Hullabaloo

There's been some local hullabaloo in my hood this week. Well, the Ex Systems Administrator's hood, to be precise. Those from the NW probably saw the story, but if anyone else cares...I'll include the link to it here.

I hope you all noticed the headline was, "A City of Portland truck just fell into a giant hole". Hilarious.

Anyway, this happened on the block where Ex Sys. Admin's apartment resides. Can an apartment reside? Well, this one does. The sewer truck was just rumbling along and then...*poof*...down into a giant hole it went. Like my sound effects? The Ex had to evacuate his apartment since there was a gas leak as a result of the impact. The men in the truck are fine. And now, there is a giant hole in the middle of the street.

I walked over there last night (without my camera like a complete dillhole) and was amazed by how deep, dark, and INCREDIBLY creepy it was. I haven't seen a lot of horror movies in my life (I'm a wus...this is a well known fact), but it seems to me that there are quite a few that begin at night with a giant, deep hole in the ground. Usually the workmen get eaten first...and then the general public. And then Jennifer Love Hewitt runs around screaming in a tight top. It must suck to be a city employee, knowing you will always be the first one eaten. There were no workmen there last night. That could mean they've already been eaten and the sewer monster has escaped and is among us. Or it could mean that their shift was over and they went home. But that's just silly.

Anyway, I took pictures of it with my phone. They're incredibly hard to see, so I'll have to explain them:

The giant light shining comes from this big crane-like thing hanging over the hole. I guess it's for pedestrians who somehow don't notice the caution tape or the metal fence and are suddenly like "oops, what's this?". It's nice to know someone's looking out for those people.

Or maybe the light is to keep the monster down in the hole. Maybe it's afraid of the light.

But what you're seeing is the manhole. It is still intact. I enjoy writing the word "manhole". Everyone just take a moment and say "manhole" out loud. That was my gift to you. The shaft (also a great word) is made entirely of brick, something you can't see in this shitty picture. It's hard to see how deep the thing went, but it was pretty deep. There wasn't a very strong concrete to dirt ratio. Makes the whole world seem less stable, if you ask me.

Here you get a better idea of deepness. You can see the curb/sidewalk on the right...gives you some perspective. Standing out there in the cold, dark, with just the wind howling and a little water trickling out of the broken pipe, it was eerie. I figured I would be eaten right then and there. But then, I wasn't. This helps support my theory that the monster has already escaped. Mothers...keep your wee ones inside tonight. Fathers...take your darts out of the dart board and be at the ready. There will be battles on the foyers of Portland this night.

Blog Etiquette

In the interest of fairness, I'm giving you all the link to Amy's response to my angry blog entry from a couple weeks ago.

Now I'm done with it. Movin' on.

New Year's Resolutions

This is important, people. I have to get these down on paper...computer...whatever, or they won't be "REAL". For serious.

And now:

1. Stop Buying Shoes - I mean it...right now. Nevermind what you just did a half an hour ago because of a free shipping promotion; you're turning over a new leaf and this is that moment. As you reach for those new Steven Madden boots on clearance, you will need to repeat...out loud...your new mantra "scooter/condo...scooter/condo". If reaching turns into buying, you will be forced into Catholicism, made to go to confession, do however many Hail Mary's they tell you to do, go do research to find out exactly what Hail Mary's ARE, and then sit in a pew and eat that dry bread that's supposed to be someone's dead body. Let the punishment fit the crime!

2. Get A New Job - It's time. You know too much about the Home Shopping Network, and you can recognize Technibond when you see it and you posses the knowledge that one can STILL purchase the Suzanne Somer's Thighmaster, eventhough they had their heyday in 1992. Really, it's not healthy. Any of it. Worst of all...you know who this woman is...and what it is she sells...and it keeps you up at night. It doesn't matter that you adore the people you work with...or that the office is within two blocks of a coffeeshop (3 of them being Starbucks) in every major direction, including diagonals...the fact is, it doesn't pay well, you hate it, the benefits suck, and you die a little every day you go. So get out already.

3. Lose Those 10lbs You Recently Gained Back After Losing Them In Morocco - It's true...without the help of Ramadan and a 17lb backpack to carry around in the heat, it's hard to keep those pounds off. And with the holiday season placing all manner of baked and chocolate goods under your nose, and then, somehow, into your mouth, it's a wonder you haven't gone up a full stone. Maybe you have, I have no idea what gaining a stone means. Anyway. If you want to keep your calves from being too fat to fit into those Steve Madden boots you AREN'T gonna buy...you need to check yourself before you wreck yourself...with food.

4. Get Yourself Into A Healthy Relationship - No, we're not talking about your cat, her neediness, or how you feel she's holding you back. We're talking about a romantic relationship that doesn't require the acceptance of anything physical that you find exceedingly unattractive or anything emotional that appears to be stunted. Oh, and don't get knocked up.

5. Write Something, Goddamnit - you know, other than this blog. Use your fucking screenwriting degree and help alleviate the maelstrom of crappy Cameron Diaz and Kate Hudson movies. Ick. Oh...and DOWN with Matthew McConaughey! There is something unnatural about where his head meets his shoulders and you all know it. Creepy man. He has an essence of skeez about him.

That's all I have for the moment. I'm sure you noticed "drink less" was missing, and well...that's not open for discussion.

I Love Being A Girl

Peggy Lee said it, and I'm fairly certain she meant it...but then, she probably never had to get vaccinated against HPV.

I've never been scared of needles. I went through a strange period in my teens when cysts kept bursting on my ovaries and I'd have to be rushed to the hospital because the symptoms are identical to an appendicitis and they'd poke me will all sorts of needles, so I got fairly used to them.

Funny thing about that...no one ever actually found my appendix...you know, in ultrasounds or whatever...it's quite possible that I am a Darwinistic miracle.

Anyway, that's off the point. The point is that yesterday I was injected with the first of my three syringes full of Gardasil - the vaccine that is supposed to protect women from contracting the 4 main strains of HPV that are the leading cause of cervical cancer. I'm sure you've heard about this vaccine. There are masses of conservative fuckwits who are fighting against this vaccine, mainly because it can be given to girls as young as 9, and they think that once it is...said 9 year old girls will think they've been given a green light to run out into the world and have sex all OVER the place.

And to those who are concerned that this will be the result...well, how can I say this delicately...YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING MORONS. Apparently it's more acceptable for women to continue dying of cervical cancer than it is to protect them from it before they even start having sex. While we're at it, let's just bring back Polio. I mean, it wouldn't exist if it hadn't been deigned by God to exist, right? Besides, wheelchairs are fun. Especially the Rascal. Women who have sex out of wedlock DESERVE to get this virus, because, you know, they're sluts. Well here's the thing, my friendly Fuckwits...good, Christian people can get HPV TOO! There are a million different circumstances where HPV can be passed and the no one shows any symptoms. I've heard statistics that say up to 70% of all sexually active people have or have had HPV. Men may get genital warts, but that's about it for them. No death. No cancer. Pair that with not having to have periods, go through childbirth, or menopause...and, well, I pretty much think that they shouldn't even be allowed to HAVE an opinion on the existence of this vaccine. Oooh, my radical feminism is rearing it's ugly head.

So back to my point (yes, we took the long way), which is twofold:

1. The argument against the vaccine is irrelevant. I remember being around 9 and getting several vaccinations. I could not tell you what they were for if you paid me. Measles maybe, perhaps a tetanus...who knows. No one needs to inform the 9 year old as they're getting the shot that this means they're free to re-start the '69 summer of love.

2. The shot didn't hurt that badly but my left arm is all tingly like I'm gonna have a heart attack. I know I'm not gonna have a heart attack, but the tingliness is wacky and it's making me want chocolate. Or maybe I want chocolate because I like chocolate. Don't ask me to analyze these things.

Oh, and I forgot to add that the cut off age is 26. Yep, barely made it. I guess once you hit 27 you're too much of a whore to save. That should be an interesting birthday. I'll look forward to it.

Merry Christmas from me and my tingly left arm.

Powell's Books Doth Sucketh

This is Powell's Bookstore. It doesn't look like much, but it is, literally, a city of books. It even says so, somewhere on the marquee. People come from all over the country, nay, the WORLD to go to this bookstore. Movie stars visit it (they'd like us to think that they read), every author imaginable has given free readings there, and it's so large and cavernous, they've outgrown their city-block sized 4 level store and have had to extend it into three extra locations. Everybody shops there. If you're seen walking down the sidewalk with a Borders or Barnes and Noble bag in your hand, why the locals will openly scowl in your direction. They may even hiss. How dare you not shop local. Sinner. Heathen. Neo-con. Oh, no wait...that doesn't work. Whatevs.

I hate it in there. Took a lunch break to go find a few items that I just thought of. 1:30 on a Monday...granted, it's right before Christmas, but it was like fucking Lollapalooza in there. I kept expecting to see a bouncer throwing water bottles out to the crowd. And everyone's frantic...like the books are gonna walk off the shelves if they're not the first one to get to them. There are piles and piles of each book. I kid you not...piles.

But the cavernousness is the real issue. 4 floors that are reached through several different doorways and levels, and all are color coded, not genre coded. So if you want to find fiction, you have to remember that fiction is in the Blue Room. But people don't remember. Mainly, they wander about like children who've lost their parents. Or old people who've lost their...well...everything.

The book I was looking for wasn't a normal book, it was a collection of found objects made into a book. Of course that doesn't really fall under any sort of genre, so I went to the info kiosk for assistance with where to go, you know, after wandering around like a lost child for a while. I was informed that the book I was looking for was located in the Pearl Room. I looked down at the map on the desk. There's the Blue Room, the Red Room, the Gold Room, the Green Room, etc. But I didn't see a Pearl Room. I looked back at the woman, "What color is 'pearl' exactly?". She pointed to the far corner on the top floor marked Rare Book/Art Room. The color was...well, "So you mean the gray room?". She replied with a tired smile, "Yep". Me, incredulously, "'Pearl' is actually gray? Why don't you just call it the Gray Room?". But she hurried me along because other lost children were lining up behind me.

So I climbed the flights of stairs to find that they were out of the book I was looking for. Grrrrrr. Bet that never happens to the movie stars. They probably get carried to the Pearl Room on a gilded shelving cart. Anyway, later this week I'm going to Barnes and Nobles. Shut it.

And now...the requisite holiday picture of Becks (don't you wish I was YOUR child's aunt???):

A Christmas Date Rape Carol

Baby It's Cold Outside
The Creepiest and Most Effed Up Christmas Carol Ever

HER -- HIM

I really can't stay -- Baby it's cold outside
("You're not gonna get any tonight" -- "Says you")
I've got to go away -- Baby it's cold outside
("I have a curfew" -- "They won't notice")
This evening has been -- Been hoping that you'd drop in
("It's nice that you bought me dinner..." -- "Dinner ain't free")
So very nice -- I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice
("...but that's all you bought, buddy" -- "movin' in for physical contact")
My mother will start to worry -- Beautiful, what's your hurry
("Bringing up mother will kill the mood" -- "I've got your hand, you're going nowhere")
My father will be pacing the floor -- Listen to the fireplace roar
("...with a shotgun" -- "No woman can resist a fireplace")
So really I'd better scurry -- Beautiful, please don't hurry
("Ooooh, a fireplace..." -- "That's right...a fireplace")
well Maybe just a half a drink more -- Put some music on while I pour
("What's one little drink going to hurt?" -- "Let me just slip this little roofie in here...")

The neighbors might think -- Baby, it's bad out there
("...that I'm a harlot" -- "That's right, honey, let it take effect")
Say, what's in this drink -- No cabs to be had out there
("Woah, the room is spinning" -- "No one can save you now, my little chickadee")
I wish I knew how -- Your eyes are like starlight now
("Strange how blurry everything is" -- "Look at those pupils dilate...beautiful")
To break this spell -- I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell
("Must resist...oooh, a fire..." -- "That's right, my pretty...take off that hat")
I ought to say no, no, no, sir -- Mind if I move a little closer
("...must resist...warm fire...resist..." -- "Let's just put this hand under your blouse here")
At least I'm gonna say that I tried -- What's the sense in hurting my pride
("Oh well...spinning fireplaces are pretty" -- "And now the other one...")
I really can't stay -- Baby don't hold out
("It feels like there are eight hands under my shirt...this isn't right" -- "Oh no you don't")
Ahh, but it's cold outside

I simply must go -- Baby, it's cold outside
("Spinning or not...eight hands is just wrong" -- "Just let the pill do its thing, baby")
The answer is no -- Ooh baby, it's cold outside
("I cannot have sex with an eight handed man..." -- "Remember the fireplace...")
This welcome has been -- I'm lucky that you dropped in
("...think of what our children would look like" -- "and how much you like it")
So nice and warm -- Look out the window at that storm
("My, but those eight hands are warm...and they tickle" -- "If you can even find the window")
My sister will be suspicious -- Man, your lips look so delicious
("The jealous bitch" -- "I just want to bite them")
My brother will be there at the door -- Waves upon a tropical shore
("He's gay, but he gives a mean indian burn" -- "Mmmm, Lip Smackers")
My maiden aunt's mind is vicious -- Gosh your lips look delicious
("She's catholic" - "I'll start with the lower one")
Well maybe just a half a drink more -- Never such a blizzard before
("The other half" -- "Let's find out how this zipper works")

I've got to go home -- Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there
("Oh God...are there nine hands now?" -- "Oh look, it opens just fine")
Say, lend me your comb -- It's up to your knees out there
("With one of your hands" -- "And you're skirt's down to your knees")
You've really been grand -- Your eyes are like starlight now
("What's happened to my skirt?" -- "What skirt?")
But don't you see -- How can you do this thing to me
("He's taken it off with one of his eight freakish hands!" -- "No more talk")
There's bound to be talk tomorrow -- Making my life long sorrow
("...but I'll just tell them about all the hands and the spinning fireplace..." -- "It's time to put out")
At least there will be plenty implied -- If you caught pneumonia and died
("...they'll understand..." -- "Yes, this is a subtle threat")
I really can't stay -- Get over that old out
("...that I had no choice...why's everything going dark?" -- "And down you go")
Ahh, but it's cold outside

I've probably just ruined that song forever for my mother. Sorry mother.

Here's a short visual interpretation I found on YouTube (the man singing is Tom Jones...just to make it EXTRA skeezy):

Rant/Rave

This morning I:
~ got woken up 10 minutes before the alarm by a yowling cat
~ tore a hole in my brand new Givenchy textured stockings (that I've only worn ONCE)
~ forced to wear jeans that don't go with the outfit since short plaidish skirts do NOT look professional (ie. unharlotesque) with torn Givenchy textured tights
~ missed three buses in a row (I have officially broken up with the Belmont bus line...I never want to see or speak to it again)
~ slipped on the wet pavement and looked like an ASS while trying to rush from bus stop to office
~ was consequently 30 minutes late (or later) to work
~ am realizing that I don't have an umbrella as I look outside at the pouring rain. Oregonians need to get them permanently affixed to their appendages. Not sure how that would work. Someone needs to get on that

On the upside:
~ I got this new jacket, and though I look extraordinarily short in it...it makes me feel like a princess AND it was on sale -->
~ my weekend was spectacular. I got to see Meet Me in St. Louis on the big screen and listen to Margaret O'Brien talk about making the movie (considering she was 5 when it was made in 1944...the woman has a stellar memory...I can't even remember most of last week)
<--
~ attended my 2nd official Christmas Party of the year and gorged myself on sweet things
~ AND the giant, ancient, native american burial mound of a pimple on my cheek is FINALLY beginning to disappear...almost as fast as the native americans themselves.

The Source?

I took a night walk tonight through my new neighborhood. I got lost. I love night walks, but my neighborhood is a confusing one to do them in. Lots of roundabouts.

I've done a lot of walking at night. I know it's not the smartest thing for a small, wussy girl to do on any sort of regular basis but I've rarely come into contact with sketchiness...and anyway, I have mace.

I was thinking about this question of safety, and how lucky I've been. How lucky I was to get out of Morocco safely, and how nice my holiday ended up being in spite of the circumstances. And then...then I got angry. I got so angry that I felt like I was going to burst. And I know, I know that this is going to come out like an attack, and I know there are people who will probably read this like it is an attack but in the months since I've returned, I've done nothing but try to calm everyone else down about and defend Amy's decision to leave me alone in Africa. And this blog, sad to say, is really my only outlet for this anger right now, so this is where this rant is going to go. I'm sorry.

First...what happened. The day that we left, Amy had a death in the extended family. The decision was made to follow through with the trip anyway. Pretty much from day one I could tell that she was having a hard time adjusting. Being very close to her family and having cell phone access to them every day, it was hard for her to focus on the trip. Not speaking any French and, well, a combination of other things made the trip "too overwhelming" for her and by Friday night she had her mother see what she could do to get her home using the death in the family to get her out of our non-refundable tickets. Despite my trying to talk her out of it...to even sleep on it for one night...she made her decision and was gone the next day.

Now...nothing bad ever happened to me while I was alone there. Yes, the trip was much harder and more expensive by myself, but I was never hurt or even threatened...just inconvenienced here and there. But walking through my dark, cold neighborhood this evening I'm reminded of the night I arrived in Essouaria, 11pm, no place to stay, this guy Mohammad following me around and how I handled it. I was cautious, I tried to discourage him, but he was persistent, and in the end, he helped me find a good place to stay and it turned out ok.

However, I keep thinking how easily it could have gone the other way. As small as the town was, the streets were like a maze with little alleys going this way and that. It took a lot for me to follow this man down these streets, so late at night. But I'd traveled for 10 hours and I was so tired. I stayed behind him...far enough that I could turn a different way quickly, if I needed to. When he asked me to go for a drink I said thanks, but no thanks and left him in the lobby. I tried to be a smart solo traveler. But thinking back on this I get angry. If he had been a bad man...I would've been screwed, and I know this. And I'm angry that I was even put into this position.

The bottom line is this. Amy went home because she needed her family and decided her family needed her. To which I say, this is all well and good, but her family had EACH OTHER. They had each other to grieve with and comfort. And they had two weeks until they saw Amy again...two weeks. But there in Africa, I had no one. Amy was it. And she fucking left me there.

I don't know why this has hit me so hard today...so many weeks after the fact. But I think about those days a lot. And I think about how my mother put down about what I make in a month to get me home a few days earlier for her peace of mind (as well as my other family and friends), and I think about how long I planned and saved up for that trip. And I think about what making commitment to someone means. And how little it meant to her. And, at the risk of severely repeating myself...I get angry.

I'll get over it eventually. Even with my dwelling nature. I don't want to end the friendship. But I defend my friend's actions to other people pretty much every day and none of them can understand what kind of a friend would do what she did. And quite frankly...neither can I, lately.

I'm sorry. This post was more for me than it was for an audience. Perhaps there'll be more levity tomorrow.

Goth Stormtrooper Midget

I just ate weirdest salad ever. This is what happens when I'm allowed to pick what goes in it. I end up with tuna and dried cranberries and peas and cheese, as well as the usual salad accoutrement. Weird. It tasted weird too. But I ate all of it. And now I'm full.

On the way back from the salad place (Player's...worst name ever) I saw two guys all bundled up in a convertible Volkswagen with the top down. Even weirder. Unless the top was broken, in which case, why didn't they take the other guys' car? Weird.

Today I made a very poor fashion choice. I am now forced to live this fashion choice down every time I have to walk past the giant, glass enclosed meeting room which is across from the bathroom. I do not enjoy this, as there are all the Sales Reps from all over the country (and Canada TOO) here to have some sort of giant, well-dressed meeting. And here I keep walking by looking like a Goth Stormtrooper Midget. And they stare. And judge. There is judgment in their stares. I can feel it.

So, I have the chocolate-filled Trader Joe's advent calendar, I've done the present shopping, I've watched Elf...I'm going to a screening of Meet Me in St. Louis this Saturday with the fam (Margaret O'Brien will be there...and if you've seen this movie, you'll know how fucking COOL that is), I've baked gingerbread and I've put up my little black Nightmare Before Christmas tree in my new, mold-free living room. So where is my Christmas spirit? Reading other people's blogs, I'm getting the feeling that I should be, well, feeling it by now and I don't know where it is. I'm worried. I'm worried that this Goth Stormtrooper Midget look might be having an effect on my Yuletide cheer. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go for a Hippie Chic Hobo Vegan look. You don't think I can manage it, do you. Well, you've never seen my closet, have you. That was rhetorical. And that's why I love blogs. The end.

I Will Be Alone Forever

Let me just preface this by saying...this is about as accurate as a fortune cookie. Nevertheless:

The Sudden Departure Random Brutal Love Master (RBLMf) Sweet. Dear. Loving. At Gate 18. Final call. You are The Sudden Departure. You've been in a lot of serious relationships. More than a few have ended ugly. Uglily. Whatever. Our guess is that you're a really fantastic girl who doesn't really know what she wants, and you've broken a few hearts as a result. You fall for people easily, and you enjoy the feeling of falling in love, but once you're there, either boredom or the old "grass is greener" syndrome sets in. The mind wanders, and with it goes the flesh. And then the toiletries. Your exact opposite: The Intern Deliberate Gentle Sex Dreamer We know you're not the classic "love 'em and leave 'em" type, at least not in a purely sexual sense. You have too many serious bonding tendencies for that. But even though you're theoretically looking to settle down, you don't settle long on one person. "Serial monogamist" is probably something you hear a lot. "Emotionally loose" is another way to put it. To the poor guys eating your dust and sniffing your panties, it doesn't really make much difference. Of course, it's not really your fault that people get hurt. You have every right to move on when you choose. ALWAYS AVOID: The Backrubber, The Gentleman CONSIDER: The Vapor Trail, someone just like you Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.

Baked Goods Coma

I wonder if what I write will instantly become more interesting if I use a red font. We shall see.

I'm bored and just really really bored. And I think it's the after-effects of a Baked Goods Coma. You have to be careful of that particular kind of coma. They're pretty hard to come out of, if you're not careful. The Crew and I had a baking party. Probably not the smartest move for single ladies around the holidays...gorging ourselves on flour-filled goodness, booze, and self-pity. I've been in a baked goods coma ever since...because, you know, there were leftovers...and I've been carrying them around with me. Like my own little lap dog. Only not a dog at all. In fact, that doesn't even remotely work.

So I'm in a weird spot men-wise. There hasn't been much about Law Student because despite the niceties...there were things that didn't sit well. Swell guy though...at least I thought so. Turns out he's a little odd. Which just cushions my decision...always helpful to a dweller-type person. While we were seeing each other, he was constantly leaving his shit at my place. It never bothered me...it was kind of cute really...how he couldn't seem to keep track of one of the TWO shirts that he brought up for the weekend...or the TWO pairs of boxer shorts, etc. I mean...when packing up the overnight bag...is it really so very hard to count to two when placing the objects inside? Hilarious.

So after I ended it, I thought we were still chums, hoped we were. And when a pair of his boxers fell out of my bed frame when lifting it up with my step-father (awkward), I was greatly amused. And said so in the "shall I pop these in the mail" email. To which I received absolutely no response. Ok...maybe he doesn't want to be chums. That's ok. Too bad...but ok.

That was before Thanksgiving. Saturday night...he calls...well, I can only assume drunk dials...at 1:30 in the AM. I did not answer. I was not alone. Nor was I with The Crew, we had parted ways a half hour earlier. I was with my commitment phobic Ex Sys Admin. I know. I KNOW. But he has a dimple...A DIMPLE. Besides, my bed is piled with junk currently and it was too late to go home to clean it off. And I was tired. TIRED.

Anyway, I didn't answer the phone. Missed the call completely. The next morning, I saw that he'd called but left no message. No message? Who fucking does that? What am I supposed to DO with that?

Damnit, I still haven't sent back his boxers. Well, I'll do that eventually.

On Thanksgiving I got a random and somewhat scandalous text message from Real Estate guy...you know, from back in the Summer. I stopped returning his calls months ago. What is with these guys?

Lately, safe, commitment phobic Ex Sys Admins seem as comforting as laying in front of a roaring fireplace. Which I also did this weekend.

My girlfriends and I spend hours analyzing men. What does this mean, what does that mean. We never get anywhere. We talk round and round til we're back at the beginning, which is usually the statement "What the fuck is up with men?". They, in turn, probably don't give our actions a second thought. Jerks. Equality in all things! Show some healthy levels of female neuroses, menfolk! We deserve it.

I need a muffcake.

Hello?

We all sit in the same room. In fact...on the same SIDE of the same room. Our desks are bunched together in little groups of two or three. If one were to flick a freshly cut nail clipping in any direction...a target would be hit. We're THAT close to each other. And yet, this is a typical conversation:

Jen: I'm going to do Firefox.
Tracy: Ok.
Casey: Ok.
Kara: Doing the MAC
Jen: Ok.
Tracy: Ok.
Dan: What?
Jen: What?
Dan: What'd you say? You ARE doing Firefox?
Casey: Jen is.
Jen: Did you start it?
Dan: Oh, you're doing it?
Tracy: Yes, Jen is doing Firefox.
Dan: So you're doing it?
Jen: Did you already start it?
Kara: She said she's doing it.
Dan: No, I didn't start it. I just asked if you're doing it.
Jen: I said I'm doing it.
Dan: Well, you mumble.
Casey: I heard her.
Kara/Tracy: Yeah.
Dan: If you're going to mumble you have to enunciate.
Jen: B-i-i-i-t-t-t-e m-e-e-e-e.
Dan: See, that was loud enough, so you didn't have to.

So, anyone remember who's doing Firefox?

Imagine that conversation, with slight variations for temperment and character changes happening all day long and you'll get an inkling of my average work day. Yeah, we're reall productive. Long live Payday Friday.

It kind of feels like this:

Tricksie Little Bloggerses

Blogger tricked me and now I'm in the new Beta one. I feel used. Cheated. And a little dirty, though that may be unrelated.

Yesterday it snowed for about a minute. And what a glorious minute it was. Now it's back to grey. Grey grey grey. I haven't taken any pictures of the city lately so I tried to find one online to show you all the grey. Apparently, people only take pictures of Portland when it's sunny. So for 10 days a year...everyone breaks out the camera. Anyway, this was the best I could come up with. You can see the cloudy blehness. I work next to that tall tall rectangular building. You know, FYI.

I just went out to get a sandwich and buy some tights. While waiting for my turkey on wheat to go, I looked around the room at the patrons of the Bagel Bistro. Most of them were heavy. Strange. No real point to that observation, but still. There was this rather large and homely woman reading a bodice-ripper over a mound of food leavings. This struck me as sad. You know the books I'm talking about...there's an example here on the right. A funny funny example.

Anyway, those novels make me irate. Have you ever read one? No? I'll tell you why, then. First of all, they're female porn. Yes they are. The lack of pictures doesn't make it any less pornographic, especially since women are cerebral and men are visual. AND they use words like "manroot" and "member". Which is just wrong. Any woman that scoffs at men for liking porn and then runs off to read such drivel is a hypocrite. Yes they are.

Anyway, my point was this: seeing large, homely women reading novels about being captured by shirtless buccaneers and whisked away to Barbados to be de-virginized (don't worry, she loves it) among the slaves who are too scared of the master and his dark, brooding-yet-hot temper to save the damsel but that's ok 'cause she fell in love with him when he called her a "tawdry wench who thickens his lust" - probably sets an unrealistic expectation of romantic love. Don't you think?

Anyway, I pilfered the book covers from this site, if you haven't already, go to it. I know it's old news for some, but the two below had me practically peeing my pants. You know, in a good way.

I'm a Big Fat Cow

LOOK AT THAT FACE. Not mine. His. Have you ever seen such a chubalub? That child is TWO MONTHS old. He's giant. And he looks guilty there...like he stole and ate the entire turkey. He didn't, but he CAN pretty much hold his head up for several seconds. I know. It's exciting.

So other than monopolizing my new nephew, the only thing I did on Thanksgiving was eat non-stop. Literally. And then I took some home with me and ate it there. I'm a big fat cow. And then the rest of the weekend I ate more. Why? Because I could. Eating is a social thing to do...and I'm a social girl. Remeber that weight I lost in Morocco? Yeah. Back with a vengeance. I blame the pilgrims. Smallpox and obesity, that's what they to be thanked for. Jerks.

So people who don't post the weekend are lame. I can say this now because it's Sunday night and I'm posting. I don't usually do this. Yes, I bordered on lame. Teetered, if you will. But I'm ok now. Thanks for asking. But there's some serious TV to go watch so I'll be off now. We had a Robert Altman-a-thon at the res last night. It was exhausting. The only way to recoup is with a little Family Guy, you know?

Goddamn You Robert Altman!

WHY? Why'd you have to go and DIE? You did such fantastic things (with the exception of supporting Lindsey Lohan's "acting" career). I remember the first time I saw The Player. "Pay attention to the tracking shot", my Dad said, "It's one of the longest ever filmed". And while they did the shot...the actor's dialogue was ABOUT the famous tracking shot in Orson Welles' Touch of Evil. Brilliance, BRILLIANCE. And that's what Altman was, effing brilliant. And this I remember thinking in the first 10 minutes of that film.

Don't get me wrong, not everything he did was great. I remember finishing Short Cuts and being like 'whaaaa?" but the man took chances with film. No one seems to do that anymore. Except for maybe Wes Anderson. Even Soderbergh went all commercially stagnant. I blame Julia Roberts for that. I also like to blame her for traffic, splinters and the existence of Snowbabies.

But the man was inspiring. He helped drive my interest in film...an interest that directed me towards a film major in college. A degree that I'm now wasting in...well...this wasteland of e-mail marketing. Rosebud.

Regardless...Robert Altman brought Popeye to life for me...my childhood hero...and for that I can never thank him enough. So I'm pissed at him for dying.

Snowbabies!!!!!!

Tis the season for shitty Snowbaby ads! For those of you who are not familiar with the phenomenon of collectible porcelain "babies" that are wrapped in some kind of suit that is supposed to indicate warmth, and maybe some sort of animal skin. They're not cheap. And they're hideous.

This Snowbaby comes from God. I know this because it says so.

However, the makers of Snowbabies know that not every collector is religious so they have a back-up for the heathenish among us...


And that would be THIS Snowbaby being delivered by a STORK! Because if it didn't come from God...well then it HAD to come from one of Darwin's creatures! And we all know from his teachings that little human babies evolved from adult storks. Yes we do. BOW TO THE FIGURINE.

Not all the Snowbabies are so sweet and innocent and denominational. Sometimes the Snowbabies are dark and morbid...I'll give you this example...





This little number may LOOK "angelic", but what you're witnessing here is the darkest of sins. That Snowman has just murdered that Snowbaby. Look at the vacant, glassy stare in the Snowbaby's eyes. And the ravens (here embodied by some sort of penguin/raven...or the ravguin) have already arrived to pick its little snow-covered bones. Available immediately to grace your happy Christmas hearth for $24.95.

Jen took a stab at copywriting a little ad blurb for this bad boy:

Clarence the Snowman Angel of Death and Percy Penguin, Bird of Doom looked over the dead body of the Snowbaby. "Well Percy, looks like we get extra meat for our sandwiches..."

Boy is SHE in the right business. I think that will have them flying off the shelves. What do you think?

Face Off

I refuse to switch to the new blogger. You hear me? REFUSE!

Was on the bus yesterday and this guy with one rotten tooth was all, "Excuse me, do you work at Dantes?" (local bar/music venue).
And I'm all, "No." (and then laugh condescendingly).
And then he's all, "Are you sure? (world's stupidest question...yes, I'm sure asshole) I'm not hitting on you or anything, but there's this girl who works there that looks just like you. Like...you could be twins".
And then I'm all "Yeah, I get that a lot".
And he goes "Seriously, just like you..." (launches into description of what could be ANYONE).

The point of the glorious dialogue above is this...I have the world's most common face. You wouldn't believe how often the above conversation happens to me. Usually within 10 minutes of meeting me, people have someone they can compare me with. I'm just like their roommate in college, or their cousin's wife, or the mentally ill woman on the corner of such and such who screams the fortunes from fortune cookies at passing cars. Usually I find it amusing, but sometimes, it's just plain creepy. I had some guy follow me around an Urban Outfitters once because he SWORE I was someone he went to school with. Don't you think I'd KNOW where I went to school? Honestly!

My neighbor-who-smokes-a-pipe-but-looks-way-too-young-to-be-smoking-a-pipe is moving out too. So then it's just going to be The Vampire and The Sorority chick in the building, at least until the Vampire sucks her dry too. Alas. Hopefully it will implode of its own volition. Can a building have its own volition? It should. If it could feel it should be manically depressed. Either way, once I'm out, I won't care a fig what happens to it. A FIG, I say!

I took some cough syrup last night for my...well...cough...but I think I took it too late in the night. It has Vicadin in it and I had a really hard time waking up and have felt a little drunk all day. It was really bad until I shoved some lunchtime sushi down my own throat. With chopsticks.

Anyway, my coworkers have been mocking. I suppose it's well deserved. Everyone knows how dangerous doing e-mail advertising can be when you're on the sauce. But I didn't know it would last this long! And it tasted like citrus fruit candy! Damnit!

I SAW U

So I want to post an I SAW U ad for:

The Guy on the MAX (train) at 5PM wearing iPod earbuds. I'm the Blond Chick also wearing iPod earbuds. You're hot...let's get an alcoholic beverage and imbibe it together.

And see how many responses I get.

Yes, I've joined the iPod clan. I used to spend my bus rides home counting the people with them and then imagining what they had to go without for a month in order to afford the outrageous extravagence that an iPod is. That's before I got one.

In my defense...I didn't really get one. I stole it from my mother. And in my defense again, I stole it with her permission, so it's not legitimate theft. And in her defense...she had this gorgeous new video iPod that she NEVER used and she understood that this is a crime against nature/humanity/electronics and that it needed to go to a good home where it would be loved and made to feel useful.

I provided that home. And now the bus crazies have to breach a wall of Interpol and Nina Simone to get to me. So far it has been inpenetrable. Yes, I just wanted an excuse to use that word.

Anyway, I rode the train to see Babel with Amy g. I'm conflicted over wheither or not to give this film a good review, because there was one story element that didn't seem to fit and it bugged. However, the scenes from Morocco are incredible and the places that they filmed are many of the places I saw. Ironically, one of the things we discussed from our Sahara Excursions van was how much it would suck if anyone needed a hospital out there. And then they went and made a movie about it. I am an idea generating MACHINE!

On the train I saw the most beautiful man I've ever encountered. I wanted to bite his lower lip. There were two problems with this. 1. I'm sure he'd take issue if I approached him and bit his lower lip being that I'm a stranger and all. 2. He wasn't actually on the train. He was on the bus that pulled up next to the train. Bitter bitter fate.

I'm All Grows Up

I have good news friends...I've finally taken that flying leap into the wonderful world of adultdome. I know some of you might say that I've taken it already with my grown up job and my grown up high heels and my grown up propensity to drink heavily on any given occasion; or maybe I took it upon entry of my first Spartacus-esque establishment. Or my first presidential vote. Or the first time I paid taxes. But you'd all be wrong. The truth is, friends...I've FINALLY begun to floss. Daily, as a matter of fact...not just the hour before I have to visit the dentist. That being said, I haven't visited the dentist in several years...which is what makes the flossing DAILY even MORE awe-inspiring. I'll give you all a moment to be deeply and profoundly impressed.

In other news...there are creatures crawling under my floor. Yep. The night I carved my idiotic looking pumpkin I could hear something creeping beneath me. Scared the SHIOT out of me, cause I was of a Halloween mind then. I got off the floor and put my feet up on the couch, you know, to protect them from the Tremors, just in case they broke through. It's happened a couple times since. They could be cats...they could be possums...they could be The Vampire's minions. I really don't know. Well, I do know, mostly they're cats. Two of them had a fight under there on Saturday. I met my neighbor outside (not the Vampire, the one who smokes a pipe but looks way too young to be smoking a pipe, but that's ok because it smells good so I don't mock him until he's out of earshot). And we're like "woah, did you hear that?", only neither of us actually talk like Bill and Ted. It's a funny mental image, though...Bill or Ted smoking a pipe.

Boy do I know how to get off topic. What was my point? Oh yes...flossing kind of hurts. But that's what being an adult is all about, right? Withstanding horrible physical pain on a regular basis.

I guess one may infer that not a lot went down this weekend. So maybe you're right. Oh no wait! I had my first slice of pumpkin pie for the season. And then a second one a day later. The third probably won't be til Thanksgiving, but you know, I can wait, or whatever.

I know you all wish you had my life. But really, it's not as glamorous as it appears. I mean, I have problems too. Like, I lost my hat on Friday, and I was really sad because it was an impulse buy from London that I'm extraordinarily happy with and I thought it was lost forever...but I had just left it at the office. So maybe I don't have problems. But it felt like one for a while. I'm okay now, though. Disaster averted.

This post sucks rope.

Other People's Dumbass Bike Stories (w/update)

First...read this post from Jen. You'll pee your pants. In a good way.

And now...these tickled me all sorts of pink (yes, I know I already said so), so I'm posting them here in an attempt to amuse on this rainy, windy, all around CRAPPY Friday.

We'll see if I feel like posting again later, but you know, I think I'd rather drink.

And here they are, fresh from the comments...other people's dumbass bike stories:

eccentric recluse said...
my first bike was equipped with what I refered to as inertial braking, one stopped pedalling and applied reverse pressure. I always felt that it worked better than the disc style brakes on my later velocipedes, better control and less liklihood of going over the handlebars.

d said...
i remember an accident i had with a bike. (yes, a story about me... haven't we been through this? it's not always about you). anyway, i was on my brother's old beater of a bike... it had the banana seat and the high handle bars. (it too, i believe, was from the 60's). anyway, i was going pretty fast down a steep hill and saw a big rock ahead of me. so i turned the handle bars to the right and nothing happened. i end up hitting the rock and go flying head-first over the handle bars and land on my head. after that, people started calling me "special". i like that. and i like candy. oooooh! look! a bird...

Jillybean said...
OK Kara, I have a bike related story for you.....when I was about 10 years old, my family stopped at a Garage Sale near our home where we purchased a beautiful Schwinn bicycle. Somebody had to ride it home, so I volunteered, I was so excited for this 'new' bike. I was especially excited to watch the pedals go round and round. I was watching the pedals go round and round,(and not watching the road)going full speed rammed my brand 'new' bike in to the back side of a parked bus. As I flew over the handlebars and hit the ground, I realized a passing car witnessed the entire fiasco. They stopped the car and ran to my rescue. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, these nice people helped my get the rest of the way home,(the bike no longer worked). Does this make you feel any better?? Your former babysitter...Jill

Mycaelus said...
I want to tell a story now.

Once upon a time, I had a bike. It was bike-shaped and had two wheels. I rode it around sometimes. But eventually I stopped. The bike stayed in my basement, feeling lonely. Then I gave it away to a poor kid who wanted a bike. The end.

It's a very exciting and humorous story, I know. It's almost as exciting as my story about the mailbox on my corner.

Word.

And More!

Devon said...
I've got that shit beat.

So Karl and I were riding around Rock creek area. We stopped by at Mike Lain's and all decided since it was a nice day, to go for a little ride.

We came across a sort of half assed construction site next to a church and what looked like the perfect bicycle jump (a pile of firmly packed dirt about 5 feet high, smooth ramp, clear landing area.) So Karl goes and get's a head start to jump it but chickens out at the last minute.

I, being the supreme genius that I am, took this as a challenge. I went 3 blocks up the street and peddled like crazy to get enough speed to jump it. I passed a car going my way and i must've been going about 20-22mph when i hit the dirt mound.

I hit the jump and went flying into the air. My feet weren't attached to my peddles in any way so they immediately flew off and i ended up in the "supperman" position when i hit the ground.

Like I said, this was all right next to a church parking lot that was full of people who ALL saw it.

sarah said...
My bike story sounds very much like Mycaelus only I didn't GIVE my bike to a poor kid. He stole it from my garage, along with a steamcleaner.

Niall said...
When I was about 8 I went cycling around the place, and on my way back the chain came off, so I stopped to put it on. In the darkness behind me an Irish wolfhound sneaks up behind me, and barked its mellow growl. I freaked out cause this dog was about four times as tall as me, so I got on my bike and tried to cycle away, but the dog catches up to me and knocks me off the bike and tries to bite my head off (lick my face), so I kick and scream and the dog calls for his backup crew and another dog comes over and as far as I can tell it tried to sit on me. Anyways, eventually they decided I could use a few more years growing before I get eaten and they left me go home, but they didn't let me take my bike and when I got back someone had taken the handle bar, seat and tyres.

apterix55 said...
I saw Jesus riding a bicycle once.. but that's another story entirely.

The Future said...
You know, bike accidents wouldn't be so funny if they didn't happen at a very unfortunate time. Mine was on a bike trail in Sunriver when all of a sudden my bike went off the trail (it definitely had a mind of its own)and I ended up off it and under it. Of course, I couldn't get up and back on it fast enough to prevent the hundreds of bikers behind me and those coming from the other direction from seeing it all (you included).

slaghammer said...
My bike crashes were all run-of-the-mill knee knockers and elbow scrapers. It was the bikes themselves that were the story. They were mismatched amalgamations of old junkyard castaways with rusted out bearings, bent pedals and cobbled together chains. The craziest one I ever put together was a road bike with a tiger stripped banana seat, race bike handlebars, a tiny front wheel, and an embarrassingly oversized rear wheel. It took a while to find two pedals that fit so I made due for a while with just one. I eventually found some brake cable and some old pads but not before I plowed headlong into a few stationary objects including a large prickly pear cactus.

Thanks for sharing in the wackiness, oh my wonderful commentors!

(if anyone feels left out of the dumbass loop...they can still comment with their stories and I'll update the post)

I'd Like to Call this a Great Day

Rumsfeld is shamed into resigning. Santorum is out...Saxton is defeated. We're inches away from a Democratic Senate and House. Measure 43, which would automatically notify parents of a teenager's abortion regardless of their situation did NOT pass (though it was close and I shudder to think why)...this should be an incredible day. But it's hard to celebrate when there is this hanging over our heads:

I'm listening to last week's This American Life episode. The show is one I'm hopelessly addicted to and am of the opinion that everyone else should be too...but you know...some people think public radio is evil. Not me...I just don't think Garrison Keiller is funny...I know...blasphemy. Guess that's why I don't have any friends. Ha!

Anyway, this site, iraqbodycount.net, has a running body count (obviously) of Iraqi casualties that can be confirmed...though the real number is probably nowhere near this. Can I just say, I'm thrilled that we've finally got some people in office that might keep this country from becoming the willfully ignorant, bigoted social trainwreck it's so close to being. But most of all...I hope they do something about this FUCKED UP WAR that our PITIFUL EXCUSE FOR A PRESIDENT started. I'd liked to think we learned something from Vietnam...but I guess for some people it's hard to learn from a war that they successfully evaded.

The Lancet Report has a much scarier number of Iraqi casualties. Read it. We owe it to these people to read it. Here's a quote:

Making conservative assumptions, we think that about 100000 excess deaths, or more have happened since the 2003 invasion of Iraq.

Guess that will teach them to attack us with our own airplanes. Oh no wait...that wasn't them, was it. Damn.


(I'll post more levity later this week in the form of other peoples dumbass bike stories. Now I have to go...I'm going to print out a picture of Rumsfeld's face and step on it with my left saucy, black-booted, pointy kitten heel.)

Brakes Don't Work in the Rain and Other Stories

So Ms. Inamini posted a post (that's fun to say out loud) about the stupid things she's done. I commented with the stupid thing I'd done THAT DAY, which was WAY worse than any of her stupid things. I'm including the story below:

Kara said...

Today I was riding my bike. The light changed and I tried to brake to a stop. It was pouring rain. My original 1960s English Raleigh's brake pads don't work in the rain so I had to use my feet as I slid into the intersection. My shoes slipped and my nether regions came crashing down on the bar. 4 different lines of traffic were watching. I am now on a couch with an ice pack on my bleeding, swollen lady bits with the Ex Sys. Admin changing my brake pads. Why am I telling you this??? Well, I refused to replace the brake pads earlier because they said "Made in England" and I thought that was cool. You're a brain surgeon compared to me.

It occurs to me now (since the pain has lessened a bit...though just a bit) that the story is a tad humorous. I mean, how stupid is it that bike brakes don't work in the rain? How'd people stop in the 60s? I wonder if that's why platform shoes were invented. You know, to allow for all the wear on the soles of your shoes that stopping with your feet results in. Too bad no one from the 60s is still alive to answer these important anthropological questions. If only there was a way to get through to one of them...you know, like a seance of something. Anyway...it's my generation's loss. My bike is getting a modernizing overhaul.

2 weeks til I move. I sent the letter to my landlord stating that I was gonna leave his crap heap because he never responded to ANY of my repair requests (which were ALWAYS very polite in nature) and because now my front door doesn't even fucking close. If you know what Portland's been like lately (pouring rain all day every day) you'll sympathize with a girl who can't fully close her front door. And if you can't...you're a heartless bastard and I'm going to call PETA and tell them that you torture kittens.

Besides, I have to move because a month ago my Dad and Step-mom came to visit and I had my windows open and my upstairs neighbor was coming down the stairs and my Dad was like "Hey, is that The Vampire?" REALLY not-quietly. Let me repeat...my windows were open. The Vampire didn't ACT like he'd heard...but I'm fairly certain that when this rain lets up, I'm first in line for a draining.

Anyway, I'm gonna have a roommate again. I hope he doesn't hate my cat. Lots of people hate my cat. She's needy. But I think she's nice, so they can all go to hell. Jebus, and so can this post.

(PS: The picture above isn't actually my bike but it's pretty damn close. My bike is better, though cause I've bling'd it up with some streamers and sparkly handles. Word.)

My Friends Are The Coolest

This is why I love Marie. Last night, 2/3 of the Crew and I go for lemon drop happy hour (sorry, Laura, you have to be able to leave your baby/leach for more than an hour). We split around 8 because I have to go check out an apartment and when I leave said apartment a couple hours later, there's a message on my phone.

Here's an abbreviated transcript:

Marie (very distressed): Kara, this is Marie. I need you to call me back because I just got these new salt and pepper shakers and I can't figure out which one is for salt and which is for pepper and I'm trying to fill them. Anyway, I need your help.

I begin chortling immediately. 'Silly girl', I thought, everyone knows how to tell which is which.
Yeah, wrong.

So I call her back:

Me (patronizingly): You have a few too many lemon drops, Marie?
Marie: I kept going when I got home.
Me: Ahhhh...that's ok then. So here's how you tell...the one with more holes is for salt, 'cause you want more salt than you do pepper, in general.
Marie: Yeah but the other one has bigger holes.
Me (disbelieving): The one with less holes has bigger holes?
Marie (exasperated): Yes!
Me (flabbergasted): Oh.
Marie: Yeah.
Me: Well shit. I think that one's still for pepper, because, you know, pepper bits are sometimes bigger than salt.
Marie: Yeah, ok, that makes sense.
Me: Oh yeah, I'm moving out of my ghetto apartment in two weeks.
Marie: Yay!

The last part, though mentioned, has nothing to do with the amusingness of this conversation, but I included it because it's true and I'm excited about it. I'm going to have a new roommate and a home with heat...a front door that closes and probably locks...and NO BLACK MOLD!

Happy Friday, people!

The Cure for a Snake Bite

This is in Marrakech. The dude would play his horn and the snakes would all flail about. I never got closer than this. I saw children go much closer and I thought "idiots".

But later I was told that I was the idiot. It was perfectly safe to go up to the snakes. You could even taunt them if you wanted to...wanna know why??? They're mouths were sewn shut. If you could look closer, you'd see black thread criss-crossing along their poor little venomnous mouths.

Snake slavery at its worst.

Yesterday I was riding my bike home and then something funny happened that I was definitely going to blog about. But I forgot it, like, 10 minutes later. I'm aging, friends.

Halloween was the shit. The good kind. Not Halloween, exactly, but the Saturday before it. Maybe I'll post a picture, maybe I won't...'cause my costume is kinda nekkidy. I was a dead ballerina. The Crew, Law Student and I party hopped, and that was pretty ok, except that I was designated driver so, you know, sober.

Election time is coming. I was afraid I wasn't going to be able to vote because my ballot had gone to my now demolished previous residence on Stark st. But I got it all sorted out and I will single-handedly bring down the inbred twat that is State Gubernatorial candidate...Ron Saxton. Fear me, Ron...fear me.

Blowhard

The Christmas Present I'm Getting EVERYONE

FOOTBALL MEAT!!!

And So I'm Back...From Outer Space

I know those aren't the real lyrics, but I don't feel the need to justify ANYTHING to you people. Oooh, that came off hostile. Maybe it's because I'm back at work today. Yes, I returned to work on a Friday of all the silly things to do. Well, slightly less silly than ramming a straw up my nose.

But I'm back and they've taken down my wall. The wall behind the desk that kept the rest of the office from knowing when I was blogging and when I was working. And now they will know. Which probably means less entries for you. I invite you all to send the appropriate letters of complaint to the company bigwigs. Just send them to me and I'll forward them on. Or whatever. I got "tagged" again awhile back and I promised I'd answer so I'm gonna do that now. But I'm not sending it on because I'm afraid of losing more friends (Devon). Anyway, this is what I'm supposed to do:

So the rules are: once you've been tagged, you have to write a blog with "9 weird things/habits about yourself". In the end, you need to choose the 9 people to be tagged and list them... don't forget to tag 9 people."

Here they are (though I don't think they're all that weird)

1. I talk in my sleep rather severely, I've had Alice in Wonderland-like conversations that I don't remember at all. As a kid I scared my parents by yelling things in the middle of the night and waking everyone up.
2. I will spend $99 on something, but find spending $101 intolerable.
3. I refridgerate ketchup, but not peanut butter.
4. I like weak beer. The pansier the better. Heil Rolling Rock!
5. I hate Karen Carpenter, James Taylor, and Neil Diamond's voices...they make me want to gauge out my own eyes with those press-on nails. You know, the pointy ones.
6. I think I have the world's ugliest knees...and I contemplate on this regularly.
7. There is a dish in Morocco that involves ground meat baked into philo dough with powdered sugar sprinkled on top. I love it. Shut up.
8. I can't not sing with the radio...even if I hate the song, if I know any of the words, I sing.
9. I flirt by slinging the most ball shriveling insults at any man I find desirable. I have no control over this. None. And yes, I'm still single. What of it?

There you go. I'm not passing it on.

Oh, and I'll try to post more Morocco pics soon, if you're not sick of them.

Word.