Obviously, I'm trying very hard to update this thing more regularly. One of the reasons I'm doing so is I've learned more than five people actually read this blog. No one ever leaves comments so I've always assumed no one actually read it. Apparently that's not the case.
So for your amusement, I bring you another story from the "this is your brain on drugs" files:
A good friend of mine recently moved into a new apartment. Passing his next door neighbor in the hall he introduced himself. "Hi, I'm your neighbor, John. Nice to meet you," to which she naturally responded, "Hi, I'm Sonya. I run an escort service out of my apartment. And by 'escort service', I mean I, the only escort, fuck men for money not but one foot from the head of your bed through the wall between our apartments."
Understandably, John was a little startled. To help lessen the blow (ha), she went on to explain that sometimes she cooks these men dinner beforehand "to make it more of a date." But sometimes it's "just straight sex if that's all they want." Because this woman was clearly blasted out of her mind, she told John how she came into the business. Apparently she used to dance, and soon began to realize "that all men wanted was my pussy." She then proceeded to point to her crotch and mused, "I'm sittin' on a gold mine, here."
Earlier today, my neighbor Elizabeth invited me over tonight for turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. I was pretty excited about this until I heard John's story. Now I just think my neighbors are lame.
Monday, September 10, 2007
VMAs 2007
A summary of the 2007 Video Music Awards: Chris Brown meant it. Britney didn't.
First, Britney. I feel the need to begin this commentary with the classic Texas cut-down: Bless. her. heart. Admittedly, I was shocked she actually followed through with her commitment to appear. I was even more shocked she followed through after seeing her. Um, I mean after seeing her performance. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be lackluster at the VMAs, but Britney proved me wrong last night. The "Chocolate Rain" dude would have opened the VMAs with more energy and entertainment value than what I saw last night. And I'm not gonna crawl the catwalks of Milan anytime soon; BUT, I will still say that unless you're Demi Moore in Charlie's Angels 2, you have no business parading around in a black bikini if you've given birth. Much less with a bad weave. Good. lord.
Now, as for my boy Chris Brown, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite like that. Admittedly, I'm partial to Chris as he appeared in the greatest piece of cinema ever - Stomp the Yard. But there's no denying he danced for his supper last night. That Charlie Chaplin stuff was crazy, then hopping around like a mental patient, leaping from one lit up lily pad to another - absolutely off the hook. And when I thought it couldn't get better, Rihanna showed up with her Umbrella-ella-ella-ella, joined Chris and just sexed the place right up. And the seamless transition from that to "Billie Jean"? Let's just say I'm shocked I didn't soil myself right then and there, because despite the mad heckling I've received over the years for this, "Thriller" is, AND WILL CONTINUE TO BE, my favorite album of all time.
The sad thing is, Britney used to be capable of equally riveting stuff. Which makes me think a good commercial would be replacing those eggs with Britneys previous VMAs performances juxtaposed against last night's show for a "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs"-type message. (There's a reason I'm in advertising, kids.)
First, Britney. I feel the need to begin this commentary with the classic Texas cut-down: Bless. her. heart. Admittedly, I was shocked she actually followed through with her commitment to appear. I was even more shocked she followed through after seeing her. Um, I mean after seeing her performance. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be lackluster at the VMAs, but Britney proved me wrong last night. The "Chocolate Rain" dude would have opened the VMAs with more energy and entertainment value than what I saw last night. And I'm not gonna crawl the catwalks of Milan anytime soon; BUT, I will still say that unless you're Demi Moore in Charlie's Angels 2, you have no business parading around in a black bikini if you've given birth. Much less with a bad weave. Good. lord.
Now, as for my boy Chris Brown, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything quite like that. Admittedly, I'm partial to Chris as he appeared in the greatest piece of cinema ever - Stomp the Yard. But there's no denying he danced for his supper last night. That Charlie Chaplin stuff was crazy, then hopping around like a mental patient, leaping from one lit up lily pad to another - absolutely off the hook. And when I thought it couldn't get better, Rihanna showed up with her Umbrella-ella-ella-ella, joined Chris and just sexed the place right up. And the seamless transition from that to "Billie Jean"? Let's just say I'm shocked I didn't soil myself right then and there, because despite the mad heckling I've received over the years for this, "Thriller" is, AND WILL CONTINUE TO BE, my favorite album of all time.
The sad thing is, Britney used to be capable of equally riveting stuff. Which makes me think a good commercial would be replacing those eggs with Britneys previous VMAs performances juxtaposed against last night's show for a "This is your brain, this is your brain on drugs"-type message. (There's a reason I'm in advertising, kids.)
An era of judgment.
I read a social commentary piece today called "7 Reasons the 21st Century is Making You Miserable." The number one thing cited was that we "don't have enough annoying people in our lives." The article argued technology is creating societies made up of like-minded people. Therefore, our tolerance for annoying people has lowered and we get more easily annoyed, in general.
I didn't necessarily agree with all of this article, but did feel they might be on to something. I work in a liberal industry in a liberal town. I'm rarely around people with ideologies vastly different from my own, and that suits me just fine. And when I am around people who have very different beliefs from my own, I do get annoyed. I've always thought this was due to an ego problem, but this column made me think perhaps that's not the case.
Perhaps society is changing in a way that is making us siloed? For example, twenty years ago, people that were really into games like D&D were most likely considered nerds and somewhat ostracized by mainstream society. But with the advent of the internet, they can leave their offices and head home to cyber-communities filled with people just like them. And unlike previous generations that worked for the same company for years and years without complaint, we now have the luxury of knowing what color our parachutes are and what industries are best for us. Then once we've found the right industry, we hop around until we find a company or job that we enjoy, which typically includes having co-workers similar to ourselves.
But the beauty of this something-for-everyone state of things made me wonder if the 21st century will usher in a new set of prejudices and discrimination. These won't be based on race or religion, but other, more stupid shit - like whether you're a Target or Wal-Mart person. Of course I immediately began to think through any stupid prejudices I might have. God knows I've been accused of over-the-top dating discrimination, but did I have any dumb prejudices, generally-speaking?
Turns out I do. Before I reveal these, let me be clear that I recognize they're ridiculous, and yes, if I were pure of heart, I'd accept and love all God's children. But I can be a shallow bitch, and regularly judge others for the following:
- Being an Aggie. (This is a HUGE one, and very problematic given I live in Texas.)
- Owning anything Brighton.
- Not thinking ninjas are awesome.
- Wearing Redwing boots with tapered khakis.
- Ordering overly-fussy coffee drinks.
- Fanny packs.
- Bad home dye jobs (particularly if they involve frosting on men).
- Being a "lake rat".
- Thinking Bud Light is actually good beer.
- Incorporating doilies into home decor.
- Excessive organization.
- Looooooovvvvviiing Vegas.
- Puka shell necklaces.
- Doing too much mommy-talk. (I don't care what different colors/textures of shit indicate.)
- Being both dumb and an asshole. (Either one on their own are fine.)
- Not being or appreciating things that are funny. (And by "funny", I mean what I find funny.)
- Not thinking the word "funny" is funny. Because it is.
Of course there are much, much more. But they'll most likely be the subjects of future blogs. So in the meantime, feel free to judge me for the things on this list, because God knows there's something I'd judge you for.
I didn't necessarily agree with all of this article, but did feel they might be on to something. I work in a liberal industry in a liberal town. I'm rarely around people with ideologies vastly different from my own, and that suits me just fine. And when I am around people who have very different beliefs from my own, I do get annoyed. I've always thought this was due to an ego problem, but this column made me think perhaps that's not the case.
Perhaps society is changing in a way that is making us siloed? For example, twenty years ago, people that were really into games like D&D were most likely considered nerds and somewhat ostracized by mainstream society. But with the advent of the internet, they can leave their offices and head home to cyber-communities filled with people just like them. And unlike previous generations that worked for the same company for years and years without complaint, we now have the luxury of knowing what color our parachutes are and what industries are best for us. Then once we've found the right industry, we hop around until we find a company or job that we enjoy, which typically includes having co-workers similar to ourselves.
But the beauty of this something-for-everyone state of things made me wonder if the 21st century will usher in a new set of prejudices and discrimination. These won't be based on race or religion, but other, more stupid shit - like whether you're a Target or Wal-Mart person. Of course I immediately began to think through any stupid prejudices I might have. God knows I've been accused of over-the-top dating discrimination, but did I have any dumb prejudices, generally-speaking?
Turns out I do. Before I reveal these, let me be clear that I recognize they're ridiculous, and yes, if I were pure of heart, I'd accept and love all God's children. But I can be a shallow bitch, and regularly judge others for the following:
- Being an Aggie. (This is a HUGE one, and very problematic given I live in Texas.)
- Owning anything Brighton.
- Not thinking ninjas are awesome.
- Wearing Redwing boots with tapered khakis.
- Ordering overly-fussy coffee drinks.
- Fanny packs.
- Bad home dye jobs (particularly if they involve frosting on men).
- Being a "lake rat".
- Thinking Bud Light is actually good beer.
- Incorporating doilies into home decor.
- Excessive organization.
- Looooooovvvvviiing Vegas.
- Puka shell necklaces.
- Doing too much mommy-talk. (I don't care what different colors/textures of shit indicate.)
- Being both dumb and an asshole. (Either one on their own are fine.)
- Not being or appreciating things that are funny. (And by "funny", I mean what I find funny.)
- Not thinking the word "funny" is funny. Because it is.
Of course there are much, much more. But they'll most likely be the subjects of future blogs. So in the meantime, feel free to judge me for the things on this list, because God knows there's something I'd judge you for.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Gifts that keep on giving.
I received a gift from my mom this week. The local sports store in the town where she lives was having a sale and she'd e-mailed me to see if I'd like her to get me anything. A very thoughtful gesture, to be sure. I e-mailed her what I wanted (running shorts/tops), what sizes (Large bottoms/Medium tops), and what brand (Under Armour).
My sister brought me my mom's purchases, and I immediately pulled out a hot pink Adidas top with matching hot pink bottoms. Hot pink isn't really "me", but that wasn't the only thing a little off. The bottoms were size XXL, the top was XL. Apparently she had confused me for a much larger daughter whose colors are blush and bashful, as there's more pink fabric between these two items than there is surrounding Christo's islands.
I would love to say this misstep in gift-giving was a novelty with Mom, but sadly that's not the case. And it's always tough to tell if she genuinely got confused, or if there was a more self-serving rationale behind the gift. For example, my freshman year of high school I received two cds - Patti LaBelle and something called "Classical Loon", a disc comprised of such classical greats as "Claire de Lune" (pun tragically not intended) interspersed with the mating calls of actual loons. Why anyone would want this disc is beyond me*. But when I responded to the gift with, "Patti LaBelle? Are you kidding me? And what's with this On Golden Pond crap?" my mother retorted, "FINE. If you don't want them, I'LL take them." Which I'm pretty sure was the plan all along, and will no doubt be her response when I question the running clothes.
Sometimes the self-serving nature of her gifts are a little more veiled, though. Like Christmas, my senior year of college. Despite not having so much as a boyfriend at the time, I received baby booties featuring my college mascot. Baby booties? "Well, I know it's maybe a little premature, but at least you'll have them when you have a baby." (Translation: I want a grandkid. Let's get on that, please.)
And not unlike the situation with the running clothes, being specific with what I'd like rarely helps curb this problem. When I was in fifth grade, I was a tomboy and my best friends were my cousin and his buddies in the neighborhood. At the time they - and thus, I - were totally into skateboarding. For Christmas that year, I told my mother in the months leading up to Christmas, that all. I. wanted. was a Santa Cruz skateboard. I wanted NOTHING else. Just a Santa Cruz skateboard.
Christmas morning, I ran to the fireplace with the excitement of a 10 year-old combined with the thrill of knowing I was about to get my coveted skateboard. But when I rounded the corner into the living room, there was no skateboard. There was, however, a tandem bicycle.
"What is this?!?" I shrieked.
"It's a tandem bicycle!" Mom said excitedly. "You and Lindsay can ride it around the neighborhood together!" (Translation: This is a gift of peace and quiet for myself.)
First, my sister Lindsay and I hated each other at the time. To think we'd manage to suspend this hatred and work together to bicycle around together was preposterous. And it was a tandem bicycle, for godssake. Even if we loved each other, there is absolutely nothing cool about a tandem bicycle.
"I told you all I wanted was a Santa Cruz skateboard!" I wailed.
"Well, you haven't opened all your presents yet, have you," she pointed out.
I looked around the room for any box that looked like it might contain a skateboard and ran immediately to it. The tandem bicycle was suddenly forgiven...that is, until I opened the box. I saw a skateboard, alright. A SNOOPY skateboard that had "Joe Cool" in great big letters on the top of the deck and Snoopy riding a skateboard on the underside.
"A SNOOPY SKATEBOARD?!?" I sobbed, "I can't ride this in front of the boys. They'll all laugh at me!"
"Well, then you can practice on your Snoopy skateboard, then impress them when you use theirs."
It was, hands down, the worst Christmas ever in terms of gift-giving. But I suppose the upside was that Mom did a bang up job managing expectations as to what I could expect from her moving forward. Honestly, there's part of me that admires my mother's ingenuity as she's amassed quite the collection of if-you-don't-want-it-I'll-take-it gifts she's enjoyed over the years. And as she's coming in town to celebrate her birthday tonight, maybe I'll adopt her principles and buy her some weed with the assumption she hasn't recently taken up recreational drug use.
Happy Birthday, indeed.
*Comical side note: I received "Classical Loon" as a going away present three years ago from a friend that thought he'd come up a brilliant joke of a gift. Needless to say he was beyond crestfallen when he learned I already owned it.
My sister brought me my mom's purchases, and I immediately pulled out a hot pink Adidas top with matching hot pink bottoms. Hot pink isn't really "me", but that wasn't the only thing a little off. The bottoms were size XXL, the top was XL. Apparently she had confused me for a much larger daughter whose colors are blush and bashful, as there's more pink fabric between these two items than there is surrounding Christo's islands.
I would love to say this misstep in gift-giving was a novelty with Mom, but sadly that's not the case. And it's always tough to tell if she genuinely got confused, or if there was a more self-serving rationale behind the gift. For example, my freshman year of high school I received two cds - Patti LaBelle and something called "Classical Loon", a disc comprised of such classical greats as "Claire de Lune" (pun tragically not intended) interspersed with the mating calls of actual loons. Why anyone would want this disc is beyond me*. But when I responded to the gift with, "Patti LaBelle? Are you kidding me? And what's with this On Golden Pond crap?" my mother retorted, "FINE. If you don't want them, I'LL take them." Which I'm pretty sure was the plan all along, and will no doubt be her response when I question the running clothes.
Sometimes the self-serving nature of her gifts are a little more veiled, though. Like Christmas, my senior year of college. Despite not having so much as a boyfriend at the time, I received baby booties featuring my college mascot. Baby booties? "Well, I know it's maybe a little premature, but at least you'll have them when you have a baby." (Translation: I want a grandkid. Let's get on that, please.)
And not unlike the situation with the running clothes, being specific with what I'd like rarely helps curb this problem. When I was in fifth grade, I was a tomboy and my best friends were my cousin and his buddies in the neighborhood. At the time they - and thus, I - were totally into skateboarding. For Christmas that year, I told my mother in the months leading up to Christmas, that all. I. wanted. was a Santa Cruz skateboard. I wanted NOTHING else. Just a Santa Cruz skateboard.
Christmas morning, I ran to the fireplace with the excitement of a 10 year-old combined with the thrill of knowing I was about to get my coveted skateboard. But when I rounded the corner into the living room, there was no skateboard. There was, however, a tandem bicycle.
"What is this?!?" I shrieked.
"It's a tandem bicycle!" Mom said excitedly. "You and Lindsay can ride it around the neighborhood together!" (Translation: This is a gift of peace and quiet for myself.)
First, my sister Lindsay and I hated each other at the time. To think we'd manage to suspend this hatred and work together to bicycle around together was preposterous. And it was a tandem bicycle, for godssake. Even if we loved each other, there is absolutely nothing cool about a tandem bicycle.
"I told you all I wanted was a Santa Cruz skateboard!" I wailed.
"Well, you haven't opened all your presents yet, have you," she pointed out.
I looked around the room for any box that looked like it might contain a skateboard and ran immediately to it. The tandem bicycle was suddenly forgiven...that is, until I opened the box. I saw a skateboard, alright. A SNOOPY skateboard that had "Joe Cool" in great big letters on the top of the deck and Snoopy riding a skateboard on the underside.
"A SNOOPY SKATEBOARD?!?" I sobbed, "I can't ride this in front of the boys. They'll all laugh at me!"
"Well, then you can practice on your Snoopy skateboard, then impress them when you use theirs."
It was, hands down, the worst Christmas ever in terms of gift-giving. But I suppose the upside was that Mom did a bang up job managing expectations as to what I could expect from her moving forward. Honestly, there's part of me that admires my mother's ingenuity as she's amassed quite the collection of if-you-don't-want-it-I'll-take-it gifts she's enjoyed over the years. And as she's coming in town to celebrate her birthday tonight, maybe I'll adopt her principles and buy her some weed with the assumption she hasn't recently taken up recreational drug use.
Happy Birthday, indeed.
*Comical side note: I received "Classical Loon" as a going away present three years ago from a friend that thought he'd come up a brilliant joke of a gift. Needless to say he was beyond crestfallen when he learned I already owned it.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Nuts for donuts.
Last weekend I headed to South Padre Island with a friend of mine for a little Labor Day R&R. My family has had a place in Padre since I was little, and I went there every summer growing up. I hadn't been down there for about four years and it was as relaxing as I'd remembered, save about one hour Sunday morning.
When I was little, we'd always go to one of the local bakeries and get, amongst other treats, these delicious apple fritters. I don't really eat donuts, and I certainly never eat fritters...unless I'm in Padre, and they're from my favorite little bakery.
Sunday morning, I woke up, and in less than 10 minutes I was dressed and on my way to the bakery. I'd heard the bakery had been sold and wasn't as good as it used to be, but I was determined. I pulled up and walked inside. The place was bustling...but with people seated eating actual breakfasts. I looked to the left and there was a bakery case filled with...air? I couldn't see a single pastry. But there were several white cake boxes behind the counter. Maybe there were selling them pre-packaged? Undeterred, I told the hostess who was running around clearly flustered that I simply wanted to pick up some pastries. When she had a moment, she asked what I wanted.
"Okay, first, I need one apple fritter."
"We don't have apple fritters. All we have is what's in the case."
She nodded to another portion of the case that had exactly five donuts in it, none of which looked appetizing. But I wasn't going home empty-handed.
"Um, okay, do you have any glazed donuts?"
"Those are glazed," she replied and pointed to two twists that appeared to be covered in white cake icing. I felt like saying, "Bitch, what about that gloopy white shit is GLAZE?" Instead, I told her I'd take them both.
I got back in the car knowing these were never going to hit the spot. I'd been dreaming about my apple fritter for a week, and this nasty ass twist covered in an inch of icing wasn't gonna cut it. So I pulled out my Blackberry and looked up the closest donut shop. Daylight Donuts, Laguna Vista, TX. I had no idea where that was, but I saw it was only 8 miles away on a street called Santa Isabel Blvd. At this point, I was a girl on a mission.
I called my mom on my way to see if she knew where Laguna Vista was.
"It's on the other side of Port Isabel. D'you call 'em to make sure they have fritters?"
"No. But they'll have donuts, and at the very least they'll be better than these nasty things I got at the bakery."
"Awlright," she said skeptically, "but I'd still call 'em. Why don't you just get them at the grocery store in Port Isabel? Then you won't have to drive awl the way to Laguna Vista."
"Laguna Vista's only 8 miles from here. I've run 8 miles before." (lie) "So it's not that far, and I'd much rather get them from a donut shop than a grocery store."
Hung up when I saw the sign for Laguna Vista. Now I just had to find Santa Isabel Blvd. Based on this trip, I'm now convinced Bono was in South Texas when he wrote "Where the Streets Have No Name." There aren't street signs ANYWHERE. I came to the first stop light in Laguna Vista, and took a right. It wasn't until three blocks later that I received confirmation from a small sign hidden behind a tree that I'd actually guessed right and was on Santa Isabel Blvd.
A couple of blocks down, I saw Daylight Donuts. It was now drizzling, but despite the weather, I jumped out of the car with a smile on my face. My sweet tooth was about to be satisfied. I walked in and again, saw a restaurant and a bakery case. Only this one was filled with miscellaneous cakes and pastries...but no donuts. The lady behind the counter asked if she could help me.
"Yeah, I'd like to get some donuts, please." I figured I'd start with the basics and work my way up to the apple fritter.
"Sorry, doll," she smacked like Flo from Alice, "we don't sell donuts."
"Um. Is this not Daylight Donuts?" I asked trying to keep my tone somewhere between appearing genuinely confused and a snarky bitch pointing out the obvious.
"Naw, it is," smack, smack, "but we ha'nt sold donuts fer 'bout two years now. We're a deli. Just never bothered t'change the name."
I stormed out to the car angry at the Daylight Donuts trickery, and even more angry my mom was right. I should have called before I went there. "Um, yes, hi. I'm looking to buy some donuts, and see the name of your fine establishment is Daylight Donuts. Do you in fact sell donuts? I mean, you're not a deli or anything, are you?"
Once in the car, I called my mom. "D'ya find your fritter?" she asked, cheerfully.
"NO. Apparently, Daylight Donuts, is. in fact. a DELI. Just never bothered to change the name. Seriously, what's a girl gotta do to get a goddamn fritter around here?!?"
This just upset my mom, because she refuses to acknowledge her daughter is, linguistically-speaking, the Dread Pirate Taylor. I apologized for my profanity, and my mom reminded me that if "not findin' your fritter is this upsetting, you've got a LONG road ahead, young lady."
I took a deep breath, as my mom was right. I'd become a woman possessed. So I drove through the rain to the grocery store in Port Isabel, found donuts, and yes...an apple fritter. For the record, it was more like a honey bun with some apple chunks in it. But even though it wasn't all that sweet, the victory of completing my mission most certainly was.
When I was little, we'd always go to one of the local bakeries and get, amongst other treats, these delicious apple fritters. I don't really eat donuts, and I certainly never eat fritters...unless I'm in Padre, and they're from my favorite little bakery.
Sunday morning, I woke up, and in less than 10 minutes I was dressed and on my way to the bakery. I'd heard the bakery had been sold and wasn't as good as it used to be, but I was determined. I pulled up and walked inside. The place was bustling...but with people seated eating actual breakfasts. I looked to the left and there was a bakery case filled with...air? I couldn't see a single pastry. But there were several white cake boxes behind the counter. Maybe there were selling them pre-packaged? Undeterred, I told the hostess who was running around clearly flustered that I simply wanted to pick up some pastries. When she had a moment, she asked what I wanted.
"Okay, first, I need one apple fritter."
"We don't have apple fritters. All we have is what's in the case."
She nodded to another portion of the case that had exactly five donuts in it, none of which looked appetizing. But I wasn't going home empty-handed.
"Um, okay, do you have any glazed donuts?"
"Those are glazed," she replied and pointed to two twists that appeared to be covered in white cake icing. I felt like saying, "Bitch, what about that gloopy white shit is GLAZE?" Instead, I told her I'd take them both.
I got back in the car knowing these were never going to hit the spot. I'd been dreaming about my apple fritter for a week, and this nasty ass twist covered in an inch of icing wasn't gonna cut it. So I pulled out my Blackberry and looked up the closest donut shop. Daylight Donuts, Laguna Vista, TX. I had no idea where that was, but I saw it was only 8 miles away on a street called Santa Isabel Blvd. At this point, I was a girl on a mission.
I called my mom on my way to see if she knew where Laguna Vista was.
"It's on the other side of Port Isabel. D'you call 'em to make sure they have fritters?"
"No. But they'll have donuts, and at the very least they'll be better than these nasty things I got at the bakery."
"Awlright," she said skeptically, "but I'd still call 'em. Why don't you just get them at the grocery store in Port Isabel? Then you won't have to drive awl the way to Laguna Vista."
"Laguna Vista's only 8 miles from here. I've run 8 miles before." (lie) "So it's not that far, and I'd much rather get them from a donut shop than a grocery store."
Hung up when I saw the sign for Laguna Vista. Now I just had to find Santa Isabel Blvd. Based on this trip, I'm now convinced Bono was in South Texas when he wrote "Where the Streets Have No Name." There aren't street signs ANYWHERE. I came to the first stop light in Laguna Vista, and took a right. It wasn't until three blocks later that I received confirmation from a small sign hidden behind a tree that I'd actually guessed right and was on Santa Isabel Blvd.
A couple of blocks down, I saw Daylight Donuts. It was now drizzling, but despite the weather, I jumped out of the car with a smile on my face. My sweet tooth was about to be satisfied. I walked in and again, saw a restaurant and a bakery case. Only this one was filled with miscellaneous cakes and pastries...but no donuts. The lady behind the counter asked if she could help me.
"Yeah, I'd like to get some donuts, please." I figured I'd start with the basics and work my way up to the apple fritter.
"Sorry, doll," she smacked like Flo from Alice, "we don't sell donuts."
"Um. Is this not Daylight Donuts?" I asked trying to keep my tone somewhere between appearing genuinely confused and a snarky bitch pointing out the obvious.
"Naw, it is," smack, smack, "but we ha'nt sold donuts fer 'bout two years now. We're a deli. Just never bothered t'change the name."
I stormed out to the car angry at the Daylight Donuts trickery, and even more angry my mom was right. I should have called before I went there. "Um, yes, hi. I'm looking to buy some donuts, and see the name of your fine establishment is Daylight Donuts. Do you in fact sell donuts? I mean, you're not a deli or anything, are you?"
Once in the car, I called my mom. "D'ya find your fritter?" she asked, cheerfully.
"NO. Apparently, Daylight Donuts, is. in fact. a DELI. Just never bothered to change the name. Seriously, what's a girl gotta do to get a goddamn fritter around here?!?"
This just upset my mom, because she refuses to acknowledge her daughter is, linguistically-speaking, the Dread Pirate Taylor. I apologized for my profanity, and my mom reminded me that if "not findin' your fritter is this upsetting, you've got a LONG road ahead, young lady."
I took a deep breath, as my mom was right. I'd become a woman possessed. So I drove through the rain to the grocery store in Port Isabel, found donuts, and yes...an apple fritter. For the record, it was more like a honey bun with some apple chunks in it. But even though it wasn't all that sweet, the victory of completing my mission most certainly was.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Magnificent Seven.
One of my dear friends lost her job this week. It was, of course, a horrible thing. As I watched her going through the motions of a job loss - the confusion, anger, awkward looks from colleagues, messages of sympathy, etc - my heart went out to her, because I've been there and it sucks.
The day I lost my job, they had already let a quarter of the agency go that morning. When my boss came in and closed the door to my office, my immediate response was, "I'm getting fired, too, aren't I?"
"No, no, you're not getting fired."
Hmmmmm..."Oh, well I just assumed I was next," I replied, confused.
"Well, you're not getting fired, buuuut, you are getting laid off."
Yeah, okay, potaytoe, potahtoe, dickhead.
At the time, I was living in Oklahoma. I have to imagine all unemployment offices are horrifying. But I would have bet my entire severance package the unemployment offices in Oklahoma are worst of all.
First, I had to find the damn thing, which required several trips up and down the same stretch of highway. Exit. Pull a u-turn on the access road. Back on the highway. Repeat 47 times.
Then I realized why I couldn't find it. Because it wasn't actually a building. It turns out the "office" was actually a trailer. Next to a bingo hall. In the sketchiest part of Oklahoma City. I pulled my newly-purchased luxury sedan in between a beat up truck with what appeared to be a bullet hole in the side, and an old Impala that was approximately four different colors. I immediately burst into tears.
Once I'd pulled myself together, I went inside. There was a shemale at the front desk that asked if she could help me. I stood there perplexed at how she hadn't ever noticed her full beard. Did she not have mirrors in her home? But who doesn't have mirrors in her home. Even without mirrors, there are reflective surfaces and I had to imagine if she HAD noticed her beard, surely she would have done something about it?
"May. I. help. you."
"Oh, yes. Sorry. I need to file for unemployment."
She handed me an inch-thick book and an official-looking form. She explained that I needed to go through this enormous book o' skills and find ten skills I possessed, then list them on my form with their corresponding code. While I was doing that, she was going to get more paperwork for me to fill out.
I sat at a little crappy table, while "Pat" (who you should know weighed at least 300lbs) pushed away from the desk and headed toward the back of the trailer. Due to her size, the entire trailer began to shake with each step.
"So you lookin' for a job, too, huh."
How I missed the equally hefty man in overalls sitting next to me, I'm not sure. (I think I was still hung up on the beard.) But he was there, and once I'd acknowledged his existence, I was forced to acknowledge his odor. Which, for the record, was beyond foul. But as this was a trailer and thus a very small space, there was nowhere else for me to go.
"Yup," I replied and shoved my nose in the skill book. He tried to keep talking to me, but I tried to look very busy. Like I was on a MISSION to find my ten skills. Eventually, he got the hint. And I would have been thankful my little act was working, except my little act quit being an act around page 30, when I only had four skills:
-Can read/write English
-Can speak English
-Can read/write Spanish
-Can speak Spanish
I was furious at the book for combining "read/write" which in MY book were two very different skills, and would have at least gotten me to six. Even then, however, three of those six would have been half-truths as I hadn't done anything with Spanish in at least two years. Luckily, I was only half-way through the book.
But by page 40, I started to get nervous. I knew nothing about operating drill rigs. I didn't know how to teach.
By page 50, I'd developed a complex. Why hadn't I ever learned how to use a jackhammer? And how was I from Texas and yet, had never farmed?
On page 60, I found my fifth, sixth and seventh skills: Can type, Knowledge of Microsoft Office, Can manage a ledger. Not unlike my proficiency in Spanish, I was fairly certain that last one was a lie. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure I knew what a "ledger" was. But it was page 60, and I was desperate. I had one of the most valuable college degrees in the country, and in sixty pages, I'd only found seven skills.
I took my form up to Pat.
"You only listed seven skills."
"I know."
"But you were supposed to list ten."
"I know, but I couldn't find ten. I could only find seven."
She tilted down her bearded chin, and looked unconvincingly at me over her glasses. "In this whole book, you were only able to find SEVEN skills???"
At that point, I lost my cool and began to choke up. "Yes," I growled through tears, "In your whooooooooole book, I. only. found. SEVEN. skills. 'Knows how to write a marketing plan,' isn't in your little skill book. 'Copywriting'? Not in there. 'Can manage asshole clients effectively,' also isn't listed, and for that matter neither is 'Able to clearly explain complex issues to RETARDS'! Perhaps I'm HERE, in your stupid unemployment office because I only posses SEVEN SKILLS!"
She sighed. "Fine. So what kind of job are you looking for, then?"
"I'm in advertising."
"Okay. So Ad Sales," and she checked a little box.
"I'm not in ad sales. I'm in advertising."
This is when Pat started to get annoyed, and huffed "Well, on my whooooooooole little form, there isn't anything advertising related other than Ad Sales, so I'm marking you down as Ad Sales!"
I glared at her through my teary eyes, and then went back to my seat next to The Smelliest Man Alive. To keep him from talking to me, I looked at the resource bookshelf in earnest to try and find something to read. The first book my eyes landed on was, "The Ex-Convicts' Guide to a Successful Career."
I started crying.
Right at that moment, three migrant field workers came in with their translator. I looked up at them and realized these men could probably check off half the skills in the book.
But I was suddenly quite happy at the prospect of Ad Sales.
The day I lost my job, they had already let a quarter of the agency go that morning. When my boss came in and closed the door to my office, my immediate response was, "I'm getting fired, too, aren't I?"
"No, no, you're not getting fired."
Hmmmmm..."Oh, well I just assumed I was next," I replied, confused.
"Well, you're not getting fired, buuuut, you are getting laid off."
Yeah, okay, potaytoe, potahtoe, dickhead.
At the time, I was living in Oklahoma. I have to imagine all unemployment offices are horrifying. But I would have bet my entire severance package the unemployment offices in Oklahoma are worst of all.
First, I had to find the damn thing, which required several trips up and down the same stretch of highway. Exit. Pull a u-turn on the access road. Back on the highway. Repeat 47 times.
Then I realized why I couldn't find it. Because it wasn't actually a building. It turns out the "office" was actually a trailer. Next to a bingo hall. In the sketchiest part of Oklahoma City. I pulled my newly-purchased luxury sedan in between a beat up truck with what appeared to be a bullet hole in the side, and an old Impala that was approximately four different colors. I immediately burst into tears.
Once I'd pulled myself together, I went inside. There was a shemale at the front desk that asked if she could help me. I stood there perplexed at how she hadn't ever noticed her full beard. Did she not have mirrors in her home? But who doesn't have mirrors in her home. Even without mirrors, there are reflective surfaces and I had to imagine if she HAD noticed her beard, surely she would have done something about it?
"May. I. help. you."
"Oh, yes. Sorry. I need to file for unemployment."
She handed me an inch-thick book and an official-looking form. She explained that I needed to go through this enormous book o' skills and find ten skills I possessed, then list them on my form with their corresponding code. While I was doing that, she was going to get more paperwork for me to fill out.
I sat at a little crappy table, while "Pat" (who you should know weighed at least 300lbs) pushed away from the desk and headed toward the back of the trailer. Due to her size, the entire trailer began to shake with each step.
"So you lookin' for a job, too, huh."
How I missed the equally hefty man in overalls sitting next to me, I'm not sure. (I think I was still hung up on the beard.) But he was there, and once I'd acknowledged his existence, I was forced to acknowledge his odor. Which, for the record, was beyond foul. But as this was a trailer and thus a very small space, there was nowhere else for me to go.
"Yup," I replied and shoved my nose in the skill book. He tried to keep talking to me, but I tried to look very busy. Like I was on a MISSION to find my ten skills. Eventually, he got the hint. And I would have been thankful my little act was working, except my little act quit being an act around page 30, when I only had four skills:
-Can read/write English
-Can speak English
-Can read/write Spanish
-Can speak Spanish
I was furious at the book for combining "read/write" which in MY book were two very different skills, and would have at least gotten me to six. Even then, however, three of those six would have been half-truths as I hadn't done anything with Spanish in at least two years. Luckily, I was only half-way through the book.
But by page 40, I started to get nervous. I knew nothing about operating drill rigs. I didn't know how to teach.
By page 50, I'd developed a complex. Why hadn't I ever learned how to use a jackhammer? And how was I from Texas and yet, had never farmed?
On page 60, I found my fifth, sixth and seventh skills: Can type, Knowledge of Microsoft Office, Can manage a ledger. Not unlike my proficiency in Spanish, I was fairly certain that last one was a lie. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure I knew what a "ledger" was. But it was page 60, and I was desperate. I had one of the most valuable college degrees in the country, and in sixty pages, I'd only found seven skills.
I took my form up to Pat.
"You only listed seven skills."
"I know."
"But you were supposed to list ten."
"I know, but I couldn't find ten. I could only find seven."
She tilted down her bearded chin, and looked unconvincingly at me over her glasses. "In this whole book, you were only able to find SEVEN skills???"
At that point, I lost my cool and began to choke up. "Yes," I growled through tears, "In your whooooooooole book, I. only. found. SEVEN. skills. 'Knows how to write a marketing plan,' isn't in your little skill book. 'Copywriting'? Not in there. 'Can manage asshole clients effectively,' also isn't listed, and for that matter neither is 'Able to clearly explain complex issues to RETARDS'! Perhaps I'm HERE, in your stupid unemployment office because I only posses SEVEN SKILLS!"
She sighed. "Fine. So what kind of job are you looking for, then?"
"I'm in advertising."
"Okay. So Ad Sales," and she checked a little box.
"I'm not in ad sales. I'm in advertising."
This is when Pat started to get annoyed, and huffed "Well, on my whooooooooole little form, there isn't anything advertising related other than Ad Sales, so I'm marking you down as Ad Sales!"
I glared at her through my teary eyes, and then went back to my seat next to The Smelliest Man Alive. To keep him from talking to me, I looked at the resource bookshelf in earnest to try and find something to read. The first book my eyes landed on was, "The Ex-Convicts' Guide to a Successful Career."
I started crying.
Right at that moment, three migrant field workers came in with their translator. I looked up at them and realized these men could probably check off half the skills in the book.
But I was suddenly quite happy at the prospect of Ad Sales.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Lansi-NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!
Yes, I realize I haven't written anything in awhile. Stop hatin'.
A big reason I haven't written lately is that I've been traveling quite a bit. And at some point I'll share those adventures. But in the meantime, I had a horrifying thing happen recently.
In my on-going struggles with Tazorac (which I do actually think is FINALLY starting to work), my lips have been peeling horribly. They used to be just swollen and sore. But lately, they just come off in sheets. In general, this is super hot, but it's particularly hot when you're kissing someone and half your mouth is on their face afterward.
To put this in context, I have tried the following products to remedy this situation, all to no avail:
- Burt's Bee's
- Smith's Rosebud Salve
- Blistex Medicated
- Vaseline
- a couple of tubes of some natural brands from Whole Foods
- Chapstick Overnight
- Carmex (despite its addictive properties)
- Cetaphil cream
- Eucerin cream
Key words in that last sentence: "all to no avail". SO, you can imagine my excitement when my friend Sharon announced she had a sure fire remedy. Sharon has a two year old, and apparently she used this product when she was breast-feeding for chapped nipples (!!!) but soon realized it was fantastic as a lip balm.
"So what is it?"
"Lamisil."
"Lamisil?"
"Yes. It's amazing."
After I'd worked through my nausea at the idea of using a product typically used for breast-feeding on my lips, I decided to give it a try. So a couple of days later, while drunk at the flagship Wal-Mart in Rogers, Arkansas (don't ask), I bought a tube of Lamasil. That I was drunk is my only excuse for not noticing the FOOT on the bottle as I confidently smeared it all over my lips, thrilled that I'd found the magic solution.
But two seconds after application, my lips were no longer moisturized. They weren't even close to being soft and supple. Instead they were dryish, tingly, and had this odor that made my nose burn.
I looked on the back of the bottle, and saw it said "Do not use in or near mouth."
Now, here's where my faith in Sharon becomes abundantly clear. After I'd sobered up the next day, and had actually thought through the fact this product had a foot on it, and it said not to use in or near mouth, I continued to use it for approximately 4 days. In my defense, it also said that it relieved dry, cracked skin...which, I did have. However, my lips were still coming off in sheets.
She'd said she bought it in the baby aisles of stores, so four days later when I was shopping at Target, I went to the baby aisle just to see if there was another product that seemed to be more of what she'd described. Perhaps it had a boob on the front of the bottle instead of a foot?
I called her from the aisle.
"What was it you said I should use on my mouth?"
"Lamasil."
"Hmmmm...okay. Well, that's what I've been using, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything, and it says not to use it in or near your mouth?"
"That's silly. Breast-feeding mothers use it all the time, and they certainly wouldn't use it if was bad for their babies' mouths."
I agreed she had a good point, so decided to continue using it.
That night, I got a phone call from Sharon.
"What did you say you were using on your mouth, again?" she asked.
"Lamasil."
"Oh, thank God. I thought you said Lamasil, with an 'm'."
"Um. I did say Lamasil with an 'm'."
Here's where I knew I was in trouble. Not only did I realize that I'd misunderstood her, but she also started laughing hysterically and asked how long I'd been using it. When I replied at least four days, she started laughing so hard, I could actually hear the tears streaming down her face.
"Nooooooo, Liz!! Lamasil is for Athlete's Foot!"
Well, that at least explained the foot on the package. But then I heard faintly in the background, Sharon's husband add, "And jock itch," which only made Sharon laugh harder.
"Wait just a goddamn minute," I shouted. "All this time, I've been freaked out about putting tit cream on my face, and it turns out this shit is NUT cream???!!!"
Again. More laughter. This time, my roommate who was hearing my side of things starts also hysterically laughing.
"Oh Liz," Sharon said between laughs, "I'm so sorry. It's called LANasoh."
(Which, for the record, when mumbled sounds EXACTLY like "Lamasil.")
She promised to bring me a tube the next day. I hung up completely exasperated with what had just happened. I was explaining to my roommate how I'd managed to overlook the packaging - both the foot and the warning - when my phone rang again. It was Sharon's husband.
"Liz??? My wife thinks you hate her." (The ol' send-your-husband-in-to-do-your-dirtywork trick.)
"I don't HATE her, but I swear to God if my nose turns into a dick at any point, you assholes are in serious trouble."
(Calling to Sharon) "Honey, i think she's fine."
As promised, Sharon brought me a tube of her miracle cure the next day. A purple bottle - oddly the exact same shade as my tube of Lamasil - only this one featured a breast-feeding mother on the front, not a foot. It was also called Lansinoh, which pronounced correctly, even while mumbling, sounds NOTHING like Lamasil.
I can honestly say my lips are better than ever. Though it's also worth noting that Marvin Sparkles has no idea what he's been kissing for the past week.
Heh.
A big reason I haven't written lately is that I've been traveling quite a bit. And at some point I'll share those adventures. But in the meantime, I had a horrifying thing happen recently.
In my on-going struggles with Tazorac (which I do actually think is FINALLY starting to work), my lips have been peeling horribly. They used to be just swollen and sore. But lately, they just come off in sheets. In general, this is super hot, but it's particularly hot when you're kissing someone and half your mouth is on their face afterward.
To put this in context, I have tried the following products to remedy this situation, all to no avail:
- Burt's Bee's
- Smith's Rosebud Salve
- Blistex Medicated
- Vaseline
- a couple of tubes of some natural brands from Whole Foods
- Chapstick Overnight
- Carmex (despite its addictive properties)
- Cetaphil cream
- Eucerin cream
Key words in that last sentence: "all to no avail". SO, you can imagine my excitement when my friend Sharon announced she had a sure fire remedy. Sharon has a two year old, and apparently she used this product when she was breast-feeding for chapped nipples (!!!) but soon realized it was fantastic as a lip balm.
"So what is it?"
"Lamisil."
"Lamisil?"
"Yes. It's amazing."
After I'd worked through my nausea at the idea of using a product typically used for breast-feeding on my lips, I decided to give it a try. So a couple of days later, while drunk at the flagship Wal-Mart in Rogers, Arkansas (don't ask), I bought a tube of Lamasil. That I was drunk is my only excuse for not noticing the FOOT on the bottle as I confidently smeared it all over my lips, thrilled that I'd found the magic solution.
But two seconds after application, my lips were no longer moisturized. They weren't even close to being soft and supple. Instead they were dryish, tingly, and had this odor that made my nose burn.
I looked on the back of the bottle, and saw it said "Do not use in or near mouth."
Now, here's where my faith in Sharon becomes abundantly clear. After I'd sobered up the next day, and had actually thought through the fact this product had a foot on it, and it said not to use in or near mouth, I continued to use it for approximately 4 days. In my defense, it also said that it relieved dry, cracked skin...which, I did have. However, my lips were still coming off in sheets.
She'd said she bought it in the baby aisles of stores, so four days later when I was shopping at Target, I went to the baby aisle just to see if there was another product that seemed to be more of what she'd described. Perhaps it had a boob on the front of the bottle instead of a foot?
I called her from the aisle.
"What was it you said I should use on my mouth?"
"Lamasil."
"Hmmmm...okay. Well, that's what I've been using, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything, and it says not to use it in or near your mouth?"
"That's silly. Breast-feeding mothers use it all the time, and they certainly wouldn't use it if was bad for their babies' mouths."
I agreed she had a good point, so decided to continue using it.
That night, I got a phone call from Sharon.
"What did you say you were using on your mouth, again?" she asked.
"Lamasil."
"Oh, thank God. I thought you said Lamasil, with an 'm'."
"Um. I did say Lamasil with an 'm'."
Here's where I knew I was in trouble. Not only did I realize that I'd misunderstood her, but she also started laughing hysterically and asked how long I'd been using it. When I replied at least four days, she started laughing so hard, I could actually hear the tears streaming down her face.
"Nooooooo, Liz!! Lamasil is for Athlete's Foot!"
Well, that at least explained the foot on the package. But then I heard faintly in the background, Sharon's husband add, "And jock itch," which only made Sharon laugh harder.
"Wait just a goddamn minute," I shouted. "All this time, I've been freaked out about putting tit cream on my face, and it turns out this shit is NUT cream???!!!"
Again. More laughter. This time, my roommate who was hearing my side of things starts also hysterically laughing.
"Oh Liz," Sharon said between laughs, "I'm so sorry. It's called LANasoh."
(Which, for the record, when mumbled sounds EXACTLY like "Lamasil.")
She promised to bring me a tube the next day. I hung up completely exasperated with what had just happened. I was explaining to my roommate how I'd managed to overlook the packaging - both the foot and the warning - when my phone rang again. It was Sharon's husband.
"Liz??? My wife thinks you hate her." (The ol' send-your-husband-in-to-do-your-dirtywork trick.)
"I don't HATE her, but I swear to God if my nose turns into a dick at any point, you assholes are in serious trouble."
(Calling to Sharon) "Honey, i think she's fine."
As promised, Sharon brought me a tube of her miracle cure the next day. A purple bottle - oddly the exact same shade as my tube of Lamasil - only this one featured a breast-feeding mother on the front, not a foot. It was also called Lansinoh, which pronounced correctly, even while mumbling, sounds NOTHING like Lamasil.
I can honestly say my lips are better than ever. Though it's also worth noting that Marvin Sparkles has no idea what he's been kissing for the past week.
Heh.
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