The weather is perfect, now what can I whine about?

Is anyone else getting a sore throat and dry skin from this insanely awesome weather? Why must every silver lining have a cloud?

I haven't been running my a/c and I have been sleeping with the windows open and only the screen to my back porch (don't even *think* of burglarizing me, please) which has been great temperature-wise (if a skoche* chilly), but my face is all crackly and as the kids would say: my throat has a little horse.

*Does anyone know how to spell skoche?

I know you're out there, ye of the "No Comment" ilk

This blog is sooo PoMo. Aware of itself and its relationship to the universe. Beautiful. Funny. Sad. True. and lame.

So I was at Cafe Artiste not so terribly long ago and when I paid with my credit card, the guy was like
"Hey Mary T_____! Is that like *the* MaryT?"
"Well, some might say."
He replied, "You have a blog right. French-Roast.com?"
"Yes?" [eyebrow fully arched]
"Dude, I read your page all the time! My friends and I love it!"
"Oh, that's very nice....can I have this stuff for free then?"

Just kidding, I didn't ask for free stuff, but I should have. The point is, I know you're out there. People I never dreamed were reading have confirmed to me that in fact, they read every day. (This kind of information is important when I want to post mean stuff about them. PBRG, I'm looking at you. J, however, will *never* read this page. I know that much, for sure. No, seriously. Why don't I ever post mean stuff about him? I'm too nice, I guess, and he *does* look like a certain rock star.)

What do I request of you, my beloved readers? An occasional comment or an email, a shout out if you will, because it's lonely, here in this little rectangle box. And it's nice to know that when I'm here, you're out there, too. :)

Thanks, fans. You haven't made me rich or anything (which would make me like you way more), but I like you the best.

"Even Mr. Testaverdi Couldn't Ace Mr. Testaverdi's Mid-Term"

Ah yes, another throwback to Saved by the Bell--SBTB

Last night M! and I were discussing first dates. (As a side note, I would like to recognize M!'s status as best supporting actor in my blog. E, my best supporting actress, is in Austria, so I have a temporary opening if anyone wants to apply.) One thing I mentioned is that if I am pre-disposed to disliking someone on a first date for *any* reason, I will find absolutely everything wrong with him in the course of one dinner and maybe a further activity/hour of conversation. On the other hand, if I really like you before the date, I will probably miss most, if not all, of the red flags you throw up, proceed to date you, throw my whole heart into a relationship with you, lament your asshole tendencies while standing dutifully by you, and finally, pine away for you when either a) you have mercilessly broken up with me or b) my therapist strongly advised the cessation of our relationship on the grounds that because of you, I was becoming emotional goo.

Unfortunately, I am terribly judgemental and if you have weakened yourself at all in my eyes before the first date, I will devour you. I regret this behavior and am seeking to allow more than an elite troup of a-holes reach the sacred second date, but I am still a work in progress. For all I know, these first-round losers could be as big of jerks as the ones who usually move up the ladder of MaryT love, and that makes me cautious. I mean, if you're going to be a prick to me, why should I let you when I have already judged you unworthy intellectually, emotionally, socially, attractively, verbally, literarily, humorously, ethically, developmentally, engagingly, politically, motivationally or as the case may be: randomly*?

I wonder, often, if I were put through this kind of scrutiny by all the men I go out with, how many of them would want to go on a second date with me. In other words, could Mr. Testaverdi even ace Mr. Testaverdi's mid-term? I can't say for certain because the only ones I really know who do this are, I think, the ones who have alighted from my own severe criticism and consequently, the ones I've fallen hardest for. I have only not gotten a second date twice in my sordid dating history and both of those guys were already so off my radar that it never phased me. Which deepens my wonder: are most men just less discerning than I, or am I just fabulous? :)

A final note: I want to add that not every man I have dated and loved has been a complete jerk. I regard my dating history with a healthy dose of cynicism and humor, but there are a couple of guys who were absolutely deserving of my adoration, and to them I say thank you. They have given me the courage, the hope, to press on.

*In my defense, I have never disqualified anyone for financial status. That would be the pot calling the kettle, for sure. Plus, even though some might say happiness can't buy money, it is love that must keep us alive. Team poverty!

Omen

My Yahoo is basically the Alpha and the Omega of MaryT. If I need it, it's there. If it's not there, I probably don't know about it. Since I am such a rabid fan of My Yahoo, I wasn't too pleased to read my horoscope and see the little symbol indicating my career forecast.



Yeah, for real.

"Those boards don't work on water, McFly! You need POW-AH!"

Yesterday taught me a very important lesson. Life without electricity is not really worth living. I mean, not really, but it's pretty boring when you live by yourself. Below, a sample from my thought process yesterday, when in vain, I tried to occupy myself until I got power back.

well, I can't check my email or IM my friends or pay my bills online, I guess I'll clean my house a bit then. Crap, I can't use the vaccum. Oh well, I'll just do my laun....d'oh! I'll just sweep. I can sweep. What I could really use though is some music, but blast! I no longer have my battery-powered tape deck. Okay, okay, maybe I can just watch a movi...ah, damn! I'll call my mom; she'll know what to do...except my phone won't work! I really need a snack, too, but I guess I won't be microwaving or toasting anything and I can't open my fridge, lest I break the cold seal. Chips it is! And now for amusement, I'll read a book. Nothing electrical about that. It's dark in here; guess I'll go outside. Hmm, sure is hot out here.

Misery.

I(heart) eckletricity! Team Muggle!

How I Spent My Saturday Morning or SOOO Sleepy, SOOO Cranky

1. [3 am] Cell phone beeps REALLY loudly multiple times 5 hours after the fact to remind me that indeed, my text message asking “Why do you think we’re parasites?” was delivered.

Interim--Molly chews feet endlessly making slurpy sounds and jarring the bed.

2. [4:30-6:00 am] Drunk foreign man calls repeatedly demanding to speak to A-leez-abet. I remind said drunk foreigner that indeed, he *still* has the wrong number after the 5th call. Should he still feel the need to contact Aleezabet, he should know I'll feel free to contact HPD. It's all settled then. (Other mitigating circumstance: my kitchen phone connection is screwy, so I just moved my phone to the extra room which is empty and cavernous, the noise of which forced me to answer the phone because it rings 5 times before my voice mail picks up and even I am not about that kind of torture. This is also the room from whence my cell phone beeped following the “parasite” message.)

Interim--Molly chews feet endlessly making slurpy sounds and jarring the bed.

3. Pounding on the front door at 8:15 jars me into remembering that I hadn't locked it the night before. (note to self: blast! And if my mom is reading this: I did lock my front door, after all!) After deciding that anyone pounding on my door at 8:15 on Saturday must be bad news bears and therefore not answering the door, I lay wide awake wondering if God hates me for forwarding the serial killer joke to all my friends, but mostly for laughing so heartily about it.

While Molly chews feet endlessly making slurpy sounds and jarring the bed, I decide I am going to have to get up. I open the front door to greet neighbors in neighborly fashion only to be accosted by two foreign men (one of whom may or may not have called to speak to Aleezabet) telling me that they will now be turning my power off. No doubt they are the 8:15 Pounders. I knew no good could come of them, The speaker of the two is wearing a sporty, brown wife-beater/muscle shirt hybrid. Add that to the list of stuff I don’t need to see without enough sleep. (Also on the list: acne product infomercials, but specifically “Before” pictures.) The following conversation ensues:

Sleepy MaryT: Are you from the electric company?
Friend O'Aleezabet: No. I mean, yes.
Sleepy MaryT: Hmmm.
Friend O'Aleezabet: We turn power off, now!
Sleepy MaryT: For how long?
Friend O'Aleezabet: Two hours. Five hours. Maybe tree hours.
Sleepy MaryT: Hmm. Two, tree, or five hours is a long time. Was I supposed to get any advanced notice?
Friend O'Aleezabet:[confused] no
Sleepy MaryT: I don't have a choice, do I?
Friend O'Aleezabet: No. Landlord call. You landlord?
Sleepy MaryT: Well, I certainly didn't call you. Do what you gotta do I guess.
[general grumbling on both sides]

You're only getting this post after the electricity comes on and I am damn well cranky. Food spoilage update: The power came on....SEVEN hours later, but the food, I am happy to report, has made it through just fine. I am still pissy though.

Mardon me, Padam

This headline just appeared on My Yahoo!™ News: "Timberlake Pips Pop Divas to Best R&B Gong at MOBOs"

I beg your pardon?

I thought I had my preferences set to English, but I have *no idea* what the hell this means.

Help?

In Memorium

I just wanted to pause and take a moment to remember the approximately 85 trillion bugs who met their untimely end on my car today.

I literally stopped twice on a four hour trip to gently sponge their corpses from the windshield, not to mention the 800 times that I used the handy Bat-wipers/Bat-windshield fluid.

Bug City: Pop. 0
Bug City Cemetary: Pop. 85 trillion

For my friends, you should come over and look at my car before I get it washed, which actually, despite my lifelong dedication to convenience, could be in a few seconds because this is super barf.

No disrespect to the dead.

For Joe N., who reads this blog: They were indeed all up in my grill.

TV-watchin' All-Star

TV is so awesome. I am at my parents' house and I am trying to absorb it through my skin. Bachelor Bob is coming back on Wednesday with a 2 hour premier. I may have to bite the bullet and buy the antenna and necessary tin foil for my tv so I can at least get the free channels.

Poverty is a wonderful thing. It makes you appreciate the simple things.

That's a lie. Poverty sucks. I'm *this close* to joining the Burger King All-Stars. Don't even act like you haven't seen those kids kickin' it at the Montrose/Westheimer Burger King after dark. It's the new bus stop...since the bus stop moved.

Yeah. The All-Stars. Just like me.

"How dumb do I think the Americans are?"

"Why, I bet you we could get those idiots to buy water!"

I used a bit of hilarity from Jim Gaffigan to link this NYTimes article, but it's just not funny at all. For those of you who will *not* be clicking on the link, I'm going to give a brief synopsis.

Basically, a couple of drunk, off-duty American soldiers were at the Baghdad Zoo after it closed and were attempting to feed the tigers.

Raise your hand if this already sounds like bad news bears.

So, the tiger bit one of the soldiers fingers off. (Why? Umm, because he's a tiger and the guy stuck his hand in the cage. Hellooooooo.) So the other soldier pulled out an automatic and shot the tiger 5 times in the head.

Why do other countries hate America and "stupid" Americans?
Gosh, couldn't tell ya.

Mecca

Oh my God. This is the best site EVER. The closest thing I can utter to a coherent sentence in response: Hats off, Mr. Vanity!

Insult to Injury

For whatever reason, my forehead has looked, not unlike that of an angsty adolescent this past month. I know. I know. Look at my overall health for the answer, not to mention my emotional "well"being.

Some days you're the statue and some days, you're the pigeon.

I hate pigeons.

You can't fire me!...I'm unemployed.

And herein, MaryT sings, once again, the (un)employment blues.

If you haven't heard, I haven't been having much luck finding employment lately. And by lately, I'm pretty much referring to my whole life. (And if you hadn't heard, you obviously haven't been reading this blog that long because I only write on 5ish topics. I'm, sadly, a bit repetivive and not so creative as you might think.)

Everyone knows that the market is bad, blahbetty blah, but frankly, I am sick of hearing that. There is nothing that can make you feel okay about not having a job, with the exception of you not wanting one.

This week I interviewed for two jobs. One I was quite obviously overqualified for. Ridiculously so, in fact. Filing clerk. Filing all day. Morning, noon, and early evening. Absolutely all filing all the time. The interview also went very well.

I did not get that job. I am told because I was overqualified and unlikely to stay, which I know in my mind to be true, but my heart has been stamped, once more, with the painful, resounding thud of rejection. (As a side note, this rejection thing: getting old. A memo to ex-boyfriends, potential boyfriends, and all employers: How about a nice paper cut with lemon juice?)

The other job, as it turns out, I had too much of a soul for. And by soul, I mean that I am not morally bankrupt. I'm a fan of beggars not being choosers and that whole ball of wax, but I had to turn this particular institution down before my final interview with Beelzebub and the point of no return. Eerily, I was assured all along that I was the perfect person for the job (and by perfect, they meant I will be made perfect after many lashings with the unethical stick). Basically, I wasn't ready to turn into a slickster salesman and squeeze blood out of rock. (Dr Katz coined that phrase--blood out of a rock--and as he says, it's the kind of thing that could catch on.)

Better jobs will come along and when they do, here's hoping I'll be the one to meet them at the airport with my snazzy chauffeur hat and wipeboard, but in the meantime, I am still the best babysitter in town. And I can write a little.

Kind of like...woo.

You can laugh, but you've totally been in New Friend's place.

(This conversation followed my post saying that today is my dad's birthday)

New Friend: hey, my dad's birthday was Monday
MaryT: hey...that's sorta the same
New Friend:yeah, I realized it was pretty lame almost as soon as I typed it
New Friend: but I revel in my lameness
MaryT: it's cool
MaryT: it's like when you tell someone your birthday
MaryT: and they say, "hey mine is the same date two months before or something"
MaryT: and then you're like "Hey!...oh wait, who cares?"
New Friend: exactly
MaryT: but I know it *seems* like a good idea in theory
MaryT: even people who are like-- "hey, that's my birthday, too!" when you tell them your birthday are hard to respond to
MaryT: you're jazzed about it for one second
MaryT: and then you're kind of like--woo.

Huddle up, please.

Attention Ladies.

I know the locker room at a fitness club is conducive to being all naked and free and everything because we're all there to work out and what not and we are all also women (in theory).

But I have to say...

When I walk in to put my bag in a locker and the first thing I see is naked, naked, oh so naked you bent over checking out your butt crack in the mirror, well, it makes me a touch uncomfortable.

Just thought I'd put that out there. You certainly did.

GWB is going down. He's going down to Chinatown.

This is really great news. (As a side note, you have to log into NYTimes.com to read this, but it's free and if you don't have a login name, dude, you're missing the news. Time to get with the program.)

W. threatened the senate's repeal of the retarded deregulatory actions of media with a presidential veto. Whatever, W. Even my dad, who one would be safe in labeling an extremely conservative Republican, is pretty embarrassed by our president. One would think that after being president for awhile, you might improve instead of getting worse. (In theory, Nixon was actually corrupt his entire presidency but was only *revealed* as a bad guy in the end because he was weird and wanted to tape everything. But, his foreign policy definitely improved and he wasn't, well, retarded ever.) Back to W. No, he just keeps making worse and worse decisions.

Like father, like son: one term.

And as a side note: Happy Birthday to my dad today!

Color me...

horrified.
irritated.
disgusted.
disappointed.
not at all surprised.

"Cabo Montrose" has arrived in my 'hood. Just what I need to look at: more whorey women (or would-be women) in backless shirts soliciting back fat + greasy guys with riced out cars.

I was just thinking there weren't nearly enough of these types of people...oh wait. No, I wasn't.

And all it took was a little whining on my blog.

Central Market has introduced cart corrals.

Maybe if I get Mayor Brown to start reading, we can fix way more stuff. Like chickyboom. I'd like to fix his wagon, alright.

Through the night, with a light from above

Thoughts on patriotism

So I watched part of the Miss Texas pageant in June, I believe, and as you can guess the contestants were all total brainiacs. Except not at all. Anyway, one of these bathing beauties was asked what she thought being patriotic meant.

(Wide lipsticky smile) Patriotism is very important. It's definitely something that each one of us has inside. To me, patriotism means being proud. It means being really prideful about where you're from.

You'd like to think that I made that up, but I need not tell you what you know in your heart of hearts (and yet, I will). It was practically verbatim.

Okay, so if patriotism isn't being "prideful," what is it, MaryT? With September 11 and this "war on terror," there has been a resurgence in American patriotism--some real and some for show. Gigantic American flags tattooed on every SUV in town. That kills me. Not only is it patriotism for show, the irony knocks me out. Whatever.

What is real patriotism? To me (and as a side note, I could so win Saved by the Bell's Miss Liberty Pageant with this...) patriotism is having respect for human life and dignity and showing compassion to those around you, whether they are American or not. Patriotism is not a thirst for vengeance and retaliation, and a wish to tear down other cultures; it is a confidence in the characteristics that this country was founded on--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and doing your part to preserve them. It is not destroying the culture and country of others, and policing every continent. Violence and hate and discrimination are based in a culture of fear. But life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness stem from respecting individuals, whoever they are, wherever they are.

I consider myself, I'd like to add, heartily American. Both sides of my family came to the US many, many generations ago to make a better life--and did. I have a great love for and pride in, my country. No, our leaders have not always made the best decisions and at times our government was ruthless and cruel to millions. This is true. My pride is not in the government, however. It lies with the people who have made America their home, their family's home, the people who have made it a great place to live. And you must admit, it really is. And if you don't like it here, you still enjoy the freedom to leave it.

Now, I'm not a fan of our president by any stretch of the imagination and I am also a pacifist. I am opposed to the war in Iraq and everywhere else that the U.S. is constantly deplying troops. I am anti-war and still I love this country. I am anti-George W. Bush, and I still love this country. So...what does it all mean?

It means that some things are worth living for-- and we can all do our part. We can think for ourselves. We can give of our time and our love freely. We can be the change that we want to see in the world and we can do all this because we want to correct our mistakes, we want to glorify what is good in our past, and because we love our country.

"So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart."

Poet Laureate Billy Collins's poem The Names remembers our fallen from September 11, 2001 and since.

We will never forget.

"Remember the ladies, John."-amended

Some of you might recall a little thing called the 19th amendment. I'm a fan of it. It allows me to vote and everything without chaining myself to...something...anything. Before the luxury of being enfranchised was available to women, such excellent persons as Abigail Adams wrote pleading letters to their husbands asking them to remember the ladies. Well, I'm here to beg that favor again of all my menfans, who I'll now refer to as fens.

This morning I get a call at 8am, when, let's be honest, I was still sleeping, but it just happened that I had the phone by my bed. The law of caller ID states: If you're going to call me and I'm gonna pay $8/month for this junk, you sure in hell better put your name on your phone number if you want to talk to me. And yet, in my sleepy state, I saw "Unknown Caller" and felt like it might be a good idea to get this one. One can never have too many Ginsu knives, after all.

Now, you know how this is going to go. I was not offered Ginsu knives. This woman starts giving this spiel and I immediatly wanted to hang up on her, but since I was in bed, laying down anyway, I figured I'd give her 30 seconds or so. So she was taking some kind of a survey about current events and everything and she wanted to speak to "the male" age 18 or over in my home. When I informed her that there were none, she didn't say thank you, or even *fuck you* before hanging up on me!

I beg your pardon? You can't fire me! I quit.

You want to talk to an 18 year old BOY about current events and not ME? One of us is too busy masturbating to talk about current events, and while one of you wiseasses might conclude that's me, it ISN'T. (Note: Seriously fens, loosen up. At least you're sought after by survey people. And I have nothing against masturbation. You go on with your sexual peak selves.)

This is not the first time I've gotten a call like this. Since when is the women's movement regressing? Ouch. I think I just hit my head on something. Ahh! The old glass ceiling trick.

And to add insult to injury, the phone villain was a woman. Just a little FYI, women who don't like women: screwy.

A note to my fens: Remember the ladies...or I'll kick your butt. You saw what I did to old chickyboom.

...shut up

Extra. Extra.

So I don't really understand why anyone would actually subscribe to the Houston Chronicle. The reason for my bafflement is three-fold:
1. The Houston Chronicle is not a good paper. I think empirically, it is just inferior to the New York Times.
2. I get the New York Times via email free.
3. And the number one reason why I don't understand subscriptions to the Houston Chronicle: I get the damn rag delivered to my door *every* day, no matter how many times I turn those chumps down.

I see an irie future for you, mon!

Okay, what is up with fake accents? I mean, occasionally, you and one of your corny friends will be like "Hey, let's pretend we're British while at this bar." Phony accents are to intoxication what dijonaise is to a BLT: a little something extra. But never in my life have I been like, yeah, I really wanna sell this product, so I think I'll adopt a totally lame accent. Now, if I felt that everyone else in the universe were also *not* doing this, then there would be no need for this bit of commentary. But of course people *are* doing this, and therefore, I will continue this rant.

We know Ms. Cleo. She's on tv. She wears a turban. Her advice is junk. We know this. I'd like to move on to some less publicized, but equally guilty parties.

Not so long ago, I was listening to the radio when this dude who has likely never left Harris county starts talking about "all de great sales at de Truck dealership, mon! It's hotter dan Jamaica out here, mon!"

I'm sorry, what?

Now, if this is not the case, I apologize in advance for making an ass of u and me, but does anyone really go buy a truck because it reminds them of Jamaica? "Ah yes, I love this super duty! The rear wheel drive, 6 disc in-dash changer, generous cup holders, and extended cab bring back memories of my bobsledding, rastafarian, ganja smokin', b.o. sportin' days in Kingston."

And the accents aren't limited to Jamaicans, though this particular slant has been quite popular of late. And further, peops are not just using accents to sell cars. Beds. Bikes. Toys. Stereo eqipment.

The sky is the limit, mon.



And btw, I know I post like ten things at once lately, but when it rains, it pours. Deal. Or I'll come kick your rastafarian nay nay.

Jokes I got about 15 years after everyone else

So do you remember that show Win, Lose, Or Draw? Well, I can't figure out why I was thinking about it, but I just realized that not only do the teams draw pictures, a la pictionary, but a tie is also called a draw.

Those game show people! They are so punny!

A Prison for Your Voice

Pretty soon, the joke about opinions being like assholes will become "opinions are like cellular phones," because yo, everyone does have one. Even people that don't look as though they've participated in the clean underwear/deodorant program in ages seem to be text messaging and playing that stupid snake game at bus stops. But I'm not here to complain about cellular phones. I am *sure* I've done that many times before, and if I haven't, I'm sure you can at least smell my contempt several states away.

I am here, as always, to give pause and cause unrest, if possible.

Have you ever noticed that some people call their cellular phones their "mobiles" while the rest of us refer to them as our "cells." Interesting. One term indicates the freedom to roam around and be able to talk on the phone anywhere (a la "Can you hear me now?"). The latter invokes imagery of a cross to bear, a prison, an accessory you're trapped with. A clear example of the dichotomy: M2, my most metro friend, calls his a mobile. I call mine a cell.

As the learned men would say: Just think it over. That's alls I'm sayin'.

I wish I were retardedly successful...

I had a "joke list" my freshman year of college when my unofficial major was email. Peops really enjoyed it and it grew rapidly, once having as many as 89 subscribers and forwarded many times over. Unfortunately, I was not able to parlay it into multiple book deals, a cross-country comedy tour, a syndicated column, a massively hit web site, a radio show, a Gollin prize, a radio show, and kajillions of dollars--like this guy.

He's the same age as me. Retardedly successful vs. Unemployed. Both of us are funny (or at least used to be at my joke list peak). One of us clearly missed the boat. Any guesses as to whom I refer? That's right. Me. I knew I should have gone to Columbia. Damn you, Rice!

*shakes fist*

"Will you call me Cordelia?"

Like Anne Shirley, who longed to be called Cordelia, I believe that if I told others what I imagined about myself, they'd be much more apt to enjoy my stories than the ones that are true. As it is, I am starting to feel sorry for my friends. I think they nearly turned green (with puke) yesterday when M! and I re-hashed, yet again, the story of a certain roommate's boyfriend who was drunk beyond reason and was screamy puking and trapped us in my room when we really needed to go get our pizza. I mean, screamy puking is funny and all, but not, say, oh the 17th time you've heard the story. Of course, for me, it's always funny, but no one in the world finds me nearly as entertaining as I find myself.

In the future, I will use all my old stories as a sort of mad lib-like template for better ones.

One time during my freshman year of college, M! and I were trapped in __________. We were trapped because my stupid roommate's __________! All you could hear was screamy puking, even miles away because _______________. Fortunately, we were able to escape when _____________. Really top drawer!

And voila!

One time during my freshman year of college, M! and I were trapped in an air tight vault that was rapidly filling with liquid, hot magma and orange juice. We were trapped because my stupid roommate's plan to play around in an air tight vault had gone horribly awry! All you could hear was screamy puking, even miles away because the air tight vault has excellent accoustics and M! and I were indeed screamy puking in fear. Fortunately, we were able to escape when M! thought to call Richard Dean Anderson (aka MacGuyver) on his cell phone. Really top drawer!

That's way better.

E., do you approve?