I can say without hestiation...

What a jack ass!

Why does Shorty wanna be a thug?

Okay, so Vanilla Ice was way white and now Eminem is desperately dodging the "I'm white" category in favor of hard-living and gangsta parties.

Excuse me, but when did coming from a crack 'hood become desireable? How is it bragging to say you were kept awake by gun-fighting in the street? Is this another stupid, macho guy thing like the guys who wear shorts on days when it's approximately -4 kelvins outside? So you can withstand freakishly cold temperatures. Great. Have a cookie.

The gang life strikes me as uber-non-glamorous and I would now like to recommend a book that may help set things straight for those of you who have not made up your mind on the matter. Always Running: La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A. by Luis Rodriguez. Very illuminating.

I pledge alliegance to equityapartments.com...

So I was driving along today, dogs in tow, when I passed a rather fancy apartment complex called The Madison. Like most apartments, it had the little clubhouse dealy with flags flying in front. Right to left, there was the United States flag, okay, the Texas flag (which incidentally is the only state flag that is permitted to fly at the same level as the U.S. flag on account of it once being its own country), and to the left of the Texas flag, at the same level, was the Equity Apartments. com ("Keyword: Easy!") flag.

Umm, excuse me, but why do they need a flag? Are they the republic of equity apartments? Are there opportunities to serve in the Equity Apartments' legislature? Will Equity Apartments have a bobsled team in the 2006 Olympic games? No? Then why do you need a flag?

This is a disturbing trend. First National Bank had one, which for some reason, strikes me as less disturbing than Equity Apartments, but still. Pretty soon, Jiffy Lube and Blockbuster will have flags too and *everyone* will want their own bobsled teams, too.

Jamaica, you've set a dangerous example...

P.S. Happy New Year's Eve!

Is something funny, McFly?

You know in Love Shack when the beehive lady yells : Tiiiiiiiiin Roof! Rusted!

Why does everyone laugh maniacally? I don't find that funny at all.

The Spinster Renaissance

"I ain't yo spinster, spinster!"

I have been discussing with M2 what I like to refer to as "The Spinster Renaissance." I recently read Larry King's compilation book Love Stories of World War II which frankly, does not get my vote for the Pulitzer or anything, but was historically very interesting. And we all know I am a history buff. And if you don't, you must be one of the people who gave me a Christmas present this year because with the exception of E and my mom, I wanted to say: "Umm, have you met me?" But, I digress. FYI: I love history and plan to pursue a PhD in American History. Yar!

Okay, so here are some things I learned from Love Stories of World War II:
-Love is quite unremarkable and some of the longest lasting marriages have basically had nothing to do with it.
-Spinster is the female equivalent of bachelor.

The second item is what I'm here to talk about. Spinster has such a negative connotation that I would like, under my guidance and efforts, for it to enjoy a renaissance. "Hey everyone! Welcome to my Spinster Pad! What is up?"

Ladies, fellow(ette?) spinsters, are you with me?!

P.S. Bachelorette is so passe. What are you, a smurf?

P.P.S. Some of you are surely expressing your doubt about my ability to live the life of a spinster, but I cannot even tell you how well I am already acclimatized to it. For one thing, I shopped all day today by myself. Who's schedule was I on? Mine. Then I went to Jiffy Lube and instead of having to fool with some man in my life trying to act macho with the Mobil 1, I simply pulled out my credit card. (Further, they attached my new wiper blades and it was like *I* was reborn. I almost peed.) Then I went to Blockbuster and I picked the movies *I* wanted to watch. It is the best. Too bad I have a boyfriend. Oh well, he doesn't read this anyway.

Playground Politics

I am watching a cheesey Disney channel movie ("Double Teamed") about these really tall twins and their issues in changing high schools. Like all movies like this, there is one serious a-hole. Why is there always the one a-hole who gets away with being such a psycho bitch?

Can't the rest of us beat her (or him) up or something?

Honest-to-God Truth

You may wonder why I haven't been blogging.
A: I am being lazy.

What have I been up to?

Eating.
Eating. ( I swear, I have been hungry since October or something and now it's payback time.)
Eating some more. (Look, I've been a college student for 5 years, so shut your pie hole and don't speak of mine.)
Reading Harry Potter.
Watching quality infomercials and true crime shows.
Napping. Mmmm.

In my absence (some might call it a sabbatical), please enjoy this joke, courtesy of a very funny man: Julius Sharpe. It, too, is the Honest-to-God truth.

"If music's trinity is 'sex, drugs, and rock & roll,' comedy's might be 'sleep, jokes, and depression.' "

Age is Just an Attitude

When I was little, my mom was a hospital administrator and so I got all of these free hospital t-shirts. I was often spotted in my casual chic: "Buckle me up! I'm breakable!" tee after Texas passed the seatbelt law. I also had this yellow giraffe patterned one that said "Stretch Your Imagination. Age is just an Attitude." Well, at the time I wore that, I was about 6 or 7, so it's not like I told people "29 and holding" or something when they asked how old I was. It was silly, of course, but so was (am) I. I do have a point here, though.

Age really is a LOT about how you live. I mean, when you're eight, you're generally eight. Even kids who have seen a LOT at age eight pretty much look and act like eight years olds. There are exceptions, but for the most part, you're gonna know an eight year old (ish) kid when you see one.

Today, I had the *very* unfortunate experience of attending Wal-Mart and met up with a former classmate of mine. (As a side note, I am home in Mineolapalooza and Wal-Mart is basically the store here. My mom had to buy a power strip and some candy for stockings. Sorry to those of you who didn't know my mom, and not Santa, fills my stocking.) Okay, so when I was about ten, this girl whom I'll call Amber* invited me to sleep over at her house. I ended up calling my mom in the middle of the night to come get me because there were three or four different animals in labor and animal poop all over the floor and I was totally uncomfortable in that barn environment. Anyway, Amber was a nice kid, if dirty, in G/T with me, but the Amber I saw today--wow. My mom didn't even recognize her. Former cheerleader Amber was probably about 200 pounds, badly needed a hair cut, and had at least three small children in her wal-mart cart. (Note: she was not purchasing the children at wal-mart.) She looked sooooo unbelievably old like she had had some hard living since last we spoke, in middle school.

Bear in mind: I'm 22 and she is either 22 or 23, but looks approximately...50. I know I have a young looking face and everything, but geez, my married, pregnant, 29-year-old sister looks *years* younger than this girl.

She asked me what I was doing these days and I felt a little sheepish, looking at her brood and her sad, worn face saying that I had just graduated from college.

I don't know what happened in Mineola in the last 9 or so years, since I have lived here full time. A bunch of my Mineola classmates have died in horrible car accidents, one from cancer, another from suicide. People here get old fast and they're all seriously like 50-60 pounds heavier than in our middle school days. (Well, considering I weighed like 80 back then, so am I, but you know what I mean).

Does small town America make their kids grow up fast or do the kids just want to? Tons of the kids I knew are married and/or pregnant or have several small children, or alcohol problems, or education difficencies, etc.

Watching people your own (young) age waste away is frightening. I knew them when... and it wasn't so very long ago.

* Her name of course

Mad Props

I am a college graduate.

Boo. Yah.

Due Diligence.

My family likes to make fun of me for being all into school. What's hilarious is that they don't know some of the people I go to school with. I mean, pre-meds? Seriously. Those people scare me. In my later years of college (and I've been in for a few...) I've become a lot more serious about school, but my philosophy is: there's always time to do nothing.

Today was the last day of finals and the deadline for all work was 5 pm. As you may know from reading various blogs on which I make cameos, I have been busting a move on a philosophy paper for...ever. Or rather, it's been busting a move on me. Anyway, by the time the deadline came around today, I had written about three pages of the required ten and I was so stressed and nervous and upset that I literally puked. I mean, I did eat a whole crapload of rolos and reece's peanut butter cups, not to mention pizza and a pot of coffee, but dude.

There comes a point when school is taken too seriously.

Fortunately, my prof for this particular class realizes what a personal and difficult issue this paper is for me. It's about animal rights, by the way. And he gave me an extension until Friday. That probably sounds like a cop-out on my part, but I have literally been staring at my computer working on this paper for the past 5 days or more. Somehow though, when the stress of the deadline passed and I was able to take a short nap, I got up and got my paper on.

It's now 1 am and I am rounding the corner of the 7th page to the beginning of the 8th. It may not sound like an entire day's work to you, but after you've spent 4 days on one non-functional paragraph, the little things start to make you really happy.

Do you care about my school? Probably not, but screw you. Ha ha. I am 3 pages away from a college degree and the President's Honor Roll, so dude--give me my propers.

Love from a soon-to-be graduate!

P.S. My family is right--I am way too dorky about school.

P.P.S. I get the feeling from the lack of comments that many of you did *not* visit the site of The Soy Sauce Warrior the other day when I posted it. Go now. You'll thank me. "Show me! Show you!" M1 commented: It's vaguely homoerotic, but also hilarious. And that's something I'm happy to get on board with.

The Fine Art of Right of Way

Seriously, are they giving out driver's licences in Lucky Charms or something?

Vocabulary

I have been informed, via reader mail that this month's blogging efforts have been rather insipid. I know what this word means, but I am always surprised when people use it. It seems so...S.A.T. So, sorry my blog is tasteless and sucking it up, all. I am *almost* done with finals; until I can provoke your thoughts again, kick back, relax, and enjoy my new poll.

P.S. In my defense, I just wrote the best paper of my academic career for my History class. So boo-yah!

The Secret's in the Soy Sauce

This is so weird. Thanks to Eldge for sending it to me. I think.

The Right Hand of Satan

I freely admit that I am likely going to hell, though fortunately, pretty much all of my friends and family are going with me. Yay! I have compiled, however, a short list of other people who will be in hell because they are openly evil.

-Barbara Walters ("So tell me, was it *really* painful when you watched your husband commit suicide?")
-John Ashcroft ('nuff said)

I will add to the list as I recall particular acts of evil.

Appreciate me now and avoid the rush!

What I wish more people would say/think about me:

You sure don't meet a girl like that Mary T more than once in a lifetime.

Maybe I will attempt to brainwash everyone with subliminal messages disguised as a mix tape, a la Saved By the Bell. Then again, it'd be nice if it were sincere, too.

Stuff that's *ALWAYS* funny

M1 and I have compiled a short list:

-monkeys (especially with colds)
-Jesus
-pirates

The Jesus part was at my insistence. Here is what M1 says about it: "I hesitate to lump Jesus in with pirates and monkeys, but that may be because I'm afraid of hell." I love that kid.

"When You're Already Depressed, Everything Seems Like a Pleasant Surprise"

And I quote John Cusack in the beloved coming-of-age love classic: Say Anything.

This morning I woke up and it was raining a delightfully nasty amount. At one point I said to myself (in a Chandler Bing-esque way): Could it BE raining any harder? And then it rained insanely harder. Lightning flashed and my whole house shook. For a moment I thought--what if my power goes out? And then I remembered: my power goes out all the time! That's one thing about living in an old, old house. You don't have to speculate what it would be like to return to the 19th century because often, you do.

Sometimes, when I can't light the pilot on my freaky little gas heater in my hallway, there's no heat. Sometimes when my stove sputters, I don't get to cook. If I use my hair dryer too long (and this is ME, who has no hair basically), the electricty makes a bleepy noise (see Ellen Feiss for details) and I have to reset all my clocks, re-record my answering machine message (because I can't open the battery door thingymajoo because the screws are smaller than one might put in say, a micromachine monstertruck), calm my pets, take off the shoes--hurriedly put on in the dark--currently on the wrong feet. You see how this goes. It's a big damn irritant, and it probably happens twice a week. Also, if I use my microwave for more than 45 seconds consecutively, same deal. I usually do increments of 30 just to be safe. Who says life in the 21st century is cake?

My point is: when you already know that you're in the worst possible situation, what could upset you?

Answer: very little and don't even think it is appropriate to bring my dog into this. Grrrrrrr....

P.S. About yesterday's post....yeah, I don't really know either. Sorry.

Was Jesus a Democrat?

I actually think Jesus was probably a socialist. I'm actually a socialist, but since there aren't just tons of us on Capitol Hill (one, actually), I'm effectively a Democrat. But I digress... I am fine with Christmas being completely commercialized. As you know--I like, no, love the Jews and I want everyone to be able to participate. The Daily Show, last night, marked December 25th as Jews go to the Movies Day--it used to be about the Jews! And their movies! Hilarious. Now, to get to the topic...and I have one.

Everything is politicized. Some things should be politicized. The fact that Strom Thurmond had the gaul to live to 100 and that Trent Lott saw fit to run his mouth on such an occasion should be politicized. That Britney Spears actually prefers Coke to Pepsi, well--who cares? (I mean, who can seriously admit to favoring Pepsi? Whatever. You're only fooling yourself, man.) These days though, even Christmas is politicized. Like the triune God, you really get three Christmases in one ( a bargain, I feel). That is, you get three meanings in only one day! Instead of making the sign of the cross saying "In the name of the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit," you could make the sign of Christmas by saying "In the name of the man who raised me up, the man who pushed me down, and the man who kicked me while I was having sex with his wife." Religious, Capitalist, Capitolist.

Gift giving and card sending are political. Who do you give a gift to? How much do you spend? If someone doesn't get you a gift, does it mean they're poor or thoughtless? Are you required to send your creepy cousins your yearly newsletter? When making pie filling, how much is too much? What a stressor. I prefer to give and receive prizes year-round. That's a Mary (T) Christmas. :)

I might just be a Jew this year, go out for Chinese, and catch a flick. That's three big wins for me right there.

P.S. I am such a heretic, I know. Don't waste your time telling me. Thanks Mom and Dad for the quality Catholic education. St. Benedict: I got your back, bro.

P.P.S. Did this post make any sense?

Ah'd lahk to thaynk all the hometown folks in...Jersey.

I've been meaning to blog about this for awhile, but had sort of pushed it to the back of my mind until today when as I scurried about running Holidaylike errands, I listened to a lot of car radio. How is it possible that *all* country singers, even the ones who are decided;y NOT from Texas, Oklahokla, Mississippi and so on have ridiculously thick, twangy accents?

M1 and I were watching tv one night when the Country Music Awards were on and even we were stumped by some of their lingo and for God's sake--we live in Texas! I am born and bred hick! My parents are well-learnèd in the art of twang speak and I had *no* idea what these people were babbling about.

"Hah! Mah nay-eem is Bubba. Whoda thawt that grow'n up in Phil-dephia that ah'd make good some day-ee?"

Southerners, and especially Texans, get enough crap just because people assume that when we talk with an accent, we think with one, too. Is it really necessary that these people who are already catering to the redneck masses speak as though the rest of us are : moe-rons? Since when do the people in Reno talk like a 1930s Mississippi farmer?

Like I tell J. every day: contrary to what you may think, I'm not retarded.

Also, what is up with country music stars lying about their normal upbringings in Ohio so that they can have a trailer-tragedy story from Oklahokla? I know when I fantasize, it is not about Oklahokla.

Oh yeah-- and now a joke we Texans enjoy. Why is it so windy in North Texas?

A: because Oklahokla sucks!

Fuzzier than a New Set of Snow Tires

Nothing gives me that warm, lovey holiday feeling like being followed out of Einstein Bros. Bagels by crazy, tourettes man in an army poncho. Typically, when I hold the door for the person behind me, I meet with the usual (boring) "thanks" or "appreciate it" mumbled while rushing out the door, but today-- oh it was something entirely different indeed.

Is anything more in the holiday spirit than saying, to a complete stranger: "goddamn fucking Christmas bitch ass motherfucker stupid lousy shithead son of an asshole?"

Fa la la la la, la la la la!

In praise of selfishness.

I went shopping (Christmas shopping, in theory) with Erin and M2 yesterday for many hours and left the stores with empty pockets and exhorbitantly priced goods for use by: me. Erin and I were thinking-- if everyone took the money they were going to spend on someone else and just spent it on themselves, everyone would get exactly what they wanted and there'd be no need for post-Christmas return lines. (I exclude of course all of the donations to those less fortunate and so on--so please give and be generous.) But seriously-- for students, Christmas means more than love and holiday cheer and warm fuzzies and presents. It also means final exams, so I say-- go ahead. Buy that bag of potato chips and that adorable sweater for you. You've earned it.

Also, I need suggestions on what to get Tiauna for Christmas. Her birthday was last week and I got her a play-doh play set, a fuzzy fleece hat and rainbow tights and stickers. Do 8 year-olds like everything? (FYI: Tiauna is my "Little Sister." I'm actually the youngest in my family, so it's pretty neato to get to meet the young peops. :) Note: Thanks in advance, but I am not getting her a pet. )

Shalom.

I love, love, love the Jews. Here is the cutest singing menorah ever. Once it has loaded, click on individual candles or click the red one for all. Yay!

Happy Hannukah!

More on the Despisèd SUV+ cell phone Dynamic Duo

It's really cold in Houston today. Nay-sayers: shh. It's 42 and according to yahoo, it feels like 35 because of the insane wind cutting my arms off. Even water thinks that's cold because it is almost ice. So just go put your sweatshirt on and quit calling me a weenie.

Anywho, when I moved, I stupidly put my gloves and hat and junk in the bag with my ski stuff which went to my parents' house because frankly, I don't have ample demand for my ski stuff to qualify packing it into my closet. Umm, apartment. Right. So today, when the blood in my limbs started to freeze into blood cubes (that's a gross concept), I went to buy a hat at the shopping center known as the Village. The Village is dangerously close to West U., a neighborhood that boasts a disgusting amount of SUVs and Republicans/capita. (Incidentally, those two high concentrations often coincide.)

So I bought my hat--yay! It's rainbow. And I went to go get in my car and because I prefer blood sans cubes, I put my hat on right away. Hats take some adjusting, you know, but I wasn't sitting in my car for more than 1 or 2 minutes when this suburban waiting for my spot *honked* at me.

Excuse me?

For one thing, that stupid suburban was going to have a bitch of a time getting into my compact car spot. For another thing, wrangling into my spot caused another blockage in traffic. And really--that's just rude. I was tempted to get out of my car, knock on her window, glare at her bottle-job, big hair ( a signature of West U. Republicans), and ask sweetly "Hi. Were you honking at me?" When she acted flustered (and annoyed to be off her cell phone for a tick) I would say, looking directly at her American flag sticker: "How very tolerant. Merry Christmas!" Back in my car: ...you fucking bitch. (Wave!)

So then I actually get out of the spot and I can't leave the parking area because one of those *retardedly* big monster trucks that stupid parents get for their testosterone-y (the real San Francisco treat) teenage sons was blocking the ENTIRE driving area. And the driver? Talking on his cell phone. What else? He had his blinker on for *another* compact car spot and HE honked at me too for blocking his way into it! Unfreakingbelievable! Not that I need to defend myself, but he was in my way and SO the actual problem.* Also, why wasn't he in school? It's Thursday at 12:15pm.

Oh I forgot--irritating people can do whatever they want, although admittedly, I definitely was in school with some serious a-holes who still had to attend on occasion.

*Monster truck jerkster reminds me of this girl I was in high school with because she blamed others (i.e. me) for her shortcomings. I graduated the first of 16 at my hs and she graduated second. Let me just note here that for the most part--everyone in my class was, well, not so much of the smart and a little bit of the dumb. I was 1st by a WAY lot and this girl whom I'll call Krystina (because that's her name) came up to me when the class ranks were "announced" (we kind of knew since like...the start of high school) and said: "If it weren't for you, I'd be valedictorian. I can't believe this, I'm better at math." My response? "If it weren't for *you*, you'd be valedictorian. I generally sleep during Calculus and even so, my grade is one point lower than yours and frankly, I school you in all the other subjects." Yes, this sounds cocky, but I was rather annoyed that she felt it appropriate to attack my success, if you can call it that because, as I say--it wasn't hard to be at the top of my high school class. And really, I'm not that great at Math, and she wasn't at all--just a suck up. I'm just another dork in the bucket at Rice. And by the way--what I said was true. She's either a nun or a whore now. I can't remember which she picked, but I am serious that it's likely one or the other. Weird.

The Breaking Point

I hate chickyboom. No, I really do and the more I ask him to cut his stupid shit out, the more he antagonizes me. Currently, he is either training elephants or has robbed a furniture store and is unloading and moving all the "hot" items throughout his apartment, with emphasis on my bedroom.

It's 1:15am and his elephant training session doesn't look like it's soon coming to an end. I'm so exhausted and I need some peace. He won't answer his door and I am about to start crying.

What do I do?

P.S. Chickyboom is such a prick. If setting his house on fire were an option that didn't involve setting *my* house on fire, I think I would at least entertain the idea.

Mary T: Arsonist.

P.P.S. In the crazy but true department: Today I was tellling my History prof that my Microeconomics class was my hell and that it made me feel extremely bitter towards the econ department. He said to me, completely serious, with a straight face and all: "You don't look like the kind of person that could ever be bitter." Conclusion: I hide it extremely well.

What's not macho about raspberry bubble bath?

According to Cosmo*, men are becoming less and less macho. I don't believe this for a second, and here's another log on the fire. I don't know one man that enjoys a nice, hot bath (i.e. a hot bath *alone*).

Like many of my girlfriends, I grew up taking baths instead of showers. I didn't start taking showers instead until I went away to school. Even so, as soon as I get home, I take a bath and now that I have a charming off-campus chateau, I indulge in nightly baths. Some would say that bath tubs are merely pools of your own filth. To that I reply: that's *really* optimistic and also, unlike you, I'm not filthy. Ha. Now friends of mine that are male feel that this bedtime bath ritual is a foreign one indeed. My question: how do you take a shower when you're 3? I mean, come on! Rubber duckies were *not* designed for the shower, nor were such excellent bath time accessories as Tub Town, Galaxy Goo, and Soap-fetti. I admit that I really just liked to chew on the people of tub town, but in my defense--they were quite gummy and tasted great with soap.

Umm, so why don't men take baths? Really. What's up with that.

*For those of you in a sorority (and I pray to God that's a limited amount of you), you may refer to this particular publication as "The Bible" instead of Cosmopolitan Magazine.

What are you selling again?

A couple of weeks ago, M1 and I were at the Galleria and we passed the Versace store window. There were no clothes, just a picture of a man and woman, totally naked, all entangled and junk.

Abercrombie & Fitch has made it possible to decorate your college dorm room in naked co-eds, ever since their clothes became all popular and junk. Their catalogs and store bags are available for this purpose, conveniently featuring scantily clad males and females who have been at the gym more this week than you have probably ever been. As a side note: I used to wear Abercrombie & Fitch when they were still a company that made junk like canoes. Their clothes were decidedly dorky and all boylike, which meant of course that I wore them. My mom went on frequent business trips to Seattle, so BubbaGump Shrimp is what I...err, A&F is what I got. Additionally, what's the deal with "Abercrombie Lacrosse?" They don't have a team! They have only made regular clothing for like...a little while. Not that crap about 1850 or whatever on their label. And not long enough to have any sort of established team! Anywho... Okay, so you have to $pay$ for their catalog, the "A&F Quarterly", and rightly so, because it's not so much the Lands End type deal where you see a sweater and call the friendly operators. No, basically, you just see naked people. And porn isn't free, you know.

Umm, so why are all these legitimate "businesses" pretending to sell clothes? Porn isn't illegal, for the record. Then again, the kids of the members of the Christian Coalition would throw a *fit* if they couldn't buy their overpriced school togs at the local mall. The rich youth are a direct pipeline to the Republican party, you know. And the Republicans are already *enough* of an irritant. But, I digress.

One other oddity: I have established that in their catalogs, A & F is all about the naked peops; but have y'all noticed that their mannequins are all wearing as many shirts as possible, plus a parka or something? I mean, in Houston and Dallas. We all thought it was so damn cold last week when it was like 50. We had the heat up every night. We don't need a parka. We don't even need multiple shirts. All of this has led me to believe that Bill S. Preston Esq. and Ted "Theodore" Logan are running A&F. Or the world. Oy.

Wyld Stallions rule!

P.S. One of my favorite reads Leftbanker has posted a *hilarious* rant about Hummers. If you liked mine, you'll adore his.