*Magical Me*

The first and best announcement is that I saw Harry Potter again this evening. Harry Potter never gets sucky. Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher Gilderoy Lockhart's so-called autobiography Magical Me about kills me. In case you missed it, I (heart) Harry Potter.

Second, I would like to rant about the proletariat wandering the mall today. For you loyal readers, it will come as no surprise that I sure do hate a busy mall. I mean, after all, I kind of hate all people, so you see the dilemma. Anywho, as my sister and I braved the masses to pay homage to our favorite Hogwarts student: HP, we were sucked in to the cyclone of mediocrite. And by mediocrite, I mean people who are willing to wait two hours for sub-par food at the Cheesecake Factory. Their food is tolerable, but there's no way I'm waiting for it. Furthermore, JCPenney, which is the store my sister and I came in through, is wall-to-wall with irritating gifts. Singing/dancing/battery operated Mike Tyson. A box of assorted ornaments in the shape of shoes. Toe nail clippers and bubble bath wrapped in a hideous basket. These are for people who believe in the non-thoughtful gift. Thank goodness for eBay and cookie recipes or no one I know would ever get any gifts. My presents are never the most expensive, but I'll be damned if they don't make you laugh so hard you pee a little. Well, maybe not damned.

Third, and finally, I'd like to bitch out all of you seat savers out there. For the 5:05 showing of HP, my sister and I arrived at the very respectable time of 4:45. Imagine our surprise to find the entire theater crammed, with the exception of the best rows in the middle and back empty except for one person each. Now, M1 has defended this practice saying everyone does it. I would agree that on some level, every one has saved a seat a time or two. But I have never, nor will I ever, reserve an entire row in the best spots for people who are going to be late. There are no assigned seats in the movies because it's first come, first served. My sister is *very* pregnant and I had to help her into a very far, unreachable seat because Jerk 1 and Jerk 2 were saving nine or more seats each. If your party just *has* to have junior mints, I suggest you get there early. Do everyone a favor and please observe the following rule of thumb: don't be an a-hole.

Come to think of it, I bet J1 and J2 are somebody else's chickyboom neighbors. My heartfelt sympathies to J1 and J2's neighbors. :(

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?

Hello friends. The good witch has returned and the evil woman who wrote the rant a couple of days ago is taking a much-needed nap. Have circumstances changed? Not really, but my mood has because hey: it's almost Thanksgiving. Even our most-despisèd villain, Chickyboom, who is apparently using some sort of jackhammer above me can't get me down.

I can see the outline of the canned cranberry now! It's M1's 24th birthday-- hooray! and J. got off of work at an *unprecedented 3:15*!!! (Before I got out of class even--harumph.

I still have two insanely long papers and a final exam standing between me and a bachelor's degree, but what are you gonna do, right? Also, I figured out how to work my heater: yea! Heat is fun when the weather is cold.

Okay, I am never in a good enough mood not to be annoyed by Chickyboom, but I won't call the cops at least...this time.

Happy Thanksgiving Chickyboom--I hope you're grateful, you a-hole.

P.S. New poll.

Yes you do too know how to read!: The Real Rant Returns

I am whiney. I just want to let you know that. I am in no mood to be trifled with. Final exams, papers, projects, etc. are in full effect, so I don't recommend incurring my wrath.

Apparently, everyone thinks they're *so* hilarious on my poll, saying they don't know how to read. I was being ironical. Clearly, you're all fans of beating a dead horse. However, I am perhaps inclined to agree that you don't know how to read because Holden Caulfield is so far the favorite by several votes. Have you *read* other books, people? And don't give me the old, "I see myself in Holden because we're both alcoholics," line. Please, I get enough bullshit in school each day.

I asked recently in my comments: "Why ya gotta be hatin'?" and it is apparent that I am guilty of said hatin' today when really-- I only want to take a nap.

Sorry my blog is sucky lately, but I have been home all of ten minutes this week, during which time I answer incessant phone messages of people screaming into my machine: "Where are you all the time?!"

To set the record straight: I'm at school. I'm at work. I'm possibly napping in the library. And always, always, I am craving sour cream and onion lays chips.

Sorry Molly and Frankie for being such a horrible mom. Sorry fans for being so cranky.

When was the last time you baked me some cookies, huh?

Ok, end rant. I love you all, even though I am hatin' today.

P.S. Why is it so coooooold? Ok, November. I answered my own question.
P.P.S. Why don't I have a heater at my house? Brrr....

I get by with a little help.

I like to post this every once in awhile; it reminds me of the most important people in the world. You know who you are and I love you very much.

Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
New-made friendships, like new wine,
Age will mellow and refine.
Friendships that have stood the test -
Time and change - are surely best;
Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray,
Friendship never knows decay.
For 'mid old friends, tried and true,
We, once more, our youth renew.
But old friends, alas! may die,
New friends must their place supply.
Cherish friendship in your breast-
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.

Mental Fitness

I have all the respect in the world for athletes. Why? Because I'm not one. I am *so* not one. In my opinion, you can be born a mathlete, an athlete, or neither. Because of my insane dorkiness (and not my exceptional mathematical abilities), I classify myself as a mathlete. As much as I enjoy dorking around, I am not too fond of when the math meets the ath. You know?

I'm in a non-credit P.E. class at school because it's required to graduate. It's yoga and I really like it--yay! But here's what sucks: I spent like 5 hours yesterday (Saturday, yes) on my P.E. "final" for a class in which I get a grade, but no credit, and still have to stand on my head anyway.

I thought the point of P.E. was that it wasn't psychology or history or engineering. It's just your body and you and a floor mat.

I miss the old days when P.E. was the non-thinking man's arena. Then again, it's nice to be "good at sports" for once.

It's SO on!

Tonight, I came home from J.'s house (note: I will never need a garbage disposal because I have a dog and a boyfriend) and went to park in my usual* spot, but my neighbor Kasey was in my spot because when she came home, Chickyboom's friends were in her spot. (I know this because I saw them parked there before I left.) So anywho, I just parked in Kasey's spot and was getting out when who should call out to me, but Chickyboom.

"Did someone take your spot? It wasn't us!" (followed by ape-like grunting)

The *new* snappy Mary T: "Yeah, for once."

It's SO on Chickyboom. Mary T is going to put up with your crap--no longer. In fact, it's 12:25am and if the music, stomping, furniture moving and apparently elephant training doesn't stop in the time it takes me to brush my teeth, guess who is calling the police? That's right.

I would like to take this time to point out that Chickyboom looks like Keanu Reeves as Ted "Theodore" Logan, but a lot scummier and uglier. Don't you just want to slap him?

Chickyboom, beware. Think of me as the neighbor that likes it quiet and that also knows the way of the fist.

*By usual parking spot, I mean to say the one I like to park in when Chickyboom's friends/clients/whores aren't loitering in it.

The Face of a Killer

As the proud mom of a pit bull/bumblebee, you have no idea how many dirty and terrified looks I see directed at my pup a day! When I explain that she is really sweet, I get this incredulous look like, "Sure lady, whatever." Today, I present the facts for you, so you can decide for yourself. Below, you will find Molly the Bee compared with Sniper suspect John Allen Muhammed.

*Hilarious image removed due to space restrictions. You snooze; you lose.*

Sniper suspect J.A.M. is wanted in five states for homicide.
Suspicious Pit Girl Molly is wanted under the covers by her mom's cold feet.

Sniper suspect J.A.M. allegedly killed 12 people and critically wounded 2 (3?) during the sniper spree alone.
Suspicious Pit Girl Molly killed a possum in the backyard and fatally wounded a trespassing frog in her first year of life.

Sniper suspect J.A.M. is the legal guardian of other sniper suspect, John Lee Malvo,17.
Suspicious Pit Girl Molly is the owner of known mouse hunter, Frankie Kat, 3.

Sniper suspect J.A.M. is, like Oklahoma City bomber Tim McVeigh, a Gulf War veteran.
Suspicious Pit Girl Molly drooled on her mom's leg when her mom had to watch Glory! for class.

Sniper suspect J.A.M. was found at a rest stop with the assault rifle used in the sniper shootings.
Suspicious Pit Girl Molly was discovered hiding behind the bed tearing up an entire roll of paper towels at age 6 months.

Wow! You people better watch out-- Molly is at large in her mom's house in Houston!

I'm popular; who knew?

Let me just say that I have temporarily rigged my spacebar, so please excuse any spacing issues I might still have.

I'm used to being a social reject. My friends and I are fond of saying that all the kids at Rice were the rejects in high school. (The MOB then, is the reject pile of the rejects.) But apparently, when it comes to big dorks, I am a goddess among them.

Okay, so today I went on campus to my college where I basically don't know anyone because I live in the depths of off-campus and my class already graduated. Anywho, I had to have some stuff notarized and empty out my long-overflowing campus mailbox. (Btw, I missed like four scholarship deadlines and got about 12 recall notices from the library since the last time I checked my mail. August? September?) So suddenly, all of these peops I never see and frankly don't give much of a hoot about were all excited to see me. It was bizarre. They were trying to hug me and stuff, which is so against the MaryT code of conduct. (Motto: Please don't hug me; I probably don't like you.) Apparently, I am some kind of legend at my college. Old and elusive-- like the loch ness monster. Rar!

For those of you Harry Potter fans out there (and if you're not, why aren't you?), there was even a kid like Dennis Creavy. He didn't take pictures of me or anything, but he was yelling out to people that I was around. Yea me!...I guess.

P.S. New poll. And a monkey with a cold was the stand-out favorite of commercial gimmicks, though sex references (you pervs!) were a not so distant second.

Harry Potter

I love that kid. I saw the new movie tonight with M1. It was, as expected, excellent. Have you hugged your Harry Potter today?

Sure is cold here in Alaska.

I have this weird old-timey furnace thing in the middle ofmy hallway, which to my knowledge is the only heat available in my apartment. There is a button on it that says ignitor which I tried, but can't seem to figure it out. I don't want to be too careless with it because you know, ignitor sounds sort of scary and I was mentioning yesterday to my friends how Fire Prevention Week in elementary school used to scare me until I peed myself. That's enough of that. It's cold here at night, even if it is Houston. Thank goodness for down comforters and cuddly dogs or I would have lost somelimbs to frostbite at this point. My spacebar is still broken, so until I get that squared away, expect these posts to be short. Sorry. They take forever.

Vindication!!!

Thank you friends for your help and advice during this difficult time of chickyboomosity. Because of you, I have finally had the courage to tell my landlord about all of chickyboom's shady dealings AND how no one ever takes the garbage out except me and then the neighbors start filling up my trash can and so on.

So my landlord says--"Is that Jason Blahbleblah (i.e. chickyboom)? I am about ready to throw that guy out. Graphic arts business, my ass!"

That was about ten minutes ago. Five minutes ago, I heard the phone ring upstairs and three minutes ago, Chickyboom's stupid friends/clients/dealers/etc. all moved their cars.

Who's the big winner? I am the big winner!

P.S. Sorry this is shirt, but my spacebar is being a real bitch, so I will fix it soon and get back to you. (This took me like a year to type.)

(Heart) 2 (Heart) w/ Chickyboom

Some of you have emailed me wondering *what* or *who* is the chickyboom. Long-time readers will recall many chickyboom incidents, but for those of you not in the know, I suggest looking here first and then here and then maybe here.

That should explain it.

Okay, so I drive up from school this morning and there's chickyboom checking his mail (which is right next to my front door) and holding my cat. So anywho, I'm like "Hey dude. I'm your neighbor." He said: "Oh, yeah, hi. Has the parking improved?"

What I wanted to say: Nice effort there, Ace, but I think we all know it hasn't. What I *actually* said: uhh...ish

He: "Oh yeah. Well, you know I am running a graphic arts business up there."

Let's take time to consider the facts:
1) I still don't give a shit when his friends/clients/whores are parking in my paid space
2) He is an inconsiderate jerk-off
3) I think my landlord would be *very* interested to know that he's running a business up there...

Me: "Well, right. Thanks for telling me. Talk to you later."

I know I chickened out, but how do you respond to complete b.s. without being a total a-hole? More help, please.

Do I look rich, or just stupid?

I dress just like a student. I don't have any diamonds. People assume my dog is an inner-city weapon (side note: Stupid Mr. Swindler referred to my Mollybee as Kujo. Grrr. Everyone who knows anything knows that *I* am the one that bites. Molly is the waggiest dog ever. Ask M1. Actually, ask anyone.). Basically, I don't look rich. Yet, somehow, the financial burden of supporting the entire city of Houston, Texas (a whopping 4 million people and change) has come to rest upon my shoulders. I know that it's okay to say no to the drunk, scraggly man pushing a shopping cart, but lately, I dunno, something in me has softened. Yeah--I mean, weakened.

Fair warning for you locals out there. Do *not* turn left from Richmond onto Shepherd. There is a belligerent homeless man there (BHM). Since the weather has been so nice, I have kept my windows rolled down, which apparently screams: *Hello! Come here for some change! Come one, come all--there's plenty!* Okay, so BHM asks me for some change and I gave him whatever was hanging out in my cupholder, which I am sure was no great sum (I estimate $1 at best), but hey-- I'm poor myself. So then a few days later, same light--the guy is like "Hey I remember you! Can'tyou just f$%$#@ help me out?"Me: "Dude, what do you want from me? I gave you all my change yesterday." He: "Oh, I thought you were that bitch that ignored me when I talked to her." My thoughts: I am sure *one* person ignored you, dude.

Okay, so today, I had my windows rolled down *again,* (Note to self: Cut that weak shit out!) and this homeless couple approached me first, even though I was like the third car in line. I was surprised at how snappy I could be when the guy said, "Hey can you help me out?" and I said, "I wish I could. I don't have any money either. Can you help me out?" His response: "If I could, I'd be the first man in line, honey." I said: "Sorry neither of us can help the other out." He said (and this is the best part): "Happy Woodstock. Peace." Umm, okey dokey.

In the last two days, not only have I been approached by the usual Montrose suspects, but additionally, BHM, homeless couple, AND Mr. Swindler the magazine man. From all of this, one can deduce that I must have some kind of special marking on my forehead (not of the Harry Potter fashion), but more like a tattoo that says...

SUCKER.

I need (professional) help.

Hi readers--

I hate to impose, but I need to ask you two things and I would appreciate your feedback. Now this first one is really a formality and you will see why as soon as I write it.

1) Can animals feel pain?
Explanation: A kid in my Ethics of Animal Rights class submitted that *most* people do not think that animals can feel pain, so it doesn't matter if we kick them, test products on them, slaughter them for our own gustatory pleasure, etc. I think we all understand that animals are sentient and have nerve endings and so on, but because I bet this guy that he was *so* wrong, our prof told us to get a sampling of what random people thought. This is where you come in.)

2)Can I really tow the chickyboom?
Explanation: I told you a few days ago, when I was explaining how I love Jews, that my landlord told me I could just tow stupid, thoughtless, jerky chickyboom's friends when they parked in resident spaces. The only thing is, do I want to be that neighbor? I am just sick of feeling taken advantage of.

Readers, friends--what do you say?

P.S. This is not a cheap ploy to get comments, which I do so love. I really *am* soliciting your opinions, and as I always say--everyone is entitled to my opinion. This is your chance to shine!

We Don't Want Any Magazines!

During the second semester of my freshman year of college, this became our room's battle cry anytime someone knocked on the door. And ever after, just about. The reason is because I got hosed. This girl was telling me how I *had* to buy magazines and help her this and that. She came into our room, sat down, helped herself to a drink. I was completely stunned. I got nervous and bought all the magazines she told me to.

After she left, I felt used. Dirty. Empty. All this and my clothes were on. I know! I took it pretty hard--especially since I didn't have any money to spend on magazines I didn't want. Eventually, my mom called the company in charge of it all and took them on to get my money and my dignity back. Well, at least my money.

Tonight, while I was walking Molly, I was accosted by this man I had seen talking to my neighbors. "Vote for me!" he said, and handed me what looked like a petition. My response: Whatchoo talkin' 'bout Willis? You all see where this is going. He begins his spiel about how he's going to one day own his own business, but this group that sells magazines is keeping kids off the street. If I really cared, he said, I would buy these magazines from him. He was once a gang member, he assured me, but now he was going to culinary school.

Umm, how is that voting for someone? Sounds like giving him a check, to me. I told him I really don't have the money and I would help any other way I could, but he kept insisting that $20 wouldn't break me. He also kept asking if I went to St. John's, meaning St. Thomas--the college a few blocks away from my apartment. (For you out-of-towners, St. John's is a private high school. And um, I'm 22.) He also kept calling me Little Sister, which sort of freaked me out.

This is pretty funny considering he knows *anything* about me. For his information, I had $37 in my checking account as of Friday. Yeah. $37. I really need to buy magazines. And even my relatives don't call me Little Sister. Not even my sister.

Finally, he got the point that I wasn't going to buy any, even though I was *really* nice about it. I told him I was sorry and he said "Yeah, most people are," as he walked off.

What?! I hate that I let him make me feel like a bad person. I am a GOOD person and I do all that I can. Giving money to magazine people is *not* what I can do and is *not* helpful. What a Catch-22. Buy magazines and feel resentful. Don't buy magazines and feel malicious.

I don't want any magazines.

Hard work may pay off over time...

But laziness always pays off now. That's my motto. Although, I try to stay away from the L-word, especially as I am trying to sell myself to law schools and such. Convenience-enthusiast.

Anywho, today I am at work and wowee-- it's the best day of work ever. Why? Well, for one thing, I brought mashed potatoes to snack on and for another thing, no one is here except for the other intern and we have already devoted a good deal of our time talking about Harry Potter.

If you don't like Harry Potter, you may as well stop reading my blog--forever. In fact, just go. Go, right now.

Speaking of idle time... M1 and I went to stalk our friend A. who works at Express on Friday night. We had attempted stalking her the previous Friday, but um, went to the wrong Express. So we drank beer instead. So anyhow, we make it to the Galleria and we're looking for Express. We looked for it for like--an hour. And we're thinking, how do they expect to get customers if it's hidden like this? So we go on one last run up to an obscure part of the third floor and as we reach the second floor, Express is right there, in the middle, across from Gap. We're stupid. And then A. wasn't even working. We're extra stupid. Yea! I (heart) free time!

WASSSSUUUUUP!

Ok, I know this is kind of old school, but it brings back a lot of good memories, and frankly--it never stops being funny.

True. True.

Here's Looking at You, Kid.

A recent visitor found my site by searching for "funny looking retards."

I enjoy that someone was looking for that at all and that they found my site to boot--ridiculously enjoyable.

Logic Games.

I am brainwashing an 8 year-old. You all thought this "big sister" thing was out of the good of my heart. But "big sister" is apparently more like "big brother." I seek only to advance my own political agenda. Maybe.

Sure, it started out harmless enough. I asked if U.S. public schools were still dispatching The Weekly Reader, at which time I segued into election blabber, utterly confusing the hapless T. The poor child was held hostage as I listened to news about homosexual "divorces" when domestic partnerships broke up on NPR. I tried to explain to T. that now that it's un-PC to hate black people, gay is the new black. She told me what she had learned about the civil rights movement and so on.

The plot thickens. While taking T. home, we saw a Hummer--the kind I ranted about two days ago on this here blog. Anyway, I was trying to tell her why they're so ridiculous, so I went back to Desert Storm (almost 4 years before she was born) and then tried to explain the current issue with Iraq. So then I tried to explain nuclear warheads. So then I went back to World War 2 and told her about the two atom bombs and the effects of radiation and post-traumatic stress disorder. Then I explained that the U.S. had a monopoly on nuclear weapons until the Soviets developed them, which was the beginning of the Cold War.

T's question: Was it fought in the winter? (How cute is she?)

I proceeded. So do you know why it's called nuclear? All life is made up of cells and all things are made of atoms. A nucleus...blah blah blah fission...nuclear physics...blah blah blah.

I am surprised the poor child didn't wet herself. I mean, the Cold War for Christ sake? I need to drink a little bit of the *shut-up tonic.*

Me: So, do you like science?
T: Umm, a little bit.
Me: Good. Stay in school.

She's eight.

P.S. I told my best friend S. this and she says: it's not like you're just realizing you're kind of a nutcase. And hey, at least all your friends are, too. I mean, at least you have friends. My response: *sigh*

P.P.S. New poll. On the last poll, you all were quite undecided, although there seemed to be a pretty solid movement for me to go to Amsterdam for pot and a hooker. What a low-brow crowd. Maybe I could get some laughs if I farted, too. :)

My mom is hilarious.

As grievous as I am to admit this, it's necessary for the sake of this story. My dad is a Republican, and a hard core one at that.

So, on election night, I'm talking to my mom who is pretty much a closeted Democrat in the guise of an Independent. Knowing what I do about my dad's background and the history of Southern Politics between ever--1964, I wonder why my dad is an anomaly among old-school Texans. That is, he's not a Democrat. Our local newspaper's name: the Wood County Democrat. I mean, my dad was voting Republican when they were the liberals, when it was still completely gauche in the South. The man voted against Roosevelt for God's sake. That's some balls in our county. Yet now, when the old-school Democrats (i.e. Strom Thurmond who might be even Old Schoolteacher) run for the Republican party where they can hate minorities in a crowd, my dad stays a Republican.

I asked my mom about this.
Me: Umm, weren't his parents Democrats?
Mom: I'm sure they were. My parents were. Everyone was a Democrat.
Me: That's what I thought. I didn't even know there *were* any Republican candidates in the area at the time.
Mom: You couldn't run for anything, except naked, as a Republican back then.

Ladies and gentlemen, my mom. She wins again.

Reason 486 that I (heart) the Jews

If you didn't know, I love the Jews. I'm not a Jew myself, but I am a fan. For a list of Jewish noteables, listen to Adam Sandler's Hannukah song. For reasons why I (heart) the Jews, umm...read this blog.

Trivia: Despite what the Southern Baptists may tell you, Jesus was in fact, a Jew. And I think it's safe to say we could all learn a thing or two from the big J.C.

Okay, so my landlord is Jewish. I mean, I knew this, but it comes into play...sort of. I have never spoken to him before (after having lived here since May) because after my last landlord, who you may recall as being the devil incarnate (if I ever spoke of him), I was terrified to make a complaint unless something was SERIOUSLY wrong.

So we all know that I hate the chickyboom. Mail fraud is happening at my house and I suspect c-b involvement, but that's something else. Anywho, I asked him to ask his friends not to park in the resident spaces and he basically ignored me and his friends have been all up in the parking piece lately. Also, I kind of ripped the handle off of my window, but that's *also* something else entirely.

Anyway, so I called my landlord after months of fear and you know--he is the nicest man ever. He told me to tow those bitches.

Down with the chickyboom! Up, up with the Jews!

I am a consumer, by God!!!

Do you remember the good old days when a hummer was just another blow job? Yeah, I kind of do too. But now it's something else entirely. Well, kind of. You're still getting screwed by hummers.

For those of you looking for the ultimate expression of your consumerism, the Hummer has arrived! Show your support for Desert Storm and other acts of war by the U.S. by driving this realistic, warlike killer car--in bright yellow! (Now available in Texas: Special Gun Rack Addition!)

These vehicles have taken the sickness of the SUV to an entirely new level. Now instead of just blocking traffic lights from the normal range of vision of ye in the lowly sedan, drivers of hummers can now block the entire road! Great news for double parkers!

Have an ungodly amount of money? Too heartless to give it to any more lofty cause? Are you a Republican? Buy the *new* hummer today! From the military to you-- there's just nothing bigger than this. And bigger is better.

Yeah!

P.S. Please vote today (and preferably not for any Republicans)!!!!!!

A sickening conclusion...

So you've all heard me bitch about my current relationship and usually when I talk to my friends, I'm like WHY am I doing this? Why do I put myself through all this hell? What am I getting out of it? My friends don't know either. I think I have it figured out. No, I know I do, but I'm in denial.

I'm in love. Fuck. Pray for me.

And now a word from your local saint...

Happy All Saints Day!

Why do people refer to themselves as hopeless romantics? If you're romantic, you're probably hopeful in that "I'm gonna make it after all!" way. Maybe people are confusing themselves with the term: hopeless.