'Cause Hola Means Hello!

"You say Hola! And I say Hola! Cause Hola means Hello!"

Last night, or maybe it was two nights ago, I was walking my dog (as I do every night, so perhaps you can appreciate the uncertainty) and I walk, as I always accidentally do (MUST remember Dunlavy and Indiana! Every time I turn there, it is a bad decision!) through what amounts to one of the many ghettos of Montrose, this particular one predominantly Hispanic. So there's this group of dudes clustered around a truck blaring out Tejano (what is that about? don't they know that music is just not good?!) and they see me. They see my pit bull. (For emphasis: my pit bull) And yet they think cat-calling is a great idea and repeatedly yell "Hola!" at me as if by simply saying Hello, I will suddenly be like-- Hey classy guys! You greeted me? Weeeeeeell that changes everything! Let's go out sometime!

So finally I hold my hand up and say "Hi." (This was a bad decision in retrospect, but the jeering and leering was getting the better of my good sense.)

So then another dude says something rapid and high-pitched in Spanish, because as anyone from this part of Texas knows: that is the only way to speak Spanish. rapid and high-pitched that is. So I say "No habla espanol." (Once again, talking to them *at all*: poor decision.) So yet another dude is like "Why you no speak Spanish to us? Why you no say Hola instead of Hi?"

Gee dude, I dunno. Let's tick off a few reasons.
1) I wasn't lying. I really don't speak Spanish.
2) As an English speaker, I say hi or hello. I don't say hola for the same reasons you don't say hi. We are each most comfortable in our native language.
3) I don't wish to speak to you. In any language. If I knew how to say "Bugger off," in Spanish, believe me--I'd feel free to say a few words to you.
4) No.
5) No (Spanish version).

In conclusion: I *must* remember only to turn on the streets with crazy people in buggies that are so busy with their voices that they have no time for me. My dog is a fat lot of help, licking the hands and wagging her tail at every person we meet. Thanks a lot, big, vicious pit bull.

I Got Utterly and Completely Punk'd

And now for some relief from my overzealous political drivel.

So there's this woman who used to work in my office, but now she lives in Idaho or somewhere weird like that, but she still works for my company. Near as I can tell, she basically bosses everyone around via email.

As one of the lower people on the totem pole, she has, of late, decided to make me her whipping boy asking me to do absurd things with photocopying, mailing, etc.

One of my co-workers finds this Idaho person to be completely insane. Today she said to me: "What you need to understand about [IdahoPerson] is...well, she has a lot of cats."

That about sums it up.

So today at 5:45pm, as I was winding down in preparation to go home, I get this email from IdahoPerson that says her cat (Mr. Pickles) decided to use a pile of work documents as his litter box instead of, well, his litter box, and seeing Mr. Pickles do so caused Admiral Pudding to follow suite. My task, at 5:45 pm, was to re-photocopy all of the soiled documents, which apparently were a lot due to Mr. Pickles urine potency. I got a list of about ten documents, which I knew to be about 300-400 pages each. Not only was I to photocopy them, but as she needed them right away, I was to FedEx them to her tonight, dropping them off at the FedEx dock at the airport (an hour away), which closes at midnight.

I was so depressed. I seriously was going to quit my job on the spot. So I forwarded it to my co-worker/friend with pitiful commentary so he could lament this ridiculous tragedy with me and I hear him cackling at the other end of the office.

That butthole had set up the whole thing. It really did look like it was from her with the email address and everything.

He's lucky I didn't forward it to my boss, as I almost did, asking: do I really have to do this?

So there is no Mr. Pickles and there is no Admiral Pudding (especially since I couldn't remember the name he used and I made up Admiral Pudding), but I do have one total punk-ass co-worker.

And I *must* get him back.

So I am enlisting your help, internet.

How shall I prank? Let me count the ways!

Ralph Nader, You Jackass!

You screwed it up for us before. Will you please not screw us over again?

Stay out of the race and stick to the crap you know, like writing useful consumer manuals.

WASHINGTON - Consumer advocate Ralph Nader announced Sunday he will run again for the presidency, declaring that Washington has become "corporate occupied territory" and arguing there is too little difference between the Democratic and Republican parties.

Oh really? You don't think Howard Dean was about that? Well, he was. And he is awesome. And people like him--a lot. But he obviously couldn't win against the well-oiled, well-funded Republican machine, so he acted like an unselfish bastard and got the hell out of the race to support a lesser evil than the mighty GWB. It sounds sad, and maybe it is, but Rome was not built (nor rebuilt) in a day and if this is the way we must incite change, so be it. Now, this no-talent ass clown Nader is here to act as a spoiler AGAIN. This is not to say that I don't blame Al Gore for not winning his own freaking home state in 2000 (which would have made the idiotic Floridians a non-issue), nor do I discourage more competition in general, but I think this is already an uphill battle. Our country is in dire straights and it's going to be a bitch of a time reforming the powerhouse that can't/won't lose if we keep throwing idiots against the wall to see if even one will stick. Because GWB is a bigger idiot and that guy is gonna stick! And what's more-- his cronies own that wall!

I lose Howard Dean and now Nader is gonna give it the old college try. This is freaking great. Hey, I know--how about Dr. Laura runs? And maybe Gary Coleman? Ooh! Ooh! Corey Feldman anyone? He can wear original period clothing from the signing of the Declaration of Independence at the Inaugural Ball. With any luck, we can turn the political climate of the whole country into the proposterous circus it has become out in California.

Thanks a whole freaking lot, you butthole. Suffice it to say: I'm pissed.

Now What...for America?

As you may have noticed by the gigantic link on the left side of this page, I am/was/am a Howard Dean supporter.

I'm jumping on the Edwards bandwagon, I suppose, and am going to some sort of Super Tuesday party in the village with M2, but I am honestly heartbroken that Dean, the man who, a month ago, was the one to beat, did so terribly in all the primaries.

Is it political apathy? Is it resignation to being a cog in the machine? Is it fear of change, even if it's for the better?

I am so disappointed that I don't feel like talking about the relative attractiveness to success ratio of the candidates. And you know that's bad.

Thank you, Howard Dean. You made me believe again.

To You From Me, Pinkie Lee

I've got a tiparoonie for you.

White chocolate mocha= vanilla latte + excessive sweet sickness

If you're normally a latte drinker (as I am) at Starbucks, but feel tempted to rebel and just order something different, I am here to tell you that the white chocolate mocha tastes just like a vanilla latte on first sip, but by the last (if you make it that far) makes your stomach hurt from excessive, faking-it chocolate goo. And it's a price increase of about $.50. And that's just on a tall(e).

Of course, in retrospect, maybe I wasn't quite ready for dairy either. Every food item I have eaten since I've been back on solid foods (including my Wednesday evening Saltine fest) has been an experiment in "ohhh, maybe that wasn't such a great idea."

Once again: food poisoning--don't let it happen to you.

Insides Out

What happened to me?

I had food poisoning. I am going to go ahead and NOT recommend it to all of you.

My computer died and I learned that it will cost approximately one MILLION dollars to recover my life for the past three years.

And despite all this, I am in suprisingly good spirits. (Let's face it, I really needed to delete all those emails from J.K. attorney-at-law, and those Britney Spears mp3s anyway.)

I mean. I'm not minimizing it. I am well aware that losing all the info (resume, Christmas card list, etc, etc) in my computer (not the least of which were digital photos of my pets, friends, family--esp. my baby nephew) I am basically fucked, that my rent is too high, that I am starting to hate my new neighbors with the kind of loathe that only a certain ChickyB. has earned before, that I was one of the many people whom Reliant energy gouged (for a total of over 2.9 million) the last couple of months, that I am being shat upon by SBC (but who isn't?), that I spent the last three days vomiting up things I didn't know I'd even heard of, and that divorcing my cat (as I am about to do) probably makes me a horrible person on top of all that.

But seriously, in light of all this, I feel surprisingly fine.

I fly the smelly/hostile skies, if I have no alternative (or little to do on a Friday night).

So yesterday I had the opportunity to spend approximately 4.5 hours in an enclosed space with smelly people, by which I mean, my flight was delayed three hours, two of which I sat in the plane for across the aisle from a man who, well, let's just say, had a GIGANTIC B. O. problem.

So normally I'm all psyched about thunderstorms, but last night a grandtastic Houston-sized storm kept me in when I wanted to be out. (In general, this is not a problem because I enjoy the malaise of being stuck inside during bad weather.) So I'm out at Intergalactic airport and my gate gets changed THREE times, which, if you're exclusively carry-on with a week's worth of stuff is kind of a major pain. But my story is not here (yet), so let's go back even further.

A bit of background. I rarely travel. I used to travel all the time. Boyfriend in Maine? No problem! Weekend in Borneo? Great! Negotiating a business deal with a monkey on a tropical island? Who doesn't?! These things come up. However, since becoming the mom to the world's greatest dog, I am pretty content to remain at home being anti-social. So even though 9/11 was kind of a while ago (in terms of routine and so), I am still taken aback by all of the security measures in place at the airport. (I have only flown one round-trip since 9/11, but it was to/from NYC and I had more pressing concerns at the time.) Anywho, I'm going through security and the first security chick says:
"Your ID please?"
And I'm like--no, seriously, I say this--"Really? I *just* showed it to the guy at the curb to get my boarding pass. Right. Right away, ma'am."
So, you'd think I'd smarten up by the next (and tougher) security chick who says:
"Lemme see your shoes." So I take her literally and lift up my pant cuffs a bit as though I just received a compliment and said,
"Oh, they're boots! Great!"
So tough, security chick gives me this look like "Oh! wiseguy, huh?" and says "Ma'am. You need to take off your shoes ... immediately. "
"Okay," I say and I do.
Now, instead of the metal detector, they must have sent me through the stupid scanner because after I took one off, I said incredulously-- "What? Both shoes?!" Tough, security chick (TSC) was not pleased. Clearly.

So my boots are on the conveyer belt, my dignity has made a run for it as I trek through security wearing only my non-matching (my outift, that is--but extremely comfortable) socks and I'm thinking: this is a military state. I mean, I'm not wigging out like, oh, one of my brothers, for example about how the government is going to like burn dowen the world in a year's time and we'll have to eat termites to survive because I'm not that much of a fatalist. I also realize that all this security is, in theory, for my own protection. Without *further* going into how I don't think 9/11 was an airport security failure-- in particular-- (clearly, these guys knew what they were doing), I'm kind of feeling like a hostage. And we're all hostages and no one seems to mind much. I didn't raise a fuss and despite being kind of naive about security measures, I was compliant. Not having my butt thrown in jail, I must admit, was a motivating factor in that decision, plus the fact that I am not one to make a big deal of things ( to strangers that is, so close friends: I'll advise you to zip it).

So I'm already feeling kind of trapped and this is long BEFORE I know I am going to be stuck in a plane with very little food and one extremely smelly man for hours of endless torture.

So I'm sitting at the second gate of the evening and I see this super demonstrative hippy couple, which I only spotted because the tremendous stench of B.O. made me look up from my rather engaging book. And I'm like-- damn, even patchouli is better than this and they're like sort of sitting far away. Damn. This could be torture. It is only after "secretly" lamenting this into my cell phoen to my sister do I discover that it is in fact the man sitting behind me with the strong smell of grossy. (P.S. Hippy couple, you're still not excused because the making out in front of me business? Not a fan!) So I'm embarrased but figure out that he is engrossed in conversation with a woman who, while cheap looking, still appears to be way out of his smelly league. At this time, I know my flight is delayed, so I excuse myself to get a drink, but mostly to get away from smelly man. Upon my return, drink in hand, I diplomatically choose another seat. And now the move to gate three. I foolishly break out ahead of the pack and sit down first. I'm a magnet I suppose because guess who sat down next to me? Smelly McStinksabunch. You got it. Crap! So I get a mantra going about how this will be short-lived and we'll be boarding soon. Well, we do board soon, as it happens and though I am by the window, guess who is my row across the aisle with a smell of self that could carry a couple of counties away?

Of course. Who else? S. McS, which, I do believe brings me full circle in this story where we get to the part about thunderstorm (which I often scornfully wish on overly chipper people) that grounded my plane which sat on the ground for hours which allowed me to bathe and lavish in that daisy-killing, baking soda beatin' stinky, nauseating man.

My friends are fond of saying that karma is a bitch and that I (like them) will be rotting in hell for the mean things I say. It's just not true. Karma IS, in fact a bitch, but I've got news for you. In the event that there's not an afterlife, God makes you pay up front.

Just sayin'.

If you were wondering...

There are 16 ounces in a pound, not 32 or even 64. So if you are, I don't know--making a casserole or something and the recipe calls for 1/2 pound of cooked egg noodles, you should take that into consideration. What you should definitely not do is to make enough noodles (1-2 pounds, perhaps?) to feed all the Burger King All Stars of Montrose/M! (he loves him some noodles).

I mean, I didn't do this. But I'm aware that a thing like this could happen and I am just informing you.

Another thing to note is that it's unlikely that 1-2 pounds of cooked noodles will fit in any of your casserole dishes. Should you find yourself with an excess of noodles, you should have a dog on hand to assist in their removal from your kitchen.

Thank you.

From the Desk of the Ass. Cur.

So when S. , E. and I were all in this anthropology class together my sophomore year of college, our prof was actually a scientist (of sorts) at the Museum of Natural History. One day she gets her friend, the assistant curator of something or the other, to come in to speak to us about who knows what (in a minute you'll learn why we don't know what). I think that was one of those rare days that S and I both attended, but E, not so much. But even though it was just S and me to testify to this story, I swear I am not making it up.The first thing this guy does is write his name on the board and below it, his title. Ass. Cur. I am not even joking.

At age 23, it's obvious that my sense of humor hasn't matured much past 5th grade (if dirtier), but when I was 19, I like to think it was even more....yeah.

I think S and I took a lot of random notes, but we were never able to concentrate for very long because there was only one thing we could think of.

Ass. Cure.

And that, my friends, is the value of a college education.

What made me think of this? Well, I am straightening up my desk (by which I mean lining my pencils up by length in normal, anal fashion) and I was looking over the itemized bill for my dog's recent vet visit. And this is one of the items:

Fecal Parasite Assay-Float/Direct

Assay?! Is that like an essay, but with your butt/poop?

In conclusion, I am awesome.