this holiday just keeps on giving.
and giving. and giving. and giving.
seriously, we've only just begun to climb the 'fourteener' that is the tupperware collection of leftovers in our fridge (that's colorado talk for a-totally-big-mountain). it's deliciously overwhelming and superbly inordinate. i have been eating only turkey, various potato concoctions, an array of calorie-soaked vegetables, and an assortment of desserts for 3 days straight. there is no end in sight. yesterday a huge pot of turkey soup appeared, however the original bird mysteriously remained the same size.
despite the vast amount of food we already have, and my roommate's desperate pleading, last night i came home with more leftovers. i mean, my sweet potato pie is totally different from her mom's candied yams. and how am i to successfully finish off a turkey without green beans soaked in campbells mushroom soup? we are now prepared for another 3-4 weeks of turkey eating. so we shouldn't have to go grocery shopping until just before christmas. you're so welcome.
i'd also like to express my gratitude to this extraordinary holiday. thank you for continuing to give. thanks for giving, thanks-giving.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
remember to wear elastic pants
thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
i also really like halloween and the fourth of july because these holidays involve the least amount of pressure and the highest volume of alcohol (and candy. and hotdogs). think about it - no family obligations, easy food prep, and fun for all ages (ie costumes and fireworks). if you don’t have big plans on halloween, no problem. just stay home, watch a scary movie, and hand out candy to trick-or-treaters. and drink wine. it is very important not to forget the wine.
but thanksgiving is my favorite “real” holiday. its centered around delicious food, wine, and freedom. not to mention the white-man stealing the land from the indians, (HOW!) but lets not let this slight unpleasantness ruin a perfectly scrumptious holiday. this is a day where it’s totally acceptable to be drinking before noon, have marshmallows during the main course, and unbutton your pants at the dinner table. all things considered, it’s hard to disagree with this delectable tradition no matter how it came about. i mean, what’s a little land thieving if, in celebration, we get to eat pie?
so this year, everyone eat, nap, and eat again. and maybe, between rounds, find a little time to plan a trip to your nearest native american owned casino. you know, to give back.
i also really like halloween and the fourth of july because these holidays involve the least amount of pressure and the highest volume of alcohol (and candy. and hotdogs). think about it - no family obligations, easy food prep, and fun for all ages (ie costumes and fireworks). if you don’t have big plans on halloween, no problem. just stay home, watch a scary movie, and hand out candy to trick-or-treaters. and drink wine. it is very important not to forget the wine.
but thanksgiving is my favorite “real” holiday. its centered around delicious food, wine, and freedom. not to mention the white-man stealing the land from the indians, (HOW!) but lets not let this slight unpleasantness ruin a perfectly scrumptious holiday. this is a day where it’s totally acceptable to be drinking before noon, have marshmallows during the main course, and unbutton your pants at the dinner table. all things considered, it’s hard to disagree with this delectable tradition no matter how it came about. i mean, what’s a little land thieving if, in celebration, we get to eat pie?
so this year, everyone eat, nap, and eat again. and maybe, between rounds, find a little time to plan a trip to your nearest native american owned casino. you know, to give back.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
the pop-tart predicament
i’ve been getting cosmic signs to buy pop-tarts. this is exceptionally strange for me because i have a dark past with this on-the-go breakfast pastry. i, like many others, have endured a scarring pop-tart experience.
i lived in the sig delt house for two years during college. after eating hundreds of meals in the basement kitchen there are only 2 things about the food that really stick out in my mind (besides s’mores in the microwave - deeelicious). there was an overwhelming, unending supply of dill. and pop-tarts. not usually served together.
our chef put dill in everything - and i mean, everything. before moving in to ‘the house,’ i was ambivalent about this herb. i probably wouldn’t cook with it, myself, but i wouldn’t stray away from eating a dill-icious dish (hehe - i couldn’t resist). i got the impression that the majority of my sorority sisters felt the same way. it was almost as if our chef could read our thoughts and his response was, “you don’t have strong feelings about dill?! how could that be?! i’ll fix this.... [evil laugh while sprinkling more dill into the quesadillas...]” he started putting this pungent weed in everything he cooked. there wasn’t a dill-free meal to be found. chicken, pasta, scrambled eggs, chocolate cake. you name it, dill was present. it got to the point where the smell of a dill seasoned dish would send girls disappearing down the fire escape faster than the chef could say “dill-infused mac and cheese! come aaaaand get it”
our house manager eventually had to uncomfortably explain why the number of people attending meals was dropping. the food got better, but i haven’t been able to eat anything with dill since.
this same house manager, who angelically saved the sorority from a lethal overdose of dill weed, was the person responsible for the semester i like to refer to as ‘the time of the tarts’.
when pop-tarts started showing up in the snack area of our kitchen, i was excited. i liked pop-tarts. i grew up on them. they were one of those exciting treats that mom picked up at the store only sporadically and was always a welcomed variety from cinnamon toast crunch. but shortly after the first appearance of said pop-tarts, something strange began to happen. the foil inclosed delights began to multiply! it was almost as if they were reproducing. overtaking the granola bars, pretzels, and assorted cereals along the way. i’d go to bed after a long night of studying (read; gossiping) in the kitchen, and when i came down early the next morning the tarts seemed to have doubled in number. it was overwhelming.
at first, i thought this was a temporary problem - oops, we over ordered this week! but as the weeks and months went on, more and more pop-tarts appeared. it started effecting my nutritional intake. i suppose i could have gone out and bought a variety of food on my own - but, this was already in the house and paid for. i was a poor college student. why would i spend money on food when i could spend it on bud light? duh.
i ate pop-tart after pop-tart until i could eat pop-tarts no more. i ate more pop-tarts than any human should healthily intake. and then i at more. now, don’t get me wrong. this was not a terribly gluttonous example of overeating. it wasn’t like i was eating this tremendous amount of pop-tarts all in one day. it occurred over a period of time. the disturbing part was considering the ratio of pop-tarts consumed, in relation to the total amount of food eaten. something like 30% of my diet consisted of pop-tarts. (hey, don’t judge too harshly. some people do ramen noodles, i did tarts.)
well, needless to say i was overdoing it. it got to the point where the mere scent of pop-tarts made me feel queasy. so i quit. cold turkey. i never ate a sugar filled, carb loaded toaster treat again. (except for camping with masada, but we had off-brand. and they were gross, so it doesn’t count.)
i thought that being able to enjoy the delicious crunch of a pop-tart was a luxury of the past, but recently a strange urge overcame me.
it started when the universe began giving me signs that i should give my, once beloved, tarts another chance. as all life altering events, the cosmic message presented itself in three ways. first i heard about the carnival cruise ship that was stranded in the middle of the ocean (if you've ever been on a carnival cruise, this should not surprise you). apparently they were only able to serve their guests an extremely limited selection of prepackaged foods. when the reporter said that one of these survival foods was pop-tarts. i thought to myself, ‘hmm, that might not be so bad...” next, conan obrien tweeted that his kids were begging to be taken on said cruise because of the endless amount of pop-tarts. i thought to myself, “the obrien kids might be on to something...” the third event is what really clarified the message. i started substituting glee cravings with episodes of gilmore girls (another great series with the ability to uplift and turn a frown upside-down, but that's another story for another day...) let me just say, that lorelai and rory eat a ton of tarts. pop-tarts in the morning, pop-tarts in the evening, pop-tarts at supper time. i thought to myself, "the gilmore girls really seem to have their shit together." i mean, they’re successful, smart, cute, and witty. maybe this is a result of their diet? and what was i supposed to do, ignore the cosmic signs? when the universe tells you to do something, you do it. the stars were aligned - it was time to hit the grocery store.
i couldn’t decide what flavor to get, so i - obviously - went with both s’mores and frosted strawberry. (i mean, if you’re going to do something - do it right).
i’ve been eating a few pop-tarts a week since the big purchase and things are going pretty well. it’s been deliciously successful. our once strong bond seems to have been repaired with sugar and carbohydrates. although i do not foresee a truce with dill in my near future, i’m delighted with the reconciliation that has occurred with my favorite toaster pastry. after all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
i lived in the sig delt house for two years during college. after eating hundreds of meals in the basement kitchen there are only 2 things about the food that really stick out in my mind (besides s’mores in the microwave - deeelicious). there was an overwhelming, unending supply of dill. and pop-tarts. not usually served together.
our chef put dill in everything - and i mean, everything. before moving in to ‘the house,’ i was ambivalent about this herb. i probably wouldn’t cook with it, myself, but i wouldn’t stray away from eating a dill-icious dish (hehe - i couldn’t resist). i got the impression that the majority of my sorority sisters felt the same way. it was almost as if our chef could read our thoughts and his response was, “you don’t have strong feelings about dill?! how could that be?! i’ll fix this.... [evil laugh while sprinkling more dill into the quesadillas...]” he started putting this pungent weed in everything he cooked. there wasn’t a dill-free meal to be found. chicken, pasta, scrambled eggs, chocolate cake. you name it, dill was present. it got to the point where the smell of a dill seasoned dish would send girls disappearing down the fire escape faster than the chef could say “dill-infused mac and cheese! come aaaaand get it”
our house manager eventually had to uncomfortably explain why the number of people attending meals was dropping. the food got better, but i haven’t been able to eat anything with dill since.
this same house manager, who angelically saved the sorority from a lethal overdose of dill weed, was the person responsible for the semester i like to refer to as ‘the time of the tarts’.
when pop-tarts started showing up in the snack area of our kitchen, i was excited. i liked pop-tarts. i grew up on them. they were one of those exciting treats that mom picked up at the store only sporadically and was always a welcomed variety from cinnamon toast crunch. but shortly after the first appearance of said pop-tarts, something strange began to happen. the foil inclosed delights began to multiply! it was almost as if they were reproducing. overtaking the granola bars, pretzels, and assorted cereals along the way. i’d go to bed after a long night of studying (read; gossiping) in the kitchen, and when i came down early the next morning the tarts seemed to have doubled in number. it was overwhelming.
at first, i thought this was a temporary problem - oops, we over ordered this week! but as the weeks and months went on, more and more pop-tarts appeared. it started effecting my nutritional intake. i suppose i could have gone out and bought a variety of food on my own - but, this was already in the house and paid for. i was a poor college student. why would i spend money on food when i could spend it on bud light? duh.
i ate pop-tart after pop-tart until i could eat pop-tarts no more. i ate more pop-tarts than any human should healthily intake. and then i at more. now, don’t get me wrong. this was not a terribly gluttonous example of overeating. it wasn’t like i was eating this tremendous amount of pop-tarts all in one day. it occurred over a period of time. the disturbing part was considering the ratio of pop-tarts consumed, in relation to the total amount of food eaten. something like 30% of my diet consisted of pop-tarts. (hey, don’t judge too harshly. some people do ramen noodles, i did tarts.)
well, needless to say i was overdoing it. it got to the point where the mere scent of pop-tarts made me feel queasy. so i quit. cold turkey. i never ate a sugar filled, carb loaded toaster treat again. (except for camping with masada, but we had off-brand. and they were gross, so it doesn’t count.)
i thought that being able to enjoy the delicious crunch of a pop-tart was a luxury of the past, but recently a strange urge overcame me.
it started when the universe began giving me signs that i should give my, once beloved, tarts another chance. as all life altering events, the cosmic message presented itself in three ways. first i heard about the carnival cruise ship that was stranded in the middle of the ocean (if you've ever been on a carnival cruise, this should not surprise you). apparently they were only able to serve their guests an extremely limited selection of prepackaged foods. when the reporter said that one of these survival foods was pop-tarts. i thought to myself, ‘hmm, that might not be so bad...” next, conan obrien tweeted that his kids were begging to be taken on said cruise because of the endless amount of pop-tarts. i thought to myself, “the obrien kids might be on to something...” the third event is what really clarified the message. i started substituting glee cravings with episodes of gilmore girls (another great series with the ability to uplift and turn a frown upside-down, but that's another story for another day...) let me just say, that lorelai and rory eat a ton of tarts. pop-tarts in the morning, pop-tarts in the evening, pop-tarts at supper time. i thought to myself, "the gilmore girls really seem to have their shit together." i mean, they’re successful, smart, cute, and witty. maybe this is a result of their diet? and what was i supposed to do, ignore the cosmic signs? when the universe tells you to do something, you do it. the stars were aligned - it was time to hit the grocery store.
i couldn’t decide what flavor to get, so i - obviously - went with both s’mores and frosted strawberry. (i mean, if you’re going to do something - do it right).
i’ve been eating a few pop-tarts a week since the big purchase and things are going pretty well. it’s been deliciously successful. our once strong bond seems to have been repaired with sugar and carbohydrates. although i do not foresee a truce with dill in my near future, i’m delighted with the reconciliation that has occurred with my favorite toaster pastry. after all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
the curse of the printers: a dramatic memoir
printers hate me. i know this to be true. the evidence is three fold.
example one (aka the phantom):
my first printer. oh how excited i was! i had just moved into naismith hall and my starry freshman eyes sparkled with delight gazing at all my new toys. my very own dorm room! glorious sigh, “i have a tiny window! and a tiny bed! a tiny computer! my very own tiny, sparkley beer bong! i’m so cool!” i was still basking in the glory of my new independence as i drifted into my first night of solitary slumber (and by solitary, i obviously mean besides my new roommate, two suitemates, the entire second floor, and the drunk kids running around upstairs). much to my sleepy dismay, i was rudely awakened by my new printer. that’s right, before classes have started and any school work has been done (or printed) my phantom printer begins spitting out random pages of squares, symbols, and all around jibberish. the look on my roommates startled face shamed me into the realization that 4am was not an appropriate time to be printing.
the phantom continued to wake us up once or twice a week until i finally gave in and unplugged it. at the time it seemed like a small annoyance. unplugging appliances when they’re not in use is an energy saver anyway, right? go green? it wasn’t until i recognized the phantom as part of a pattern that it’s true intentions were realized. that printer was taunting me.
in may i left the phantom in the naismith parking lot to be scavenged by the locals and haskel students. we parted in slience. a personal tribute to my previous hopes for our relationship. in the fall i was going to be moving in to the sorority house - the land of borrowing. thirty-eight other girls with closets, shoes, and you guessed it - printers.
example two (aka the foot rest):
after two years of clothes stealing, printer mooching, and slumber parties i moved out of the brothel - um, i mean sorority house - and into the luxurious hawker apartment complex. it was classy - exposed cement, crooked parking lines, surrounding the very centralized and very beautiful dumpster area. but best of all, this was the first time since the dorms that i really felt like i was going to have my own space. this also meant i had to do a little shopping. no longer was i going to have access to all my sorority sisters belongings (i’d have to - gasp! - walk outside. aaaand go next door.... hey, it gets pretty cold in the winter...). i needed a good pair of black heels, a purse or two, and - being the wonderful student i was - a printer. i mean, how was i supposed to print my tediously long english papers or the pretty colorful pictures for my school of ed posters? what - you expect me to frequent the library? please. i needed a printer.
this time i wanted to make sure i got a reliable device. i went all out. within a week of moving in to my third floor penthouse i was the proud owner of a 3-in-1 copier-scanner-printer. if that wasn’t high-quality, fancy-schmancy then i didn’t know what was. there was only one problem. i had no where to put this mega machine. it was too big. i tried to put it on my desk - now where should my computer live? i tried to find a spot for it on my book shelf - but, like pamela anderson, it was too top heavy and kept falling over. i even tried to make room for it in my closet. this seemed to be the best spot. inconspicuous, out of the way, it was perfect. that was until i realized that there wasn’t an outlet in my closet. who designed this place?! no outlet in the closet? what if my ugg’s need a night light? how about if my marc jacobs clutch needs to barrow a blow drier? what then?! i quickly realized that the only place my printer could sit, out of the way, was on the floor under my desk. fine. not my ideal placement, but it did serve as a nice paper-writing-footrest. and it worked.
that’s right, for the first time in my college career i had a printer that worked. we copied, scanned, and printed with gleeful enthusiasm. this was the best technological relationship i’d had in a while - reliable, committed, and cute as a button. this was it, i was in love! then, just as we were entering the comfort zone (also known as first semester finals), my world came crashing down around me. i was finishing up a research paper on 300 different ways to outline a lesson plan when it happened. my printer. stopped. working. it didn’t call, it didn’t write, it gave no warning and simply quit on me. and after only a few short months. i was heartbroken.
i lived in the penthouse through my first year of grad school and the 3-in-1 never worked again. i never thought to get rid of it. it just sat under my desk serving as a, sometimes annoying, footrest. occasionally i would plug it back in to see if, possibly, we could reconcile. it never printed again.
when i left lawrence in the summer of ’09 my bother came over while i was packing to see what he could convince me to leave behind. turns out, he was in the market for a printer himself. he wanted to know if he could please take mine as i couldn’t possibly need one anymore because i was moving back home. he then gave me a condescendingly judgmental smile that said, you’re-a-college-graduate-and-you’re-going-to-be-living-at-home [eyebrow lift]? i thought about it for a second and then told him that he was right, he probably had more use for the printer. he let out a victorious laugh, unplugged my foot rest, and lugged it down three flights of stairs and into the back of his car.
thanks for taking care of that, bro! carrying that down the stairs could have totally hurt my back, it was super heavy. how’s that fancy printer working out for you, anyway?
example three (aka FML is this really happening again?):
i recently bought a macbook. i know, i know. i’ve become a cliche. i could go on and on about being sucked in to advertising schemes, conforming to the majority of my generation, and over-priced, unnecessary gadgets. but instead i will say this; my macbook rocks. it’s wonderful and does cool stuff (probably...) and it’s pretty and i like to cuddle with it at night. i’ll admit it - i’m a total convert. hi, my name is jenn and i’m a mac-aholic [hiiiii jenn].
one of the great aspects of purchasing my new silver bundle of joy, was that it came with a brand new printer. this one was definitely high quality. i mean, it came from the mac store - it has to be the best! right? isn’t that what has been pounded into my brain over the last decade? now in the defense of my new favorite name-brand, the printer is not a mac product. but they definitely should get behind the devices they sell, and if the mac company is supportive of this printer then i may have to rethink my brainwashed loyalty. because this printer. sucks. my will. to live.
my mac-endorsed, supposed-to-be-better-than-their-competitors printer has failed me. just like all of the rest. i think the part that hurts the most, you know besides realizing that all the printers in the universe are out to get me, was the false hope i had from the godfather of technology.
this printer works sometimes. but other times it will print half my document and then spit out the paper unfinished. seriously, little printer, why would i want half a picture of cory monteith? i need the whole image! it’s obviously very important that i have working access to a printer, as i am dealing with urgent matters.
the more i consider the curse, the angrier i become. even now, as i glance disapprovingly across the room at the condescending blue glow of the power light on ‘the little printer that couldn’t,’ my aggression grows. why me, printers of the world? what have i ever done to you?
certain late night crime shows have taught me the villainous importance of befriending an evil enemy. so, i will work with the printer i have now. i’ll speak gently to it, keep it in fresh ink and stocked with paper, and sing it lullabies at night. i will do this until i have gained it’s trust, only then will i overcome the printer. it will submit to my will, never have a paper jam, and print beautifully complete documents from then on. until then, i wait and befriend.
soon the time will come to break the curse of the printers. until then, i’ll keep my friends close - but my printer closer.
example one (aka the phantom):
my first printer. oh how excited i was! i had just moved into naismith hall and my starry freshman eyes sparkled with delight gazing at all my new toys. my very own dorm room! glorious sigh, “i have a tiny window! and a tiny bed! a tiny computer! my very own tiny, sparkley beer bong! i’m so cool!” i was still basking in the glory of my new independence as i drifted into my first night of solitary slumber (and by solitary, i obviously mean besides my new roommate, two suitemates, the entire second floor, and the drunk kids running around upstairs). much to my sleepy dismay, i was rudely awakened by my new printer. that’s right, before classes have started and any school work has been done (or printed) my phantom printer begins spitting out random pages of squares, symbols, and all around jibberish. the look on my roommates startled face shamed me into the realization that 4am was not an appropriate time to be printing.
the phantom continued to wake us up once or twice a week until i finally gave in and unplugged it. at the time it seemed like a small annoyance. unplugging appliances when they’re not in use is an energy saver anyway, right? go green? it wasn’t until i recognized the phantom as part of a pattern that it’s true intentions were realized. that printer was taunting me.
in may i left the phantom in the naismith parking lot to be scavenged by the locals and haskel students. we parted in slience. a personal tribute to my previous hopes for our relationship. in the fall i was going to be moving in to the sorority house - the land of borrowing. thirty-eight other girls with closets, shoes, and you guessed it - printers.
example two (aka the foot rest):
after two years of clothes stealing, printer mooching, and slumber parties i moved out of the brothel - um, i mean sorority house - and into the luxurious hawker apartment complex. it was classy - exposed cement, crooked parking lines, surrounding the very centralized and very beautiful dumpster area. but best of all, this was the first time since the dorms that i really felt like i was going to have my own space. this also meant i had to do a little shopping. no longer was i going to have access to all my sorority sisters belongings (i’d have to - gasp! - walk outside. aaaand go next door.... hey, it gets pretty cold in the winter...). i needed a good pair of black heels, a purse or two, and - being the wonderful student i was - a printer. i mean, how was i supposed to print my tediously long english papers or the pretty colorful pictures for my school of ed posters? what - you expect me to frequent the library? please. i needed a printer.
this time i wanted to make sure i got a reliable device. i went all out. within a week of moving in to my third floor penthouse i was the proud owner of a 3-in-1 copier-scanner-printer. if that wasn’t high-quality, fancy-schmancy then i didn’t know what was. there was only one problem. i had no where to put this mega machine. it was too big. i tried to put it on my desk - now where should my computer live? i tried to find a spot for it on my book shelf - but, like pamela anderson, it was too top heavy and kept falling over. i even tried to make room for it in my closet. this seemed to be the best spot. inconspicuous, out of the way, it was perfect. that was until i realized that there wasn’t an outlet in my closet. who designed this place?! no outlet in the closet? what if my ugg’s need a night light? how about if my marc jacobs clutch needs to barrow a blow drier? what then?! i quickly realized that the only place my printer could sit, out of the way, was on the floor under my desk. fine. not my ideal placement, but it did serve as a nice paper-writing-footrest. and it worked.
that’s right, for the first time in my college career i had a printer that worked. we copied, scanned, and printed with gleeful enthusiasm. this was the best technological relationship i’d had in a while - reliable, committed, and cute as a button. this was it, i was in love! then, just as we were entering the comfort zone (also known as first semester finals), my world came crashing down around me. i was finishing up a research paper on 300 different ways to outline a lesson plan when it happened. my printer. stopped. working. it didn’t call, it didn’t write, it gave no warning and simply quit on me. and after only a few short months. i was heartbroken.
i lived in the penthouse through my first year of grad school and the 3-in-1 never worked again. i never thought to get rid of it. it just sat under my desk serving as a, sometimes annoying, footrest. occasionally i would plug it back in to see if, possibly, we could reconcile. it never printed again.
when i left lawrence in the summer of ’09 my bother came over while i was packing to see what he could convince me to leave behind. turns out, he was in the market for a printer himself. he wanted to know if he could please take mine as i couldn’t possibly need one anymore because i was moving back home. he then gave me a condescendingly judgmental smile that said, you’re-a-college-graduate-and-you’re-going-to-be-living-at-home [eyebrow lift]? i thought about it for a second and then told him that he was right, he probably had more use for the printer. he let out a victorious laugh, unplugged my foot rest, and lugged it down three flights of stairs and into the back of his car.
thanks for taking care of that, bro! carrying that down the stairs could have totally hurt my back, it was super heavy. how’s that fancy printer working out for you, anyway?
example three (aka FML is this really happening again?):
i recently bought a macbook. i know, i know. i’ve become a cliche. i could go on and on about being sucked in to advertising schemes, conforming to the majority of my generation, and over-priced, unnecessary gadgets. but instead i will say this; my macbook rocks. it’s wonderful and does cool stuff (probably...) and it’s pretty and i like to cuddle with it at night. i’ll admit it - i’m a total convert. hi, my name is jenn and i’m a mac-aholic [hiiiii jenn].
one of the great aspects of purchasing my new silver bundle of joy, was that it came with a brand new printer. this one was definitely high quality. i mean, it came from the mac store - it has to be the best! right? isn’t that what has been pounded into my brain over the last decade? now in the defense of my new favorite name-brand, the printer is not a mac product. but they definitely should get behind the devices they sell, and if the mac company is supportive of this printer then i may have to rethink my brainwashed loyalty. because this printer. sucks. my will. to live.
my mac-endorsed, supposed-to-be-better-than-their-competitors printer has failed me. just like all of the rest. i think the part that hurts the most, you know besides realizing that all the printers in the universe are out to get me, was the false hope i had from the godfather of technology.
this printer works sometimes. but other times it will print half my document and then spit out the paper unfinished. seriously, little printer, why would i want half a picture of cory monteith? i need the whole image! it’s obviously very important that i have working access to a printer, as i am dealing with urgent matters.
the more i consider the curse, the angrier i become. even now, as i glance disapprovingly across the room at the condescending blue glow of the power light on ‘the little printer that couldn’t,’ my aggression grows. why me, printers of the world? what have i ever done to you?
certain late night crime shows have taught me the villainous importance of befriending an evil enemy. so, i will work with the printer i have now. i’ll speak gently to it, keep it in fresh ink and stocked with paper, and sing it lullabies at night. i will do this until i have gained it’s trust, only then will i overcome the printer. it will submit to my will, never have a paper jam, and print beautifully complete documents from then on. until then, i wait and befriend.
soon the time will come to break the curse of the printers. until then, i’ll keep my friends close - but my printer closer.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
thriller is the theme song to my life
i’m the michael jackson of footwear.
ever since the removal of my cast and addition of my rockin boot, i’ve been having this strange reoccurring thought. the boot should be worn with a sock at all times, however i do not wear socks with my favorite pair of ugg slippers (save the grossed out groans for someone who cares, you crazy ugg-with-sock-wearers, [cough, ashley]. that australian sheepskin feels wicked good between my toes, yo). so, when i take off my ‘shoes’ to lay on my bed and watch gilmore girls, i tend to end up with a socked foot crossing ankles with his naked twin.
and do you know what the first thought that crosses my mind is? not, ‘oh my other foot’s cold, i should put on another sock,’ or ‘haha that’s weird [then removing said sock].’ no. my bored-out-of-my-mind, desperately-craving-any-form-of-pseudo-entertainment thought process, when i notice i’m wearing only one sock is, “i’m totally the michael jackson of footwear.”
thats right. i’m wearing one sock and mj wore only one glove. and feet are to hands; as socks are to gloves. therefore, i am the michael jackson of footwear.
unless - of course- you consider the possibility that socks are more comparable to mittens and gloves are closer in similarity to shoes. you know - if you take in to account the degree of functionality versus level of cozyness.
either way, i’m going to learn to moonwalk as part of my physical therapy.
ever since the removal of my cast and addition of my rockin boot, i’ve been having this strange reoccurring thought. the boot should be worn with a sock at all times, however i do not wear socks with my favorite pair of ugg slippers (save the grossed out groans for someone who cares, you crazy ugg-with-sock-wearers, [cough, ashley]. that australian sheepskin feels wicked good between my toes, yo). so, when i take off my ‘shoes’ to lay on my bed and watch gilmore girls, i tend to end up with a socked foot crossing ankles with his naked twin.
and do you know what the first thought that crosses my mind is? not, ‘oh my other foot’s cold, i should put on another sock,’ or ‘haha that’s weird [then removing said sock].’ no. my bored-out-of-my-mind, desperately-craving-any-form-of-pseudo-entertainment thought process, when i notice i’m wearing only one sock is, “i’m totally the michael jackson of footwear.”
thats right. i’m wearing one sock and mj wore only one glove. and feet are to hands; as socks are to gloves. therefore, i am the michael jackson of footwear.
unless - of course- you consider the possibility that socks are more comparable to mittens and gloves are closer in similarity to shoes. you know - if you take in to account the degree of functionality versus level of cozyness.
either way, i’m going to learn to moonwalk as part of my physical therapy.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
boots are so in this season
try to contain your overwhelming enthusiasm. drum roll please, ladies and gentlemen.... i got my cast off today! wooo hooo!
alright, don’t get too excited. i’m in a walking boot for the next 3-5 weeks - one step at a time (punny? no?) as the ortho-tech sawed off the purple security blanket i’ve been lugging around for the last 3 weeks, tears of joy sprang to my eyes. “hello left foot! oh, how i have missed you!” i’m in the process of getting reacquainted with one of my favorite limbs and the doctor walks in (can’t a girl and her foot get any privacy?!)...
dr: you’re foot is healing perfectly. wear the boot all the time, except to sleep, shower, and drive.
me: drive? i’ve been driving.
dr: (disapproving frown)
me: um... my left foot is broken. i’m right footed. haha...
dr: (disbelieving grimace)
me: isn’t everyone right footed? you know, when they drive?
dr: (starting to walk away)
me: i don’t drive a manual! i thought you said it was ok to drive!
then i realized - this doctor definitely told me i could drive. this guy doesn’t realize what foot i broke! is this for real? i guess he kinda looks like the sort of dude who wouldn’t even bother to glance down to see which one of us is correct. you know the type; silver fox, walks around with an arrogant smile, talking into a tape recorder: “the subject’s displaced blahbadey-blah will have highest probability of of rehabilitation with surgical suchity-such.” alright man, i get it. you’re super rich and smart and know all about bones and stuff. what do you want, a medal? i’d at least expect you to know which foot i broke! geez!
and by the way! mr. dr foot guy! if you’re reading this! ..... hehe, just kididng..... you, uh, rock.... um, and you’re really intelligent and good looking.... please don’t put me back in a cast...
alright, don’t get too excited. i’m in a walking boot for the next 3-5 weeks - one step at a time (punny? no?) as the ortho-tech sawed off the purple security blanket i’ve been lugging around for the last 3 weeks, tears of joy sprang to my eyes. “hello left foot! oh, how i have missed you!” i’m in the process of getting reacquainted with one of my favorite limbs and the doctor walks in (can’t a girl and her foot get any privacy?!)...
dr: you’re foot is healing perfectly. wear the boot all the time, except to sleep, shower, and drive.
me: drive? i’ve been driving.
dr: (disapproving frown)
me: um... my left foot is broken. i’m right footed. haha...
dr: (disbelieving grimace)
me: isn’t everyone right footed? you know, when they drive?
dr: (starting to walk away)
me: i don’t drive a manual! i thought you said it was ok to drive!
then i realized - this doctor definitely told me i could drive. this guy doesn’t realize what foot i broke! is this for real? i guess he kinda looks like the sort of dude who wouldn’t even bother to glance down to see which one of us is correct. you know the type; silver fox, walks around with an arrogant smile, talking into a tape recorder: “the subject’s displaced blahbadey-blah will have highest probability of of rehabilitation with surgical suchity-such.” alright man, i get it. you’re super rich and smart and know all about bones and stuff. what do you want, a medal? i’d at least expect you to know which foot i broke! geez!
and by the way! mr. dr foot guy! if you’re reading this! ..... hehe, just kididng..... you, uh, rock.... um, and you’re really intelligent and good looking.... please don’t put me back in a cast...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
the boil on the ass of show biz - charlie sheen: friend or foe?
let me make one thing perfectly clear. i am not a fan of charlie sheen, i do not know anything about charlie sheen, i don’t give a shit about charlie sheen. in fact, the only reason i know that this so-called ‘actor’ is still around is because of my infatuation with chelsea handler (that, and the fact that i have spent the last week healing on my grandmother’s couch and he stars in her favorite sitcom. right on, charlie, you’ve attracted an audience of 80-year-old women).
i really should be embarrassed that chelsea lately is the only form of “news” i watch on a regular basis, but i’m not. actually - i’m kind of proud that i’ve become versed in some arena of current events. certain intellectual types may turn up their nose at the celebrity gossip that i so desperately crave. all i can say about that, is that i hope these pop-culture underachievers never run in to ms. handler or anyone on her compound, as they will most definitely be the punch line of many degrading jokes. although it is highly unlikely i will ever encounter these pseudo celebs either, at least i’ll be prepared. if presented with the opportunity i’ll be ready to dazzle the team with my witty remarks and vast knowledge of celebrity hype.
in the last week or so, charlie sheen has been all over the e! network. let me just say that that guy is one hot mess. from what i understand, he was making a fool of himself - yet again - at the plaza hotel. apparently, mr. sheen was found in a hotel room with an exorbitant amount of drugs and a hooker hiding in a closet. oh excuse me, a porn star hiding in a closet (actually, if we’re being technical, no one has heard of this woman. therefore she is not a star, but simply a porn participant. she also clarified that she is NOT a prostitute. to be clear, she only has sex for money when she’s being filmed*). after the commotion, probable destruction, and over-all havoc reeking, this hollywood millionaire was given the option of being escorted to the police station or the hospital. he chose the hospital. shocking.
again, before his recent stint in the pop-culture spotlight, i really didn’t know anything about charlie sheen. well, i know his dad is martin and his brother is emillio estevas (bravo on the name change bro, emillio must have seen this coming). i’ve also, recently, seen a number of episodes of 2 1/2 men (shout out gram!). other than that, i know nothing about this guy. in fact, i just learned that he was (is?) married to denise richards. someone else i don’t really follow, but from what i can tell - homegirl could do much better.
here’s my problem with sheen - you know, besides being an arrogant, hooker buying, druggie - this sorry excuse for a man has the nerve to call himself an actor. not only does he call himself an actor, but hollywood seems to agree. every time this over-sized juvenile delinquent finds himself face-to-face with the 5-0, the network renews his contract and gives him more money. way to go cbs.
there are three main characters on sheen’s hit primetime show. a geeky guy who has gone through a divorce and has moved in, with his son (the 1/2 of man), to his brother’s house. the brother is an extremely successful single guy who’s bedroom door revolves as fast as he goes through booze. guess which character charlie plays? incase you’re slightly slower than the average bear, this “actor” plays a womanizing alcoholic who is constantly endangering or emotionally attacking people around him to benefit his own selfish needs. wow - big. stretch. he must have done a lot of research to perfect that role.
i want to point out that i have no problem with guys like this in general. you know, the standard over-boozed, over-drugged loser. i certainly don’t want to date them, but their overall existence doesn’t bother me. the womanizing part is slightly disturbing, but at this point it’s kind of a no brainer: if you’re a woman and you go somewhere alone with charlie sheen, it is not going to end well for you* - so at that point, i have a hard time not placing at least part of the blame on the woman. i mean, come one ladies, you’ve seen the news - just. say. no. my biggest problem with this guy is his continued success. 2 and 1/2 men is, by far, his most well known and lucrative role and the guy IS. NOT. ACTING.
is hollywood turning in to a place where is pays to be yourself? or, is it only if you’re extremely inappropriate and, probably, belong in prison? either way, his success - despite his complete lack of common decency - is something to consider. maybe i should reevaluate my life choices and throw decency to the wind. after all, it seems to be working for sheen.
*certain humorous realizations shamelessly stolen from chelsea lately.
i really should be embarrassed that chelsea lately is the only form of “news” i watch on a regular basis, but i’m not. actually - i’m kind of proud that i’ve become versed in some arena of current events. certain intellectual types may turn up their nose at the celebrity gossip that i so desperately crave. all i can say about that, is that i hope these pop-culture underachievers never run in to ms. handler or anyone on her compound, as they will most definitely be the punch line of many degrading jokes. although it is highly unlikely i will ever encounter these pseudo celebs either, at least i’ll be prepared. if presented with the opportunity i’ll be ready to dazzle the team with my witty remarks and vast knowledge of celebrity hype.
in the last week or so, charlie sheen has been all over the e! network. let me just say that that guy is one hot mess. from what i understand, he was making a fool of himself - yet again - at the plaza hotel. apparently, mr. sheen was found in a hotel room with an exorbitant amount of drugs and a hooker hiding in a closet. oh excuse me, a porn star hiding in a closet (actually, if we’re being technical, no one has heard of this woman. therefore she is not a star, but simply a porn participant. she also clarified that she is NOT a prostitute. to be clear, she only has sex for money when she’s being filmed*). after the commotion, probable destruction, and over-all havoc reeking, this hollywood millionaire was given the option of being escorted to the police station or the hospital. he chose the hospital. shocking.
again, before his recent stint in the pop-culture spotlight, i really didn’t know anything about charlie sheen. well, i know his dad is martin and his brother is emillio estevas (bravo on the name change bro, emillio must have seen this coming). i’ve also, recently, seen a number of episodes of 2 1/2 men (shout out gram!). other than that, i know nothing about this guy. in fact, i just learned that he was (is?) married to denise richards. someone else i don’t really follow, but from what i can tell - homegirl could do much better.
here’s my problem with sheen - you know, besides being an arrogant, hooker buying, druggie - this sorry excuse for a man has the nerve to call himself an actor. not only does he call himself an actor, but hollywood seems to agree. every time this over-sized juvenile delinquent finds himself face-to-face with the 5-0, the network renews his contract and gives him more money. way to go cbs.
there are three main characters on sheen’s hit primetime show. a geeky guy who has gone through a divorce and has moved in, with his son (the 1/2 of man), to his brother’s house. the brother is an extremely successful single guy who’s bedroom door revolves as fast as he goes through booze. guess which character charlie plays? incase you’re slightly slower than the average bear, this “actor” plays a womanizing alcoholic who is constantly endangering or emotionally attacking people around him to benefit his own selfish needs. wow - big. stretch. he must have done a lot of research to perfect that role.
i want to point out that i have no problem with guys like this in general. you know, the standard over-boozed, over-drugged loser. i certainly don’t want to date them, but their overall existence doesn’t bother me. the womanizing part is slightly disturbing, but at this point it’s kind of a no brainer: if you’re a woman and you go somewhere alone with charlie sheen, it is not going to end well for you* - so at that point, i have a hard time not placing at least part of the blame on the woman. i mean, come one ladies, you’ve seen the news - just. say. no. my biggest problem with this guy is his continued success. 2 and 1/2 men is, by far, his most well known and lucrative role and the guy IS. NOT. ACTING.
is hollywood turning in to a place where is pays to be yourself? or, is it only if you’re extremely inappropriate and, probably, belong in prison? either way, his success - despite his complete lack of common decency - is something to consider. maybe i should reevaluate my life choices and throw decency to the wind. after all, it seems to be working for sheen.
*certain humorous realizations shamelessly stolen from chelsea lately.
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