Ya done a great jorb, Hamstray!

In the ironic department, I was recently reading a People magazine at my mom's house (please, withhold judgement--you know you read it sometimes, too) about several people who had lost their jobs because of inappropriate content posted on their blogs. One was a flight attendant for Delta who has posted some risque pictures of herself in her uniform (Hello, my name is: damn fool.) and the others worked for Microsoft and Google. "I know, I think I'll work for one of the most major names in computers and the internet and say something really ridiculous/top secret/highly crass about said company on my public blog." These are real geniuses, to be sure, but anywho, the irony is that my inappropriate-for-small-children content actually helped me to GET my job.

It truly feels like a dream-come-true that I now have a job doing something I love: writing for a major publication--and being encouraged to be snarky on my blog without restraint (obviously not mentioning work).

Once again, I (heart) irony. Sad that TWoP sold out of that tee though. Oh well, I'll just make my own. Nothing can hold me back, fools!

Katrina Cuts to the Heart of the Matter

Earlier today, I was reading Craigslist Rants and Raves and some numbskull was making the comment that because there are looters in New Orleans right now and the mayor has ordered a mandatory evacuation of Superdome refugees who are being bused to the Houston Astrodome that Houston is now in danger of being looted and terrorized by these storm-torn people.

I pointed out of course that looting is occuring where there is chaos and authorities are devoting their time to rescuing the living, which is not even remotely the situation here. Looters are opportunists. It's not like people are looters as their master identity. No one roams, looting nomadically. That is absurd. It simply isn't possible, nor tolerated in otherwise civilized places. Looting breaks out in times of panic and terror when all the rules are off. I know some people think ill of Houston, but to use my favorite never-used phrase: Bitch, please.

But speaking of looting, here are some interesting photos from a yahoo slideshow about the devastation resulting from Katrina, not the least of which is overt racism. What the hell, yahoo? This is ridiculous. Take a ganders at the following photos.

• A looter?
  
• Crafty scavengers, apparently.

In my opinion, when people are starving and grocery stores are going to be losing all their wares anyway, I don't think finding/stealing/looting food is so horrible. It's these people that are risking life and limb to break into jewelry and electronics stores that I don't understand. Of course, I've never been in a hurricane or impoverished, so I'll just leave all the judging to Yahoo for now. They seem to be doing a top-notch job on their own.

Hold Me in Your Arms, You Can Feel My Disease

I am now on day 5 (or 6?) of evil MaryT-brand™ cold, which always starts with a sore throat and ends with a fair amount of NyQuil™ (or for budget conscious peops like me "Wal-quil" or something of that ilk) and very little fanfare. In between, I can expect fatigue and body aches the first full day, and the gradually itchy throat evolves into horrible hacking cough and sinus congestion, which if not attended to by drugging causes much misery.

This post has been sitting open here all day for me to add more interesting details, or moralize, or spin into a cautionary tale about not accepting candy from strangers, but the sad fact of the matter is, there aren't any. I just feel quite icky and I don't know the source of the ickle germs.

However, in the interim, I just found out that I am going to be paid to do what I love. I got a job as a writer*--so that is awesome. Yay! It mitigates the sickness quite a bit. Now if only I could teach Molly that cold nose on bare leg (bear leg! grrr!) is not the best way to earn my esteem, I'd be all set.

*Post coming momentarily about le nouveau job.

Now in Syndication! It'll be a sensation! What an inspiration! A Dalmatian Planation!

Not as cool as "now with refrigerated air" or "now served in cans," but nonetheless you can now get your bitter cup via your favorite Newsreader or whatever it is you crazy young people do. French-Roast is now in syndication, here:http://www.french-roast.com/atom.xml.

Do with it what you will. I certainly don't understand it, but anything for the fans. Thanks to reader David for instruction in this matter. It will probably cut back on my site hits, but then again, I will be able to re-direct my attention from regular fans to the "funny looking retards" googlers. You're bad people, you know.

Bloom's Craponomy

Umm, that sounds kind of wrong.

When I was in G/T as a young person, we used to have the upper-level thinking chart, oft referred to as bloom's taxonomy. But a quick aside: I am really torn about programs like G/T (gifted and talented) because on the one hand--all kids, nay, all people, are gifted and talented. I don't mean to sound patronizing in that "every kid should get a trophy because we're all winners here!" On the contrary, I am much more cut-throat and think LOTS of people are losers, but I really think the program was ill-named. It should have been called "program for kids who can fuck around with stupid toys and fanciful ideas while still maintaining high grades, for a school system that doesn't really fail kids anymore because we're not allowed to." But that'd be a hell of an acronym. I'm not sure I was particularly gifted. I only knew that if I made as low as an A- in that shoddy school district, I would have had to cry my 11 year-old self to sleep due to humiliation and regret about six-weeks' tests. And I maintain this kind of emotional stability today!

So I think my aside is in clear danger of becoming the point of this post except it also MAKES the point of this post! You see! I am both gifted and talented. We come full circle. Okay, so the steps in Bloom's taxonomy discuss how you come up with great ideas and eventually hone it down to your really sharpest thoughts. As I was looking over my blog this morning, I read the comment from reader David that said he's glad I'm posting more regularly and I thought: yeah, but what a bunch of crap I'm writing! By following Bloom's taxonomy, we see that we must brainstorm first--without judging--to get as many ideas out there as possible, and gradually narrow it down to the best of the lot. No judging in the creative process. I know I am likely boring you all now, but it's in the name of getting it ALL out and searching for a few zingers. Of course, I can't do this all the time or no one would read my blog. Strike that. There's no accounting for those of you who still read faithfully. All I can say is that you must have very peculiar tastes. And you're special. Just like everyone else.

P.S. Did I just say I value quantity over quality? I think I did. Crapster. I might have to change my mottos about living. Everything in excess!

Scrap Books R Scrap Tastic!

a gloo stick...some glitta paint...words cut out from a magazine!

When visiting Rachel in Austin recently, she showed me a scrapbook she started immediately following her year abroad in Italy and it was awe-inspiring with its colorful borders, jazzy themes, and collection of ticket stubs and subject-appropriate thoughts. Rachel was a bit bowled over by her own abilities and trying to finish the scrapbook with her current amount of motivation (which was considerably less) and I felt relieved thinking: Good thing I never set a precedent like that for myself as I have always lived by the motto that hard work and perserverence may pay off over time, but laziness always pays off NOW.

Wrong-o.

My old blog motto was once "I used to be funny." It should probably have been, "I used to be jazzy." In my, ahem *spare time*, I have been trying to clean out some files in my office, as I have become like a goldfish in this apartment--growing to fit my two-bedroom sized bowl, whereas once not so long ago I was footloose and fancy free and owned a bed, a large box of books, a crappy lamp which operates by a convenient foot-button that my mom got me when I had mono so I could do my homework in bed (bleh), but which now sits unused in my shed, and very little else. Hrrmm.

I just came across a scrap book that I had forgotten about (along with many priceless photos! woot!) that was clearly underway when I was less of a convenience enthusiast. I mean, there are pen and ink (redundant? but that's what they're called) by ME of the NYC skyline and the capitol building in Washington D.C. with crazy superman-esque projection letters. I mean: wtf? I don't remember being THAT jazzy.

I guess I was, but also: BOY HOWDY was I fat. No kidding. I also found some pictures from that era after my year(ish) off from Rice and when I came back: I was a bit of a Chunky Brewster. Not that I am Ms. Svelte now, but holy geez, I hide it better now or something or, you know, I'm MORE svelte. Svelter. Sounds Russian. Although looking back on pictures of that era, all of my friends, even the littlest ones have a little bit of extra selves. I blame college. College food. College drinks. College.

So I'm off to get jazzy and scrap-tastic with my crap (tastic) before I return to my slothful ways as an adult member of the species and before clutter eats my furniture. College furniture.

I have a teen girl squad problem. I'm sorry.

I am 25. Hear me bark!

I think I'll get it in just under the wire. I've left you dangling an entire year in wild anticipation of birthday lowlights, but I can honestly say that this one didn't have many. This doesn't mean there aren't *dozens* from years past I am willing to forget. Ha. Bad date from hell could never have known what he was getting into with "What is your most embarrassing moment?"
"You mean besides this date?" Ha.

I'm exhausted now from a very fulfilling birthday--and about time, I'd say. More humiliation nostalgia and embittered social commentary tomorrow when the cantankerous, authoritarian, newly-minted 25 year-old airs her lungs and attempts to put teenagers in their place.

"Stop playing hacky sack and get to class!"

"No loitering outside of Burger King!"

Post Script: I Gave Him My Heart, He Gave Me a Text Message

I just wrote the person in question a vitriolic email, extolling his lack of virtues and so forth for breaking up with me in a text message, three weeks after he stopped talking to me. (It's over? No way! I hadn't guessed.) I won't send it because he won't read it. But even so, it's too mean. Meaner than I am, which unfortunately is not.

My only regret is that nowhere in there did I use the phrase "Bitch, please!" Because then it would have at least been funny.

But this is good news for all my regulars: funny, tortured girl, not oft spotted since early 2003, is BACK!

Tell Me On A Sunday, Please

Top Ten Worst Ways to Break-Up with Someone:

10.
9.
8.
7.
6.
5.
4.
3.
2.
1. Text message.

Sorry. I couldn't think of any others, except maybe a post-it, that come close to this one.

One for the Bad Date Hall of Fame

I know I haven't posted in awhile (sorry Rachel) but this one's a doozy and a long one at that. Please enjoy.

Last night I met up with a guy from match.com who seemed normal enough and had a lot going for him, in my opinion, including the fact that he lived within 2 miles of me, as opposed to my usual dates who are either several states away or at least outside the beltwway.

So this guy picked me up and seemed pretty normal, then took me to this bar, notorious for being where married men take their mistresses. Hmm. As I'm ordering a red wine, he interrupts me and asks if he could recommend an apple martini.

Was I giggling? Was I underage?
No, he could not recommend one.
Gross.

So as I try to say my order again, he interrupts again and says "the lady and I will have some very specific kind of pinot noir."
Um, okay. Methinks, in general, the lady doth protest too much, so with the intention of giving him the benefit of the doubt, I just say okay to myself and let it go. Upon being informed that they are out of that wine, he huffily says "Ok, fine, how about this other very specific type of pinot noir that I clearly learned for the purpose of this date?"
...
After several witticisms on my part, we are at a conversational standstill because he neither laughs at my jokes, nor shares his own anecdotes. His solution? A verbal laundry list of "proven" first date icebreakers.

"What is your most embarassing moment, Mary?"
"Umm...?"
"What is the wildest thing you've ever done?"

I steer the conversation back towards college and background and so forth, and all of a sudden, I hear myself telling him about a Rice Thresher backpage in which the author cited his feeling that the notoriously lewd and foul-mouthed college cheers were not offensive ENOUGH. "Where's the dirty sanchez?" he asked. "Why no mention of donkey punching?"

I'm at a shady bar, with a stranger, drinking weird wine, and the phrases "dirty sanchez" and "donkey punch" have just come tumbling out of my mouth. Clearly, I need another glass of wine, so for good measure I have at least three more and maybe as many as four more. I can't be sure. I was a desperate woman in the clutches of a man who believes that IT is a legitimate type of engineering. He was up in my piece and the large stemware allowed me a more comfortable distance, until he leaned over and whispered to me how he loves both giving and receiving oral sex.

Thank you for sharing.

It is at this time that I decide to make a beeline for the bathroom--oh, if only that were possible! I am drunk as a skunk, I discover, and wearing high-heeled sandals in a dimly-lit bar with stairs and couches all in my path.

In the bathroom, I start feeling really lousy and inform my date that it is time to go home. I allow him to drive me, only because I can hardly walk, and this establishment is about 5 blocks of neighborhood road from my house.

Realizing my sickness was about to be fully realized, I fairly ran (stumbled) up the stairs to my bathroom where I vomited red wine into my freshly-cleaned toilet. Standing up and washing my face, I realize that my date has not only followed me up, but is now lying IN my bed, UNDER the covers NAKED. NAKED. For those of you who might have missed that: this man was naked in my bed. Petting my dog who is on the bed with him. This was far too much to take in.

I returned to the bathroom for continued vomiting.

I come out of the bathroom again, where, thankfully, naked man has decided to dress and hands me a gatorade from my refrigerator. I'm very confused by all that is happening and I tell him he needs to leave and if he doesn't think he can drive, I will call him a cab. He tells me can drive and all in the same breath "but I wish I were staying to have sex with you. What dvds do you have that we could watch?"

I'm really floored at this point, in basically every sense of the word.

"I'm SICK and it's 1 am besides," I say. "You need to go home now."
"But you're so hot! Can I at least get you off?"

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I told him he really had to leave right then with a look that guaranteed vomit upon him if he came close to me. He left, mercifully, and I left a tearful message on Matt's voicemail before completely crashing in my defiled bed (and I just changed the sheets that morning!).

This morning I awoke to THE WORST hangover ever. I have only had a few hangovers in my life and have only been sick from drinking three times, including this one, but I can say without hesitation that outside of food poisoning (which I am comforted by believing was not knowingly induced), I have never felt so near death as this morning.

I am gradually recovering, but it's 6:30p and waves of nausea still wash over me every hour or so. So there's your cautionary tale and my roaring return to the blogging world.