldn't have to feel bad for your beliefs. I would NEVER tell a parent that his or her baby was not cute, but I am not afraid to say it when that family leaves and someone says, “Oooooh wasn’t Oscar just adorable?” No, actually, Oscar was not adorable; Oscar looked like this:


I don’t treat ugly babies any differently, just as I don’t treat ugly adults any differently. Does my saying this mean that I myself will have an ugly baby? I’m absolutely sure of it. I don’t expect to birth an angelic cherub baby when motherhood comes my way. Indeed, when I was born I resembled a small hairy monkey and I’m sure my progeny will make their entrance into this world in a stunningly similar fashion. That doesn’t change the fact that in this world,

There are cute babies



And there are ugly babies



(There are also REALLY cute babies)




You will not hear me say “Oh look at that cute baby” every time a stranger passes me with a stroller simply because it contains a baby. Babies do not inherently equal cute. Many ugly babies go on to make extremely cute children. I, as a baby, had a face that was too long and thus I always looked distraught or "special," but my toddler years were much more kind to me and those who had to look at pictures of me. Thankfully, I honestly and truly find all of my friends' and family members' babies to be seriously cute. It's been quite nice knowing that I will not have to lie to anyone I personally know.

The point is, we should not be afraid to disagree with the belief that all babies are cute because it's an erroneous belief. Those of us unafraid to admit the existence of ugly babies would never tell an ugly baby's parents or family/friend who would take offense, but it doesn't mean that we don't think it. We just hope that we are not asked, “Isn't my baby cute” thus forcing us to lie because that is NOT a question you answer honestly if you do not in fact think said baby is cute. You say to a trusted friend or family member, “Holy Lord, what the Hell happened in there?” and hope that the child grows out of its face.

I'll be posting pictures of my ugly children in a few years.

My Best Friend's Worst Roommate

We’ve all had the roommate with whom we don’t want to live again. I’m very lucky in that of 5 roommates I had, there’s only one that I wouldn’t live with again. Otherwise, I lived with 4 great girls. My roommate senior year, specifically, was awesome and while we were so different, we got along so well and I learned so much from her. We met on a Wednesday night our junior year when my neighbors hosted their weekly “Southpong” nights where there was beer pong on a table suspended from the ceiling and countless cases of Southpaw awaiting all who cared to join in the black-lit cave of awesomeness that was their apartment. We recognized each other from when I went to get my tongue pierced earlier in the year and she worked at the parlor. Through continued conversation, we realized we were from the same area back home, she needed a place to live the following year, I didn’t want to live with my current roommate another year (and the apartment was kind of “handed-down” to me from my brother’s friends so I sure as Hell wasn’t moving), we got along really well, and why not live together since she has friends in my complex and it sure beats putting an ad out for a random person? When she moved in she brought her NES. Like, original NES. I knew it was going to be a good senior year. For me.

Best Friend, however, did not have such an experience senior year. For the record, Best Friend has the worst luck in the world, in all areas of life. Freshman year she first lived in a building that smelled of rank ass and her roommate single-handedly assisted in contributing to that. When you walked in the building, you found yourself catching your breath because the stank just hit you square in the face. When you went to Room 147, you actually had to hold your breath. Her roommate let her dishes sit out long enough that the stuff growing inside started overgrowing the rims of bowls and mugs (they had to buy new dishes). Her roommate sometimes didn’t want to climb all the way to her bed on the top bunk, so she and her boyfriend would just lie in Best Friend’s bed where they drank wine and ate cheese and crackers from Best Friend’s desk. When my roommate left school in February, Best Friend moved in with me. Best Friend and I said we’d be roommates in the dorms the following year as well. Best Friend’s luck had another plan. Turns out, Best Friend was not going to get on-campus housing. She wasn’t even wait-listed. She was outright rejected for housing while I (and all of her other friends) were accepted and had our on-campus housing secured for the following year. She had to find a place to live. With strangers. And quickly.

Through her search, she was lucky enough to find S & M. Fortunately, the three of them got along extremely well and sophomore year was great fun. Unfortunately, however, they were prevented from living together in that apartment another year because they were going to be turned into condos. Best Friend’s luck can probably be blamed for that one too—it cares not of other casualties.

M lived elsewhere the following year so Best Friend and S moved into another apartment complex, where they lived with E. That year was incredibly fun. I became the unofficial fourth roommate who slept on the futon many many weekend nights (and a great deal of Mondays as well). Then, to our dismay, S graduated at the end of that year and Best Friend and E had to find yet another roommate for senior year. Best Friend’s luck had decided that it had left her living situation relatively calm for a while, and that was not to continue for her final year.

Enter T-Rach.

Her name was Rachel, but it didn’t take long before she earned herself the nickname by which she would be forever known. T-Rach was a big girl who lived…bigly. She made no attempts to walk or perform any other action with any notion of delicacy, but really just kind of barreled through the space around her. Her nickname came about one evening when a group of us in the living room heard her begin walking in her room and subsequently entering the hall. The drinks we had on the coffee table in the living room literally began to vibrate like that scene in Jurassic Park. We could feel her before we could see her.

T-Rach was innocuous at first. She kept to herself and didn’t bring much attention to herself (except for her tyrannosaurish walking tendencies), usually hanging out in her room unless she came out to make her dinner. We didn’t think much of her at the beginning.

But then we noticed things. Those dinners she came out to make? They were a master-level culinary creation of steak with a side of steak. Those two steaks were covered in cheese. There were no vegetables or carbs, just steak and more cheesy steak. She’d go outside in the freezing cold, huddle over this miniature grill in sweatpants that were hung too low and a thong that was pulled too high for a girl who easily weighed over 250 pounds. We’d have to witness this for several minutes at a time because steaks don’t cook but so quickly on a toy charcoal grill and we’re not talking about steak medallions here. Then she’d take her two cheese-covered steaks and head to her room and we wouldn’t see her the rest of the evening.

One night she told us she was going for a run. More power to her right? If only the rest of us larger people could gather the determination for exercise! Go T-Rach! When she left, though, we realized that T-Rach wasn’t going running.

She was going hunting.

You know what you don’t wear if you’re going running at night? You don’t wear a black sweatshirt. With black sweatpants. And black shoes and socks. And you really don't pull the black hood of the black sweatshirt over your face. No, you don’t wear that to go running. You wear that to hunt small nocturnal woodland creatures in the creek beside your apartment complex. When she returned from “running,” she was neither sweaty nor out of breath. Instead, she had 2 bags of Chips Ahoy, walked straight into her room and those cookies were never seen again.

When she decided she wanted a puppy to stash in her room, she went and got herself a puppy. I think the puppy’s name was Max. Max was adorable the few times I saw him. I say this because he stayed with T-Rach, and because she never left her room, neither did he unless he was going outside (which wasn’t often, poor thing). When Max did come out, you’d go to pet him and be left with a greasy hand since he was covered in the grease that results from handling multiple cheesy steaks and then slopping it on a dog in petting attempts. This grease was also on the back of the fridge handle, which was ALWAYS a nice surprise when all you wanted was a drink and what felt like the result of dipping your hand in lard.

In the middle of the semester, T-Rach decided she was going to move out. When she made this decision, that meant she finally left her lair long enough for Best Friend, E and I to investigate.

Oh Holy God.

In addition to the dank smell, it really did look like an animal had been caged in there and not just the puppy that was actually caged in there. The bottom of the door had been clawed away so badly that chunks of door were missing. There was a plethora of crumbs in her bed, which was a sloppy mess. Gaping holes were in the walls of the bedroom and the closet. The closet! We’re not talking about holes from nails for picture-hanging. No no, they were holes of destruction where the carcasses of the creatures she managed to successfully capture must have been placed after she had devoured what she wanted of them. The only pictures on the walls were colored pictures of Ariel and Sleeping Beauty—you know, from the coloring books all of us college students had.

Then there was her bathroom. The linoleum had been ripped up at the door like something had been held in there against its will and was attempting to fight and/or dig its way out. But why would she lock her puppy in the bathroom of the bedroom she kept shut all the time anyway? Perhaps she thought cleaning its waste from the linoleum floor was so much easier than actually taking it outside to walk it? The toilet seat was broken in half. Amateur repair had been attempted with electrical tape but it was still quite obviously broken. The toilet seat. What could she have possibly done to that toilet seat that caused it to literally break in half?

When T-Rach did finally leave, it was both a relief and a royal pain in the ass for Best Friend and E. She left no forwarding address but she DID leave her mattress (which served as a great brace for the beer pong table we spray-painted with chalkboard paint--best college idea ever, by the way). We knew she lived in a nearby county, but didn’t know where or with whom. The state of her room alone cost them their security deposit and then some. Even if everything else in the apartment had been pristine, the damages in her room still would have exhausted the security deposit and racked up additional charges. They had to pay significant fees for the damage and T-Rach, of course, couldn’t pay this. Nor could she continue paying her rent because she was apparently going to file for bankruptcy and had numerous medicals bills from phantom doctor visits. The doctor visits couldn’t have possibly actually taken place because she honestly never left her room. I believe the creatures trapped in her room and hidden in the walls, scraping and clawing for escape, would confirm this.

Life seemed boringly normal after T-Rach vacated the apartment, leaving us with only the memories of her nighttime hunting, grease-covered dog, ill-fitting sweatpants, and the gnawing question of “where does one possibly purchase thongs that large and why on Earth does anyone manufacture such items?”

Vote for Freaky!

Freaky's voting day has arrived! Go vote for her in the Tournament of Cuteness! Voting stays open until Sunday.

My Best Story

I debated on when I should finally post this story. Should it have been the first story? Should I post it on the anniversary of the event or another significant date? I finally decided to just go ahead and post it as I've come to realize that there are a few of my friends who have not yet heard the story. See, this is my best story and I didn't want to give it away too soon. Now's the time.

On a beautiful September day in 2009, Boyfriend and I were leaving Brother and SIL's house after my adorable nephew's first birthday party. I was originally going to stay through the whole weekend but with school work at the time, I decided that I had to leave that Saturday afternoon instead. This ultimately proved to be one of the best decisions I ever made.

The drive was proceeding wonderfully. The skies were sunny, the temperature perfect. Boyfriend and I were cruising happily along with our windows down and our hair blowing attractively about our faces. We're traveling approximately 60 mph and Boyfriend was beginning to doze off into what would have probably been a blissful passenger-seat slumber.

I happen to look up and see a large bird of prey swooping from the trees beside the road. I'm in disbelief as I realize that this bird has horribly miscalculated its attack and I'm going to hit it as it quickly approaches the ground. In a split second I'm thinking "Oh my gosh I'm going to hit this bird and it's going to crack my windshield because it's massive and seriously, who hits birds? and is this bird for real swooping right this second because surely it's been a bird long enough to learn proper attack protocol..."

My thinking was abruptly halted when I heard the loud "POW!" of what I thought was bird against my windshield. I yell a religious-laced obscenity and look quickly at windshield to see that, thankfully, Suicidal Bird had not cracked it. Whew for me, unfortunate for the massive avian predator I just likely obliterated.

It dawned on me, then, that Boyfriend had not yelled out as I had, which struck me as odd because Suicidal Bird would have hit right in front of him and surely that would look awesome or at least wake him up. When I look at Boyfriend, I see that he's crouched over in the fetal position of my passenger seat and yelling "What the HELL was THAT?! I think the visor just hit me in the head!" I thought this strange because visor was still against the car ceiling as it should be.

Then I saw feathers on my dashboard.

Then it dawned on me.

Then I laughed harder than I've ever laughed in my entire life.

Boyfriend had just been hit in the face by Suicidal Bird.

I explain to him, through fits of uncontrollable laughter, that he has just been hit by a sizable bird of prey and he doesn't believe me. I point to the feathers strewn across my dashboard and floor, to the visor that is still in its rightful place and tell him what I saw. He adds that the greatest amount of pain is on the right side of his head, with some pain on his left ear as well. All signs point to Suicidal Bird colliding with his face and wing wrapping around his head. I cannot rightfully explain how hard I was laughing. Okay, sure, Boyfriend could have died or at least lost an eye should unfortunate talon-placement have transpired, but that didn't happen and Boyfriend laughed too so I don't feel guilty.

Then the phone calls begin.

My third call was to Brother. I recount the story to him and he asks, "Is the bird still in the car?" I tell him of course not, Suicidal Bird cannot possibly be in the car. Upon further consideration, Boyfriend and I take into account that only his and my window were down so unless it flew out behind my head and out of my window, or bounced off of his face, there's a chance the bird could still be in my car. Boyfriend turns around.

"Uh, Em? Yeah, the bird's in the car."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is. It's in the backseat."
*I picture deer scene from Tommy Boy, become somewhat frightened and decide that Boyfriend is joking with me, otherwise we are in severe peril.*
"Take a picture with your phone, then."
*Boyfriend takes picture with phone. Shows me picture of bird on what looks alarmingly similar to my backseat*
"Holy [expletive!]"

Thankfully we came to a red light and I was able to turn around to see the carnage for myself. What I saw was a hawk or falcon or osprey slumped against the door behind me, fatally resting on my overnight bag. The hawk/falcon/osprey/something had flown into Boyfriend's face, continued its trajectory and met with an unforgiving window behind my seat. Since the loud explosion-like sound I heard couldn't have come from contact with Boyfriend's face, I think what I heard was the hawk-window showdown.

We stopped at a gas station a few miles down the road, but I could never shake the feeling that this bird was going to awaken and fly around my car, seriously pissed off. Unfortunately fur Suicidal Bird, he could not have been more dead. I get gloves from gas station to remove the bird from my car, but decide that we can't just throw it away. The bird really is lovely and is probably a juvenile so it deserves a proper burial.

Or actually, we wanted to stuff it. After numerous calls, however, we are told that it is illegal in our state to stuff a bird of prey and we could get in serious trouble if we were found to have this dead bird in our possession.

And also, no one would believe us without the animal. AND we needed to compare it to pictures in bird books to see what it was.

Ultimately, we gave it a proper burial but not before stopping by my parents' houses and our friend's house, where we attended a birthday party and thus got to show it to almost all of our friends.

I wanted Boyfriend to be called "Hawk" but it didn't stick, much to the dismay of Boyfriend and me.

And here, for your viewing pleasure, is the Rough-Legged Hawk that my ninja Boyfriend killed with his face:





The question that still haunts me to this day: What on earth did the people behind us see?

Tournament of Cuteness

Fellow blogger, Jamey, has begun a Tournament of Cuteness. I totally think my cat should win this, so I ask all readers to go to the site and vote for Freaky. Her bracket isn't up today, but I will post again when it is. And then you should go vote for her. Remember, you're voting for Freaky:

The Creepertons: Volume II

The Creepertons continue to make their presence known. The days since the hole in the ceiling revealed their creepy ways to the rest of the apartment world have been interesting. There has been a considerable increase in not only loud banging but also the use of their...

Garbage disposal.

No, seriously. They've never used their garbage disposal more than they have over the past week. The use of the garbage disposal always follows loud banging. Every time. Every creepy time.

The Creepertons have also decided to tackle many more things together than they did before, like getting fast food. Bitch Creeperton left alone late last week to get herself some Wendy's. She returned with naught but a soda. So either she drove to the furthest fast food restaurant from our complex just for a soda (even though we live literally behind a grocery store) or she inhaled her food on the way home. Upon her return home, she walked upstairs, got Mr. Creeperton and they left again. This time, they returned with Burger King. This time, Mr. Creeperton drove. She was fully capable of driving to Wendy's and back, but made the effort to get out, go upstairs and knock on the door, and then walk back downstairs to get in the passenger seat. Who knows?

Today has been the best. Maintenance people spent the morning and most of the afternoon gutting their apartment. They removed and replaced the Creepertons' carpet, linoleum and kitchen cabinets. Boyfriend has seen all types of plywood and scraps thrown into the "yard" and rolls of other things being taken out. We think this explains the increased use of their garbage disposal as I'm sure maintenance told them they'd be back on Tuesday to remove everything and the Creepertons put their "cleaning" efforts into overtime. I wouldn't be surprised if the garbage disposal needs replacing as well because I can't imagine human bones are broken up so easily. I know who to ask if I'm curious though!

So in the span of a few weeks they froze their air conditioner (remember, because the temperature was reaching a sweltering 55 degrees) and allowed their sink to leak so badly that they had to replace carpet, the floor and the cabinets. During this time, they never thought it important enough to call the complex and describe these apparently "minor" issues. No one was aware of the deterioration upstairs until those issues caved in our ceiling at one in the morning.

Even if it's not bodies, it's AT LEAST meth. I'm glad Boyfriend and I finally got renter's insurance. I'm also glad I'm now certified in pet CPR (in addition to the adult CPR certification that expires this month). I will not be surprised if both of these newly-acquired assets are put to use in the coming months as one of two scenarios likely takes place: 1) The current bodies are joined by our own as retribution for exposing the very dark and secret cover they had enjoyed for a year and a half, or 2) The meth lab explodes. Each of these scenarios is equally likely.

List Three: Things That Make Me Me

We all like to think that we fit in, but have a few things about ourselves that set us apart from others. I tried to think of a few and while I know that many people will have similar attributes, the collection of all of them in one person helps make me distinctly me.

1. I'm a girl who loves to watch and play football and basketball, but I also get super excited when I get to wear my gorgeous 4-inch purple peep-toe heels.

2. I don't like Hollywood or the hypocrisy of actors who make millions of dollars for a few months' work and think I should be giving away more of my money while they buy houses that could house entire villages of the poor countries they so want to help and I struggle to make rent, but I love the glamour of the Oscars.

3. I have an undergraduate degree, a graduate certificate and a master's degree and I feel like a failure every day when I come to work as an administrative assistant. I despise telling people what I do b/c it looks ridiculous. I took the admin job at a university so I could get a free master's degree and over a year since completing it, I'm doing the same job. I hate it when people ask me where I work and what I do.

4. When I'm at work sitting down all day, I really want to go work out. As soon as I'm off work, I have no desire to work out and I just want to go home and sit down all night.

5. I currently only own one pair of jeans. I had a second pair, but they got a hole in them and I don't wear holey jeans. I've never been a jeans hoarder and don't understand the need for multiple pairs so I usually have a dark pair and a light pair. I'll replace my light pair and be perfectly fine with my 2 pairs of jeans.

6. I'm anti-Apple. I have a Microsoft Zune instead of an iPod and I refuse to get an iPhone. I resent the anti-conformity angle they use while almost completely monopolizing the mp3 player and smartphone markets. What do the hipsters and artists and people who are sooooo different from everyone else use? Apple everything.

7. I'm totally in love with cats and don't really care for dogs. I know this makes me appear quite crazy and scares guys off but I don't care. Cats are cute and playful while also being independent beings who need very little. They can also love on you very gently and be very sweet. Dogs smell and jump and lick you and need so much maintenance. A dog loving on you always involves being head-butted and licked and it's quite unpleasant. And did I mention they smell? Before you jump on me that cats' litter boxes smell, let's review something. Cats themselves do not smell. If you clean their litter box as you're supposed to, that doesn't smell either. Dogs smell. Like the actual dog smells. Every house that owns a dog smells like dog.

8. I hate the band Nirvana. With a passion. I think they were an absolutely awful band and not because of Grohl or Novaselic. Kurt Cobain was atrocious. He could not sing, he had an elementary understanding of the guitar, he could NOT sing (I want to ensure that's emphasized), and his lyrics were anything but genius: they were the ramblings of a drug addict. He killed himself because he didn't want to be famous (and because he was a drug addict and didn't think straight) and I'm supposed to be sad about that? Cry me a river Kurt, you know how to not be famous? You don't be famous. See me? Right now? I'm being not famous. It's easy. If you didn't want to be famous anymore or sell out your music you know what you do? You stop selling your music. You stop giving interviews on MTV about not wanting to be famous, you stop making videos, you stop putting albums out, you stop touring, etc. I'm sure many non-conformists listen to your mass-produced messages on their iPods.

9. One of my favorite things in the world is to get up Sunday morning and make waffles while playing the local classic rock station. Double the pleasure if it's nice out and I can open the windows as well.

10. I want to go on a ship at night. Not a cruise ship, but a big ole fishing boat or something. I want to act like the sailor I feel like. A yacht with all of its lights turned off would suffice, but I really want to hear the creaking of a ship at sea at night.

11. I love ballet. I loved it when I danced it and I love to watch it. If I was rich and living in NYC, I'd have season tickets to the American Ballet Theater and I'd love every second of it.

12. I don't have a GPS and will probably never have a GPS. I do this thing before I go somewhere with which I'm not familiar called "looking up directions and looking at the map." I'm pretty good with directions and as I've seen my ability to retain phone numbers diminish with the use of cell phones, I refuse to have that happen with my sense of direction and ability to find places on my own.

13. I don't really understand what "Esquire" means. I know that it goes after the name of some attorneys, but I don't understand it. Are all attorneys "esquires?" Does "esquire" always mean attorneys, or can another profession use the term? Are esquires only men? Is it a certain class or type of attorney that can use "esquire?"

14. Many of the things I was obsessed with as a child are still obsessions now. Volcanoes, weather (hurricanes especially), ballet, and geology can still get me excited and giddy.

15. I cannot end lists on anything other than a multiple of 5. Lists HAVE to end with a 5 or 0. Have to.

Yes, It Was 70 Degrees Yesterday, But It's 34 Degrees Today

Dear Girl in Too-Short Shorts and Flip-Flops:

www.weather.com.

You're welcome.

I Live Below Serial Killers

Back in October 2009, we got new neighbors above us. From the beginning Boyfriend and I thought they were strange. Since 2009, they're hardly--if ever--gone from the apartment at the same time. Someone is always home and someone is always awake. We know this because they are always banging around up there. Morning, noon and night, they are making noise. I've decided that they play pool in the room above my bedroom and bowl in their kitchen. They never open their blinds and they never use lights. Seriously. Drive by at any time and you will never see lights on in the Creepertons' apartment. When they leave, it's only for short periods of time and it's very very rare that they go somewhere together. If they go somewhere together, they're gone for about 5 minutes. We have no idea what on Earth they could possibly do to earn money except maybe they use the insurance they got when they killed their father/husband. To further compound the creepiness--we cannot tell just what their relationship might be. It's pretty obvious that Boyfriend and I are dating and we live together. It's obvious that the nice couple who live behind us are an older married couple. Across from them was a younger couple--we think married. Across from us is a man who sometimes has his daughter and has recently gotten married to New Woman. Above us though? We don't know if they date, if they're siblings, or if they're mother/son. I know that doesn't sound weird when you think about it once. But really think--have you ever not been able to tell even remotely if someone COULD be mom/sister/girlfriend/wife? They're creepy and I think the woman is genetically altered somehow because she is in no way normal-looking. I thought she had Down syndrome at one point, but she's not cute enough and quite frankly, too much of a bitch. I know, you hate me now. But really, at least Mr. Creeperton smiles and nods, Bitch Creeperton never even attempts to make eye contact. She just likes to complain about our music and call the police when we are watching the Oscars. Suffice to say, the sight of about 10 people dressed to the nines (girls in sequined/bridesmaid dress and dudes in suits) sitting on the couch watching the Oscars while a police officer stands on the red carpet outside our door actually telling us he doesn't know why he was called here was hilarious. I'm not lying; that's a story for another time.

Last week, Boyfriend noticed what looked like moisture in the ceiling. He texted me about it, but I thought little of it because our ceiling has stains anyway. How is our ceiling stained? I haven't the foggiest. Those older stains actually have a reddish tint, but are not food-related and I really think they're blood stains that have seeped through the Creepertons' floor. Anyway. By later that evening, I had forgotten all about this.

Fast forward to early this morning. At 1:30 this morning, I was awakened from a lovely dream to Boyfriend asking what the emergency maintenance number was because our ceiling was falling. That's quite an awakening at 1:30 in the morning, especially when you were so joyful to be getting into bed at 10:00 a.m. like normal adults who just might get enough sleep. Alas, I had to get up to see our caving ceiling. In that aforementioned moisture spot was now what appeared to be a drywall vagina in our ceiling dripping water into a puddle on our carpet. No really, that's the best way to describe it. It wasn't a hole per se, but the ceiling was peeled back on either side and...ok, just trust me. Boyfriend looked up the emergency number and I went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later, I hear banging and get up to see maintenance guy standing on my kitchen counter, banging a hole into my ceiling (and water still dripping). He named a few things it could be and said it should be okay to last until he could come back around 9:00 a.m. today. At 8:30 this morning, Boyfriend calls to say moisture line has extended into our kitchen and now there is water dripping from our kitchen light fixture--what every renter loves to hear! Maintenance says they are going to get the key to the apartment above us because it sounds like maybe it could be coming from their AC unit.

Maintenance visits upstairs. Asks if they have any water lying around and Mr. Creeperton says they do not. Maintenance guy asks if they have noticed anything that could be weird. Mr. Creeperton says that their AC froze up last week. When asked why they were running their AC at all, Mr. C says, "Well it's been getting up to over 55!" Apparently 55 is the magic temperature where the Creepertons fear the bodies they have hidden up there begin to decompose. Clearly they couldn't call anyone about their AC because running it in February when the temps have been reaching a scorching sixty degrees (that's Fahrenheit, not Celsius or Kelvin or anything else) is just weird and too many red flags would be raised. It also means that outsiders might have to come in the apartment and we can't have that, lest they see that all of the light bulbs have been removed and there are people pieces in various dark places.

So maintenance comes back downstairs and makes a hole in our ceiling big enough to fit a man's head in. Turns out, the hole was made so that a man could stick his head in. Said man looks around and locates the leak, which is clearly coming from the apartment above us, in the general direction of their kitchen. Workers must now go back upstairs to do more investigative work because they should most definitely have some water lying around if that much was coming into our ceiling and onto our floorS. When they go upstairs, they find that Creepertons' sink has been leaking so much that the cabinets are rotted out at the bottom. This sink has leaked so much that it rotted through cabinets, still had to travel 6-8 inches to reach their floor, saturate the floor and into that magical space between their floor and our ceiling, then saturate our ceiling and begin to drip in our living room AND kitchen--in 2 completely separate places. The damage was so bad, maintenance had to cut open the counter in multiple places, including removing an entire corner. How do you not notice that?!

Oh I know--you DO notice that but choose not to report it because outsiders might have to come in your apartment and they might just discover the human heads in the freezer that fall out every now and then and sound like bowling balls hitting the floor.

Maintenance did not expect to see such a show upstairs and had to leave to get more supplies. As soon as maintenance leaves, Mr. C leaves with a black trash bag. Who uses black trash bags for their kitchen? You know who uses black trash bags? Contractors, carpenters, lawn guys, and serial killers. Mr. C has not yet returned. He's NEVER gone this long.

We are going to have a hole in our ceiling until Thursday because it needs to dry out up there. Lord only knows what they have to do upstairs, but whatever it is, I'm sure the Creepertons are moving the body parts out of the apartment ahead of time. Boyfriend actually texted a little while ago to inform me that the other car has not returned, but he hears what sounds like shuffling and DRAGGING above him. There's cleaning to be done, obviously!

I'm fearful and told Boyfriend to hide our cats. Serial killers love killing cats. And people. They love killing cats and people and our apartment has both, and we have now put a spotlight on them, thus all but ensuring that we've stolen the focus from the next intended victim(s) and put it squarely on ourselves. We may have saved lives (though in all likelihood, killed ourselves). You're welcome, previous targets.

1:04 p.m. update: Mr. Creeperton HAS returned, but did it creepily. Boyfriend didn't notice his return. What he DID notice, however, was that Mr. C. is leaving with ANOTHER black trash bag! Actually, he's walked outside and put the trash bag in his truck and is just sitting there. Boyfriend looked out of the blinds and Mr. Creeperton was staring at him! Dude sat in his car for entire minutes after that. When he finally did drive away, he drove AWAY from the trash compactor. But why? Clearly he was going to the county landfill, where there is much more trash and much less likelihood that his disposed body parts will be located. Even if they are, there's no telling from where they came. There's just too much risk in dropping them off at the apartment complex trash site.

Brother/Sister E-mail #2

While listening to Foreigner's "Juke Box Hero" one day, I realized that I had a few questions about this man's "hero" status. So, I asked my source for all that is classic rock (and good music in general). What I got was one of the most thoughtfully considered analytical answers ever. And you know, he was able to answer my question.

Email from Me:
What amazing feat does it take to acquire the status of Juke Box Hero?
What sort of fantastic act must one perform? From what did this newly
appointed "Hero" save others?

Email from Brother:
Well, we have to analyze this to glean the answer to your question...

FIRST VERSE
Standing in the rain, with his head hung low
Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold out show
Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene
Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream

He heard one guitar, just blew him away
He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day
Bought a beat up six string in a secondhand store
Didn't know how to play it, but he knew for sure

That one guitar, felt good in his hands
Didn't take long, to understand
Just one guitar, slung way down low
Was one way ticket, only one way to go

So he started rockin
Aint never gonna stop
Gotta keep on rockin
Someday hes gonna make it to the top

---I see this a lot in action flicks, our hero, outside in the rain,
standing there, head hung low. I've seen it in Batman, X-men, and the
like. Rambo stood there in the rain in First Blood Part II, ready to
kill anything & everything to get the POW's 'cause they ("charlies")
killed his woman. Frank Reynolds and Charlie ??? let it rain on them
though, but those are just comedic heroes. I think even Chuck Norris
has allowed it to rain on him, just for effect though. Although I will
say, Jack Bauer would never be caught in the rain. Neither would Agent
Jack Bauer, cats don't like rain. So, I guess the first part of heroism
is standing in the rain. Check that box, we've got it here.

Now we look at his response time. He heard a "distant scream" through a
wall. Could be concrete, if so, that's impressive. If it's sheet rock,
still pretty good. But, he's responding to a scream. Always a need for
some type of hero if there's a scream.

Then he heard one guitar blow him away and he was seeing stars
afterward. That's a pretty strong punch, even from a "D" chord. But he
goes to a pawn shop and buys a guitar of his own, and it felt pretty
good in his hands. I equate that to a kid getting antsy and buying his
first gun. It feels pretty good in his hands. Know what other hero had
a gun. The Punisher.


CHORUS
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero
He took one guitar, juke box hero, stars in his eyes
Juke box hero, hell come alive tonight

Not a lot going on here that we didn't cover beforehand. It just lets
you know he's a hero, to someone.

SECOND VERSE
In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour
Thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door
Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain
And that one guitar made his whole life change

Now he needs to keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top

Here we have a nameless, lawless town our "hero" has come through,
probably rode in on a tour bus with some groupies. It's still raining,
for effect. "Like a trip through the past...," hey, every hero has a
bad memory they don't want to visit. Batman didn't want to think about
falling into what would later become the Batcave. Max Payne didn't want
to think of his wife & kid. Rambo didn't want to think about "the old
Vietnam," nor Rocky about Apollo Creed. But it happens, it has to, so
they know what they're fighting for.


And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Yeah, juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
With that one guitar hell come alive
Come alive tonight

Yeah, hes gotta keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top

And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Just one guitar, put stars in his eyes
Hes just a juke box hero, aah aah aah
Juke box hero, juke box hero, hes got stars in his eyes
Stars in his eyes

I think what we have here is someone who has drastically tried to become
a hero in someone else's eyes, which is sad really because if someone
else wants you to become a hero, and you can't, then you're a failure.
And failures never win. But, this Juke Box Hero has become a hero to
someone, defeating Juke Boxes all over the world apparently. He just
forgot to mention it, because he has succeeded quite well actually. I
haven't seen a Juke Box in ages.

That Time I Was a Member of One of America's Most Powerful Crime Families

As a child born in the early 80s, I was unwaveringly caught up in the madness that swarmed over little girls when the most wonderful thing that ever happened happened:

The New Kids on the Block came around.

I don't mean "came around" like they "came around town." I simply mean that they existed. They existed and they made the music that every single-digit-aged little girl swooned over and HELLO did you SEE Joey McIntyre and Jonathan Knight? I wasn't a Jordan person, clearly.

Anyway, I had a Jonathan Knight poster. It hung on my wall and I loved it and I stared at it, and I loved being in my room because of that poster that my parents bought me when we went to Movie Time one Friday night to rent a movie. That poster also resulted in the assumption that I was in a family much different from the one in which I actually existed.

To all the youngins: You had to actually leave the house and go to a store that rented video tapes. Oh and tapes were these things that you put in a VCU to play your movie. They weren't on discs. Images and sounds were burned onto a tape that wound around 2 heads and if you were Kind, you would Rewind said tapes before returning them to the rental store. There were even these things that re-wound your tapes when you were done watching a million times faster than your VCR and sometimes I exaggerate. My family didn't own one of those b/c we weren't lazy and didn't waste our damn money.

Anyway.

I had a Jonathan Knight poster. On this poster was a phone number you could dial to, you know, talk to the New Kids. 1-900-909-5KIDS. I remember this b/c it was REALLY easy for a 9 year old to remember and I may have dialed it more than once. Maybe even multiple times. I thought 1-800 and 1-900 numbers were the same (free). While I thought they were free, I still was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know, much less the NEW KIDS ON THE FREAKING BLOCK and OMG what if Jonathan or Joey answered and talked to me? So of course I called multiple times.

So I dialed the number the first time and hung up. Lightning didn't strike me and my parents hadn't yet found out, so I called again. I remember them saying something that scared me so I hung up again. Then I called them back. And they entertained me. Then it was time to leave for church. Then I got home, changed out of my pretty dress and called the New Kids back again. I remember "listening to them in their studio." Then an exciting offer came my way!

What kind of exciting offer? I could own a cassette tape that let me hear MORE of them joking around in their studio! For only $12.99 and it would be added to the phone bill automatically so there was no need to try and get a pesky check or something mailed. Only $12.99 for a cassette of the New Kids? Add that bitch on there. Phone bills were, like, super-expensive right? My parents will never know that it's thirteen dollars more expensive than normal (before the cost of shipping, handling, and oh yeah, the cost of the MULTIPLE 1-900 calls I had made). Regardless, I wanted this tape and to get it, I just had to press a button indicating such. This was all made possible by the disclaimer on the poster that said you have to get your parents' permission first if you were under 18 so they're operating under the assumption that I had done so. Thus the purchasing process was insanely easy.

My bitchin cassette of the New Kids on the Block in their studio and making prank phone calls was going to arrive in an unmarked package (lest someone want to steal such a goldmine of awesome) but first I had to give them the shipping information. Of course, this included my name and address. Now, I didn't understand the importance of spelling a last name or road name at the tender age of 9, but that didn't matter b/c if I knew how to spell my last name, so did they, right? Just say it slow enough. Whomever addressed the package got the street name correct and that's not even a real word. They didn't, however, get my last name right.

My unmarked, padded brown package came delivered to someone with the last name "Gambino." Nothing is written on this package save my name and address. No return address, no business name anywhere, no nothing. Just a plain brown package, slightly padded so as to avoid injury to the undoubtedly fragile item(s) inside.

Poor postal worker. In his hands, he's handling a nondescript brown package addressed to an apparent member or relative of one of the largest, most infamous crime families in America. Remember John Gotti? The "Dapper Don?" He headed the Gambino crime family.

I bet that delivery guy had never in his career handled a package so gingerly. I also wonder if the girls with the last names of "Barton" and "Smith" got theirs faster than I got mine.

Epilogue:
The first few weeks were glorious. I took my tape to the babysitter's and the other girls there loved it too. I was a hit and my parents didn't know b/c surely they would have said something by now, right? Nope, turns out that phone bills only came once a month. When the bill came, what resulted was my first real grounding and the first time I had really, truly, honestly pissed my parents off. I mean pissed. Super pissed. Probably because multiple bills came. There was one from our regular carrier. Then another with more charges. All in all, I had to work off my debt from multiple phone bills (plural there, I don't know if that's sunk in yet) that totaled over $140. Do you know how much money that would be NOW for a simple land line? Imagine the late 80s. My brother got a break from chores for a while because I took over his in addition to my own. A lot of cleaning the litter box (daily, which is better than I do now actually), emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning off the table, taking the trash out, vacuuming, dusting, etc. It was a low period in my life. But I worked it off and I'm a better person now who appreciates hard work, the value of money, phone bill prices, and not being really dumb.

$20 says I can still find that tape somewhere if I look hard enough. My mailman and I worked our butts off for it, nothing was going to happen to that thing.

The Phone Calls I Get at Work

I get a phone call this morning from someone who is meeting my boss here in our office. She wanted our "actual physical location." I give her our address and my boss's room number. I should also add that she didn't ask for this information when she scheduled the meeting with my boss and said, "We can come to her office." You'd think a "Can you give us the address" would have followed, but no. I just figured she knew where we were or had looked on my boss's email signature and Googled it, but whatever. She didn't ask when she scheduled the meeting and offered to come to our office. Back to the present story. So she calls and asks for our "actual physical location" as opposed to the fanciful one where I dream I work in a beautiful office overlooking the Pacific with palm trees and flamingos and penguins that frolic about in my purple-hued office where Metallica plays live shows for me each day and I never have to hear awful bands like Cage the Elephant. She also doesn't want me to say, "Chicago. Our office is in Chicago" because, well, that's 1) far too vague and 2) simply not true. To avoid magical and false information, she asks for our "actual physical location."

So I give her the address, she thanks me, and we hang up the phone.

Story detour: What do you do when you're given an address to meet with someone? I'll tell you what I do. I look up the address so I know where I'm going. This method works so well, that I feel no reservations about recommending this practice to each and every one of you. When someone provides you with an address, you can go to this website called "Google" and it will show you where it is. You can even go to this website and zoom to street level so you can see the exact building you'll be going to and you'll know what to look for when you arrive. It's amazing, try it.

This is not the avenue that the two people take when arriving. No no, I get a phone call from the male coming and he says "Hi. I'm at the corner of [your street] and [other street]. Where do I go?" That corner is literally--literally--just one house over from our office. There's *that corner*, house, then our house. Someone moderately vision-impaired without glasses could read our address from his exact location. So here's the conversation:

Man: "...where do I go?"
Me: "We're [number]"
Man: "Ok, well do I walk towards the park or the other way?"
Me: "You'd walk towards the park and we're on the right."
Man: "Oh ok, on the right. That explains a lot, thanks."

You know what's on the left? A giant cathedral. There is no way that we would be on the left. And, like most addresses, there is only one of our number on the street (b/c it would be silly to have 915 on BOTH sides of the street) and there is just no possible way he could NOT see that from where he was standing unless he didn't look.

I got two phone calls in the matter of an hour asking where we were. The person who called the first time was with the person who called the second time. Neither person bothered to look at a map before coming. Why would you when you can just ASK someone?

I just typed in our address into Google maps. You can see our front door. Just saying.

Bathroom Bitch

I can't quite explain what happened to me after using the restroom today. Oh I CAN describe it, but I don't think it will adequately convey the weirdness/awkwardness/strangeness of what I experienced. I shall try. First, however, I want to put in a little background information. This is all taking place in an urban college campus, where old houses have been converted into offices. By old, I mean OLD. This results in every room having a great deal of echo and one cannot clear one's throat without someone on the first floor being able to hear it. Thus, what I'm saying is: sound travels here. Far. You cannot do anything quietly. Second, the restroom door is at the foot of some stairs, which come at the end of a relatively long, skinny hall. There is no need to stand directly by the door, as there is plenty of space behind you, and not much room in front of you for the person to exit the restroom. Third, the sink and counter are situated in proximity to the door in such a way as there is enough clearance to open the door and not much else. And the door opens in. Therefore, the person in the restroom is opening the door on him- or herself and there is not room for anything other than the opening door and the door opener. On to the story...

1. I used the restroom. I had not been, nor planned to be, in the room for very long at all.

2. I was just about done with my usage of the restroom and the toilet is finishing up its loud flushing cycle. Loud as in the toilet is loud and everything echoes so it's freaking loud and there's no way someone on the second floor couldn't hear it.

3. As I'm finishing up and getting ready to leave--a fluff of the hair in the mirror is about all I had left at the time--someone tries to open the door. Forcefully. Multiple times.

4. At no time did this would-be intruder knock. He or she kept trying to open the OBVIOUSLY locked door.

**I would like to add, again, that sound travels like you wouldn't believe in this building. The WBI should have heard both the toilet flushing and me moving around. Plus, isn't it customary to KNOCK on a closed door before attempting to enter, ESPECIALLY in the case of a restroom?**

5. I opened the door to see someone I don't know looking right at me. But hold on, it gets weird here.

6. That person, instead of apologizing and stepping aside so I could walk out of the restroom, begins to walk towards me.

7. This person is attempting to get INTO the restroom before I am OUT of the restroom. There is that awkward movement where two people must turn sideways because they are trying, at the same time, to get through a space meant for only one person.

8. This person glared at me as though I was in her way. Apparently, I should have known that this person who I've never seen before would need to use the restroom mere seconds after I did and I should have prevented this whole episode.

At the very least, I need to 1) not lock the door so she can come and go as she pleases whether the facilities are available or not or 2) learn to open the door and exit at the EXACT same time even though laws of physics don't allow this. Of course, she could also walk upstairs to the 3rd floor where there was an open restroom, but whatever.

30 Years of Habits

I just turned 30 a few days ago and while I don't feel that different, I have thought about a number of things. Ten years ago, I was in college and began a 365-day countdown to 21 on my AIM profile. At that time, I knew exactly who I was going to marry, in what my subject my degree would be, where I wanted to work afterward, when I was going to get married, etc. The only thing I didn't know, then, was who was going to take me out for my 21st birthday because I was the first of my friends to turn 21, save a good friend who did not yet drink at the time. Anyway, I just KNEW that by 30 I'd be old and married and a mother with a great job making a lot of money with my aerospace engineer husband.

Ten years is a large period of time, during which many many changes can take place.

I still work entry-level. I've dated the same guy for almost 9 years and there is no proposal on the horizon. I am childless, though I should also say that I am HAPPILY childless. When I reached about 23 or 25, I realized that I did not want children in my 20s. I think that was a wise decision, though I didn't really have a choice seeing as though I am still unmarried. I wanted to be married before 30 (but not much before), so that's goal number one unattained. I wanted to own my home before I was 30, so that's goal number two unattained. I EXPECTED to be working in my desired career field (much) before I was 30, so that's goal number three unattained. I planned on traveling to England and "accidentally" running into Prince William so that we could begin our fairy-tale romance, so there goes goal number four as well. Those unattained goals are really the only things I've felt down about since turning 30.

However, I've also thought about things I heard/said/did/experienced throughout my life onto which I still hold even though it's silly to do so. This part isn't deep. This is really thinking about those silly things that happened to you when you were a child that still influence your decision-making 25 years later. This is the fun part of turning 30. Thus I present to you...

Silly Childhood Crap That Continues to Influence Me Even Though I Know It's Silly Childhood Crap:

1. I'm quite reluctant to give you a bite of whatever I'm eating.
REASON: When I was about 5, I was about to enjoy a rare chocolate Little Debbie cake while sitting in my dad's lap. He asked for a bite and being the Daddy's Girl I am, I wholeheartedly offered him a bite even though I had not yet had one myself. He ate the whole thing, except that which my tiny girl hands were still gripping. I threw the last crescent at his chest and ran into my room where I cried on my bed. My mean Daddy had just eaten the ONE treat I was going to get that night and we NEVER had treats like Little Debbie cakes in the house! To this day he says that the only reason he did that was because he knew that we had more in the kitchen and that I was going to get BOTH cakes in the package instead of the one I was normally allowed to have. I still think he was doing it just to be mean, the drive behind the motivations of most boys.

2. I hate it if someone says my whole name--first, middle, last.
REASON: Kids are mean and want to upset you in any way possible. My 3 names flow together nicely and can get a nice rhythm. What that means is that it's easily chanted in a taunting manner. The kids at my babysitter's house did that...a lot. Such teasing usually came after my brother started it because he was a jerk. Still, I would cry and yell at them to stop, which just made them chant my name louder. Now, I like my name. I like my first name, I like my middle name, I like my last name, and I like how they flow together. All the kids were doing was saying my name. This simple act of saying my name, however, used to piss me off. So, to this day, I don't like hearing my name with any sort of rhythm.

3. I will usually side with the younger sibling.
REASON: I was the younger sibling. I hated my older brother because he could hit me, kick me, be mean to me, tease me, invite me to play before leaving me, restart the Nintendo when I was playing, invite me to play Super Mario Brothers then pause the game when I was jumping over something so that when he unpaused it I would fall to my death and lose a life that I was going to lose shortly anyway because I was a freaking 7-year-old girl playing as Luigi...and it would somehow be my fault and I was always asked, "Well what did you DO to make your brother hit you, kick you, be mean to you, tease you, etc.?" Thus, I tend to side with the younger sibling in most arguments.

4. I'm secretly terrified of escalators.
REASON: When I was young, my parents used to tell me that you could get really hurt by the escalator so I was always scared of getting on and off. Getting on to go down was especially terrifying b/c there's a chance you could go to step on and miss or the stair is going far faster than you really think and you could go flying forward and down the escalator to your certain death. Add this to the time my mom got on without waiting for me (I was probably 6 or 7) and rode it all the way down and I was just too scared to get on and I had visions of staying at the top of the escalator forever while my Mom didn't realize I wasn't there and went on without me just before a kidnapper came and got me and I would never see my family again. Luckily some nice lady held my hand and guided me down the escalator where my mother thankfully DID wait for me and I was not kidnapped. This could have been a really big deal.

5. I keep all of my credit receipts.
REASON: On an episode of ALF, the family got audited. It looked like quite the traumatic experience. I said that would never happen to me and if it did, I'd be prepared. So I had every credit/check receipt that I received from the age of 16 until about 27. Today, I'll get rid of them once a year--to make room for the next year's receipts. It's still quite hard b/c WHAT IF?! Forget that I claim nothing, have no dependents, etc.


There is no reason why any self-respecting 30 year old should still think these ways but I do.

List Two: Places I Have No Desire to Visit

I haven't traveled a great deal at all. I do believe that this facet of my life kept me from meeting Prince William and living out my life's destiny of becoming an actual princess instead of just the royalty I believe myself to be in my head, but I digress. Until a few months ago, I had never been in a state that did not border the Atlantic Ocean. I have now been west of the Appalachians and it was quite exciting. Clearly, I want to travel because almost anywhere is new to me. And new = exciting. Very exciting. When riding through Indiana and Illinios is the highlight of your recent traveling life, there's an issue. I've never had a passport and I have no reason to need one in the near future. I need to see more.

You would think, then, that I'd be willing to go almost anywhere. Assuming a trip is free, this might be true but even then there are places that you probably couldn't pay me to go. I think we all have these types of places. Those places -- the ones that don't necessarily contain those roads visited frequently by Westerners accustomed to certain luxuries (like bathrooms) -- aren't really the focus here. There are perfectly legitimate travel destinations that I have no desire to visit.

Places I Have No Desire to Visit
1. Africa.
Nope, no desire to go to Africa. I mean sure, I'd go to South Africa where English is spoken widely, but even there the water is pretty cold so I don't fancy myself taking kindly to the beaches. There are penguins there though and that might be enough to change my mind. The rest of Africa though? No thanks. Maybe Egypt, but really once I see the pyramids I'm done. When I think of vacations, sweating in the desert or on a safari seeing animals I can see in any North American zoo is not a part of the fantasy. I prefer not to be dusty and frightened that these animals may turn on us at any time. When I think of Africa, I think of hot and dusty and that's just not my idea of relaxing.

2. India.
If it came to it, I would pay to avoid going to India. With my personal space issues, India is not a comfortable choice to me. I get very uncomfortable and anxious and slightly ADD if someone has infiltrated my bubble. I can't think of anything other than the breach of bubble security. Combined with the aforementioned dislike of heat, I think India would cause extreme internal discomfort. I also don't know what I'd eat. I'm the pickiest adult eater with whom you'll ever come into contact and it's not like I can eat beef there. India would not be fun for me.

3. Actually, most of Asia.
Okay, so I kind of want to go to Japan but otherwise Asia doesn't interest me that much. A lot of that comes from the food thing, but there's also a distinct language barrier I don't think I'll ever break. I also picture Asia as very humid and full of people who don't respect my bubble.

4. Detroit.
I like cars, but not enough.

5. Iowa.
I don't like corn so I think Iowa would just be a total bust.

6. Amsterdam.
I've never smoked pot and I needn't any prostitutes so I feel like I'd be wasting my time. And Amsterdam's time. I'll spend my time in other European places.

7. Mexico.
So I hear Cabo is cool, but I can go other tropical places where drug cartels and narcotraffickers don't visit tourist destinations for victims. Mexico is actually quite dangerous. I've always just thought that if I could afford the cost of a vacation to a destination with great beaches, it would be somewhere in which I'm comfortable leaving my resort and has more history that I care about. When I vacation, I want to feel safe, clean and be able to drink the water.

8. The Bahamas.
It just seems so over. I'm also told it's dirty and people swarm on you.

9. The Middle East.
It's dusty. It's scary. I wouldn't be able to eat anything. I'm also Christian, look Jewish and have assets that are difficult to hide. I think travel here for me could be sketchy.

10. Las Vegas.
I'm not a dude at a bachelor party. I'm not a stripper at a dude's bachelor party. I've been to Atlantic City and AC at least has boardwalks on the beach. I see no reason to visit a bigger AC in the middle of the desert. Also, the phrase "What happens in Vegas" has spawned so many copycat sayings for places that are not nearly as interesting or sinful that it makes me somewhat resent Las Vegas. Your reputation precedes you, Vegas, and I'm uninterested.

List One: Annoyances/Happinesses

Sometimes I feel the need to write down my annoyances if only because sometimes reading them puts them in perspective and I get over myself. Then sometimes someone else reads them and says "Hey that annoys me too" and I feel instantly vindicated. However, as I'm trying to become a happier person, I have decided that I will not produce a list comprised of only annoyances, but will instead balance out said list with things that make me happy. I will do the happy one last so it will end on the high note. I will also ensure that I come up with at least one more Thing That Makes Me Happy than Thing That Annoys Me. I'm positive like that.

Things that annoy me:
1. People coming to me at work before trying to figure it out on their own. Of course, if it was something I regularly did and was a part of my job then this wouldn't be an issue. But it never is. Today, for instance, I received an e-mail that our location on the campus map was incorrect and could I "have someone fix this immediately." I have nothing to do with campus maps, much less how they appear on the website. You know who does? Creative Services, as indicated on this webpage. There is a button at the bottom of the page for "Send us updates or comments." Instead of that person who noticed the issue--and is the only one WITH an issue b/c our location actually isn't "wrong" per se--hitting that button and filling out the web form, she e-mailed me when all I will be able to do is hit said button.

2. Someone asking me to do something because they don't want to do it. Again, it's not necessarily my job, they just don't want to do it. I know you don't want to order the lunches, but what makes you think I want to just because I've done it before? I hate doing it. It's coming to your people for your event and is getting charged to your account. What makes it worse is that you came to me for assistance and after I had provided you with all of the necessary information and contacts, you literally handed it back to me and said "Can you do this? I hate calling for this stuff." What the heck?

3. People who drive in the rain/snow/dark without headlights. Not only is it the law to have your lights on in these conditions, but we other drivers cannot see you otherwise. It's never the people who drive bright yellow or red cars either. Ninety-eight per cent of the time, it's people driving silver, gray, white, or some other color automobile that blends in seamlessly with the environment.

4. When people switch up their routine and in doing so, disrupt mine. I'm an intense creature of habit. I'm not a fan of change once I've established a routine that works for me. This was never more prominent than when I was in school and 8 weeks into the semester, a classmate had decided he or she wanted to sit in the seat I had occupied for the previous 8 weeks of class. I don't want to sit anywhere else, if I did then I would have sat there on the first day of class. That whole class where I sat somewhere differently would be a complete loss for me b/c I'd be able to think of nothing else and I'd be uncomfortable. I'd be wondering why, halfway through the semester, someone had decided they wanted to sit somewhere else and why that happened to be my seat. Likewise, if I've been parking in the same spot at work for a year and you've been parking in the same spot for about that long, don't decide one week that you'll take my spot. It's weird and it disrupts my day and we've established by now that I'm very important and can't have my day disrupted.

5. Christmas songs by former Beatles. Hate them. Give me Nat King Cole and Burl Ives and you keep your depressing Beatles.

6. People who always need your help but are too busy to provide you with some the very few times you ask for it. In a similar vein, people who ask for help they don't need. When I show up with 10 bags on my arms and I can walk to the front, please don't call me to come downstairs and open the back door b/c you have a single box--that I end up carrying.

Things that make me happy!:

1. Champagne. Hand me a glass of light crisp champagne and watch my smile illuminate my face. Korbel Brut=happiness in a flute. Or, you know, Solo cup.

2. Football. September-February I don't mind Sundays. The rest of the year though? Sundays blow.

3. Diet Dr. Pepper.

4. Snow!

5. My nephews. I could sit and watch them play and learn for hours. Hearing the oldest learn my name and actually want to hang out with me fills me with more joy than I could ever imagine.

6. MAC makeup. It's only the best.

7. My two cats. They're only the cutest things ever and I swear they understand me and we can communicate rather effectively. You've seen the crazy cat lady? That's going to be me when I get a larger house and find someone to divorce me and leave me alone, paving the way for increased feline presence. Enter 50 cats.

Concession to Kate Middleton

Anyone who knows me knows that I called Prince William a long time ago. As a child I knew he was a catch and was my best way of achieving my career goal: Princess. But not only any prince would do. He needed to be my age, handsome, appear normal, and preferably be British because I've always liked the accents. Given my mother's admiration of Diana, Princess of Wales, I learned of my future prince pretty early. He was only a year younger than I. He was handsome. It looked like Diana was doing everything in her power to allow him to grow up "normal" (as normal as a prince being raised by royals and whose mother herself was an aristocrat, thus she herself probably wasn't "normal" as we commoners would normally associate with the word). He was most assuredly British. I called him when my age was naught but in the single digits.

Unfortunately, I never traveled much. I really only ever went to the Outer Banks and he didn't visit there much. I never could make it to Britain. We were never in the same place at the same time. I was already enrolled in my undergraduate institution and I loved it, so I could neither conjure up the funds nor the desire for a transfer to St. Andrews. I knew this would probably be my downfall. It was.

He met Kate Middleton and apparently they hit it off. She landed William AND Lady Di's ring and while I can't shake the feeling that Miss Middleton takes everything from me even though I most assuredly called him first and I truly believe that a woman of her upbringing understands the concept of "dibs," I guess I must concede.

Well played, Middleton. Consider yourself lucky I couldn't ever make it to the UK.

Counting, and Especially Reading, Is Hard

Last year I completed graduate school. In May I got a graduate certificate (that essentially means that I "majored" in something and the work was a bit more extensive than undergrad, but not enough to be a graduate degree. It's like recognized official extra credit) and in December I got a master's. I submitted these accomplishments to my undergraduate institution's magazine. See, in each issue there is a "Class Notes" section where the achievements of alumni are recognized. It didn't come in the Spring 2010 issue, which was the first one I received after submitting my awesome accomplishment but I was fine with this because they were probably already getting ready for publication and they held my note for the next issue. The next issue I received was Fall 2010, and that came a few weeks ago. I looked in the Class Notes section and there is no mention of me. Hmm. Being the investigator and unparalleled internet researcher that I am, I found the issue with my submission.

My note was published in Summer 2010. I know I would have looked in every subsequent magazine I received after my submission and I never saw it. I don't remember the cover (while this may not mean much to some, I have somewhat of a photographic memory so if I've seen something, I will usually remember it). I look in my stash of alumni magazines and I don't see the cover I don't recognize. In the six years after graduating from my undergraduate institution, I have never missed an issue of the alumni magazine.

Until something about me was in it.

If I was going to miss an issue at some point during the 6 years after graduation, why wouldn't it be the only one in which I'm mentioned? This will not get me down. I will remedy this.

I send an e-mail to the magazine and let them know what is up. I say:

Hello,

I never received the Summer 2010 issue of the *Alumni Magazine* and was hoping one could be sent to me. I had an entry in the class notes published in that issue and while I know that's available online, I would like to have it in print if possible. Can that issue be sent to me?"

In response I'm told, "Sure thing, we'll get one out to you" and the author of the e-mail requests my mailing address, which I promptly provide.

Yippee I'm getting the Summer 2010 issue of the Alumni Magazine where I can see my name and my accomplishments!

In the mail yesterday is an unusually heavy envelope from my undergraduate institution's publishing department. I'm intrigued. I can't wait to open it. I've seen it online, but I want it in print! I can show my as-yet-not-conceived-kids my name in a magazine, revealing the acquisition of degrees that are also hanging on my walls so they'd see them anyway, but this way they can see that my much-favored undergraduate institution talked about me! Yay!

Inside the envelope are three Fall 2010 issues.

The Fall 2010 issue I received on time is 20 steps away in my bedroom. I now have three additional copies of a magazine I already had. I asked for one copy of Summer 2010. I got three copies of Fall 2010. I went to school known for engineering, business, biology, geosciences, computer science, and other smart programs that require the ability to read and count. Fail.

I can't wait to see if I get Spring 2009 sometime next week.

The Funny List

Comedy is the subject about which I'm most passionate. Some people care about politics, some about the environment, some people care about education, and others about babies.

Me? I care about comedy. I care about stand-up comedy especially. It's exceedingly difficult to please me with stand-up. It has to be done correctly. It has to be sharp, smart, quick, and like the person is telling stories instead of jokes. I want to laugh about life. They have to be random and make me laugh because I can't see the punchline coming or I never would have thought of that comparison. If I can predict the joke, or if you yell at me and think the way to make me laugh is by screaming profanities, I won't laugh. If you can say the same profanities in funny witty stories that I can't predict, then you might make it on Em's Funny List someday. This is of course a goal to which all aspiring comedians should strive since I do have a knack for recognizing the goods. After all, I had my friends watching Jeff Dunham back in the late 80s/early 90s when MTV had its "Half-Hour Comedy Hour" and I thought his Jalepeno on a Stick was just too funny to adequately describe so I'd have them come to my house when it was on. Never heard of, or don't remember, MTV's Half-Hour Comedy Hour? I win.

The following are my favorite comedians, in ascending order:

10. Steve Byrne. I sure hope he'll be making a name for himself quite soon. Very funny Asian.

9. Steven Wright. Most people know him as "The Guy on the Couch" in Half-Baked. He's so much more than that. His stand-up was a little like Mitch Hedberg's in that it was very dry and deadpan and his one-liners were fantastic.

8. 90s Paula Poundstone. I loved her act. Many times she'd just come out and talk to the audience--completely improv. I can't tell you how intelligent that is to me. If you can go out on stage with no material and just have faith in your own quick wit then you know you've picked the correct path. I'd love to just hang out with her. I think she'd kill me with laughter.

7. Eddie Murphy. His "Eddie Murphy Raw" is still one of the funniest stand-up shows ever.

6. Ellen DeGeneres. One of her earliest routines included an airline focus. I still reference it. I love when someone recognizes the hilarity of life. I want to hang out with her too.

5. Bill Cosby. A true classic. He's gone kind of crazy and isn't as funny anymore (saw him in December 2008 and he kind of reminded me of your grandfather who's losing it and has become totally inappropriate but not in a funny way) but his early stuff is fabulous. I re-purchased "Bill Cosby: Himself" just a few years ago and laughed as hard as I did the first time. I want chocolate caaaaake!

4. Mitch Hedburg. If you see an escalator out of service and think to yourself "Escalators can never break down. They simply become stairs" then Mitch touched you too. "A friend asked me if I wanted a frozen banana and I said "no." Then I thought I might want a regular banana later, so, yes."

3. Daniel Tosh. He's new, so for him to be so high on Em's Funny List is special. I love biting sarcasm and someone who's not afraid to be politically incorrect, but not offensive (unless you're sensitive and then you probably find him offensive, in which case you probably shouldn't be watching comedy). He makes you realize that it's impossible to be mad on a jet ski. He's totally right. If someone said I could have free tickets to any comedian's show, he'd be second on the list.

2. George Carlin. He's the Godfather of Comedy. In my opinion, funny didn't exist in its present form before George Carlin. His ability to make humor out of every day situations in which we all share was priceless. "Things We Share" is one of my favorites from him and I always think about it when I'm going up or down stairs and I think there's one more step. Or pick up a suitcase I think is full but it's really empty and for a split second I think I'm really strong. The only reason he's not second on my list of comedians I want to see in person is, you know, the dead thing.

1. Eddie Izzard. He's the funniest person on the planet. When you think of smart, witty comedy with randomness abounding, Eddie Izzard is the master. One of the greatest things about him is his spontaneity and improv. Each show is different because he doesn't write his stuff down. He knows about what he wants to talk but two shows on a given tour can be markedly different from one another. You know that guy on Family Guy who just gets sarcasm and finds stuff "funny because it's true!"? That's how I feel when I watch Eddie Izzard. His subjects are hilarious stories and historical analysis. I know that doesn't sound funny, but it is. I can honestly say that 48 hours will not pass that I don't speak an Izzard quote, make an Eddie reference, or think silently to myself, "Oooh. Stupid man." This man is a genius and a true comedic icon.

I'd also like to add an honorable mention for Dana Carvey. His 1995 HBO special, "Critic's Choice" is one of my favorites. He just didn't do stand-up long enough to make my list because this is for stand-up.

You'll notice that Chris Rock is not on this list. I recognize Rock's hilarity. When I read his quotations from his acts, I laugh hard. It's his delivery that turns me off and thus, I cannot include him on Em's Funny List since it's MY favorite comedians and not necessarily the all-encompassing Best of All Time (though really, it should be). He yells at me and I'm not a fan of that. It's a shame too because the man's material really is funny.

Brother/Sister E-mail #1

From Brother:
Subject: Brother's feelings on his new field trip

I had a meeting yesterday ... and my supervisor has
given me blanket permission to travel to help.

So, when I got home yesterday, I thought I should find the right music
to set the tone. I subsequently found my Less Than Zero Original Motion
Picture Soundtrack, put it on Track #4, and cranked up "Going Back to
Cali" by LL Cool J 'cause I'm just that cool.

Whenever I remember to bring it in, I'll be playing it here in the
office whenever I find out the exact date I'm going.

From Me:
Subject: RE: Brother's feelings on his new field trip

Having that song in today's digital world would raise relatively few
eyebrows to those of us who remember music released prior to 1990.
Undeniably, we can all play songs from our youth that bring forth fond
memories and perhaps lend way to a few good laughs among good company.
However, we all read that you pulled out your "CD," which means that at
some point in time you willfully obtained and spent money on this entire
album. While standing in a retail establishment, you spotted this CD
and thought, "I should get that. This is a good idea" and thus further
expanded your immense CD collection. I've often wondered how you have
been able to acquire a collection of, at my personal last count, close
to 500 compact discs and thereby compiling one of the most eclectic
music collections this side of Plan 9 and other similar
patchouli-reeking emo establishments that no self-respecting untattooed
white chick with brushable hair from the suburbs should enter. Now I
have figured it out: you simply cannot be too discriminate. You must
live for the moment. Make the purchase. You recognize that at some
point in time, the soundtrack of life may necessitate any and every song
ever composed and you must be ready.

Thus, one must remain ready--Be Prepared, if you will--for any occasion
the soundtrack of life may need to further enhance--nay, illuminate--to
provide proper support of the moment.

And Brother, you are ready.

Never will you be forced to let the question of, "Will I have the
appropriate musical styling that will fit this precise moment with which
life has presented me" go unanswered. You already know the answer is
yes--yes you will have it. Whatever "it" may be, you will have it.
Less Than Zero: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack? Check. Spice
Girls' Spice World? Got it. Hall & Oats? Undoubtedly. Iron Maiden's
entire catalog and Hilary Duff are available as well for those
situations requiring their use. You are an example of preparedness to
us all. You, sir, are ready. Ready for life. That, unquestionably, is
gangsta. And it should feel damn good.


From Brother:
Subject: RE: Brother's feelings on his new field trip

...and on the way home, particularly on my way to and while I'm at the
airport to depart to come home, I shall play Phil Collins "Take Me Home"
from the "No Jacket Required" album, because that's the song played at
the end of the "Prodigal Son" episode of Miami Vice's Season 2 premiere,
when Crocket & Tubbs go to New York, and Crockett's waiting at the
airport, smoking a cigarette mind you (taboo in today's society, now he
would drink coffee), waiting on Tubbs to decide if he's going back to
Miami or staying in New York. It's a timeless classic.

Gene Simmons is in that episode, in the beginning, living a boat, I
mean, a yacht.


From Me:
Subject: RE: Brother's feelings on his new field trip

The Miami Vice Soundtrack should be at the top of the queue for this
field trip. Remember that it doesn't matter if it's heroin,
cocaine, or hash--you've got to carry weapons, because you always carry
cash. Considering they move it through Miami and sell it in LA, such an
occurrence is not absent from the realm of possibility and Glenn Frey
can most assuredly assist in adequately captivating that moment.

And please, for the love of God, if you must storm into a room for
whatever reason, you must be ready to amp up your partners and there is
but one sound bite that will adequately address that need: Leeroy
Jenkins. Yet one more reason why one's music catalog must always grow
and be open to additions no matter how large or small. Every moment in
life needs its musical support and none are too unimportant. No sir,
every moment bears with it its own importance.