A Tendency To Recycle Disposable Cups

I love a good disposable cup. Especially the kind with the sippy lids that stop the liquid inside from sloshing into the cupholders in my car. I'm not kidding, I will rinse and reuse that thing until the paper leaks and it looks like i've fished it out of a trash can.

So why not just buy myself a permanent, reusable thermal mug? I have; i've bought several, one of which i even liked. I lost the lid to the one i like. Others have had an array of problems: one dribbled liquid out from the crevice between the lid and the cup; another didn't fit in my cup holder, in spite of its label's promise to fit any cup holder; another one was too narrow for me to get my hand down inside and wash it properly; another one had a lid that was too complicated to wash properly. All of them seemed too bulky or top-heavy.

If they made a permanent reusable thermal mug that was shaped like a disposable one, i'd be all over it.

Snippet From My Day #2

"Look, Reeses peanut butter bells!"

He looked dubiously at the bag i had thrust at him.

"No way."

"Why not?!"

"They're not fucking natural, that's why," he retorted, just in time for a middle aged woman in a matched knit jogging suit to walk by. She stiffened visibly.

"What do you mean, 'not natural'?! It's candy, for Balls' sake!"

"Look, Reeses only occur in cup form in nature. Anything else is an abomination. A bioengineering experiment gone horribly, horribly awry."

". . . in nature? Like, Reeses in the wild?"

"Fuckin' a," he said smugly. The stiffened middle age woman threw us the stink-eye from over by the Hershey kisses. Her face pinched up, but she didn't say anything, so i politely resisted the urge to laugh at it.

"I can't see a herd of Reeses roaming the country side in ANY form, man," i disagreed.

"No, no, they don't roam anywhere! They grow on trees."

"Like THESE?!" I picked up a bag of Reeses trees and brandished it.

"Yes. Reeses cups come from Reeses trees."

"Mhmm. And how bout Reeses minis?"

"Oh, those are like Reeses tree seeds."

"Right."

"Once they ripen into full-sized cups, they're ready to be picked and enjoyed."

"Uh, huh. And how do Big cups fit into the picture?"

He rolled his eyes at me, and sighed with exaggerated forced patience.

"Do apples all show up in the same fucking size?!"

Pinchy Faced Stink-Eye hurled her candy forcibly into her cart, jerked it away from the shelves, and made a big show of glaring at Ry as she walked by us, back ram-rod straight (probably from the stick shoved up her ass). Just to make sure she got her displeasure across, she continued to glare at us all the way down the aisle. Which was really too bad, because she took out an old woman in a wheelchair with her cart while she was preoccupied with her display of hostility towards our making such liberal use of the First Amendment. I threw my hands up in the air as the pinched look gave way to the Oh Shit expression.

"NOW look what you've done!"

Random Snippet from My Day #1

"What is this?!" She held up a baggie pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

I glanced up at her from the report i was trying to write, and then back down to business.

"A baggie of Fiber One cereal. It isn't going to bite, you know."

"It looks like fucking gerbil food."

"Well, it isn't. It's cereal."

"What's it doing in your purse?"

"I keep a stash on me."

"Uh. . . why?"

"In case i need it, genius. Look, did you want some Tylenol or to bitch about the contents of my purse?"

She looked like she wanted to comment further, maybe to ask under what circumstance i would find myself in need of Fiber One cereal. She snatched the Tylenol and tossed the offending bag back onto my desk instead.

Body Function Fail

Lately my jaw has been going lazy on me when i eat. I'll be mid-chew, and my jaw muscles start getting all kinds of tired, and then finishing the bite becomes this major undertaking. Every chomp stretches out in time like i started eating in slow-motion, taking forever to complete one mastication cycle and move on to the next. I reach up and massage the flagging mandible like a boxing coach rubbing down his prize fighter. I even kind of project a mental pep talk to it: 'Come on, you can do this! You can take that bite of tuna! That shit's practically already chewed for you, quit being such a pussy!' I kind of start bobbing my head a bit, like involving my neck is somehow gonna make the job easier, but it doesn't. It just makes my neck tired too.

The Box

Jim and i went to see The Box last night. I really liked it, he just thought it was okay, but we agreed it stirred up some interesting thought.

For those who don't know the premise of the movie, a creepy man shows up on a couple's doorstep with a red button in a box. It looks like this:

He gives them 24 hours to decide if they're going to push the button; if they do, they'll receive a million dollars in cash, but someone they don't know somewhere in the world will die. (I'm not going to spoil the movie, don't worry.)

The premise itself is what intrigues me the most. Think about it: the guy shows up, gives you the wealth-creating-button-o-death, then departs leaving you to stare at it for 24 hours and make your decision. Initially, you'd scoff at it- it's a joke. No WAY this could be for real. At some point, the creepiness of the guy convinces you that this is totally for real. You figure (correctly) that a guy who looks like this doesn't fuck around:

Yes, that's a chunk missing out of the side of his face.

Then you start to rationalize: the money could pay off so many bills, send your child to college, help family members in need. You could do a LOT of good with this money. And it isn't like you KNOW the person who's going to die, right? They're nothing to you. It's probably an old person, or a person in a diseased state. You know, someone who's going to die anyway. Maybe it would even be doing them a kindness.

Do you believe in karma? Could you do it? Could you enjoy the money? Could you live with the knowledge that you just condemned someone's child, mother, brother, husband to die? I could'nt.

Empty Tub

"You've grown awfully lazy recently," he observed coolly.

She glared resentfully up at him from behind her mask of impassiveness. He knew it was her distaste for repetition that stayed her tongue, not laziness, but he was intentionally provoking her. He longed for her to get up and scream at him; to slap him, or to laugh or cry. Even a sneer. Any reaction at all was better than this stony aloofness.

What he didn't know was the nameless, faceless horror that oppressed her dreams whenever she drifted off to sleep. She would try to scream herself awake, but fear paralyzed her as the blackness crept into her opened mouth and down her throat, choking her. It pressed against the inside of her chest from her lungs and sat on the outside of it, crushing her and eating her simultaneously. It had finally driven her early from their bed. She didn't tell him. She was afraid if she tried, the darkness would pour from her mouth instead of words, and then they'd both perish. It was better this way.

Instead, she said, "You're the one who interrupted my bath asking for a cup of tea. If you want me to make it, then you'll bring me the kettle." She said it slowly, like an adult trying to instruct a slow child, dangling the empty cup from her little finger to emphasize her point. He didn't move for a few moments, staring down at her, trying to rip the truth from her empty face.

"Say it," she ordered tonelessly.

He remained silent. The accusation was on the tip of his brain, aching to burst its way out, but he couldn't bring himself to commit to that final act that would be the destruction of them. If he verbalized what he woke up condemning her for. . .

"Say it, or get the fuck out of my face."

Burning love warred with smoldering hate across the battlefield of his countenance; twins turned against one another, neither stronger than the other. Neither capable of defeating the other. He wanted her to care that she was hurting him. Her apathetic face mocked his pain-stricken face, he felt. He turned abruptly from her, leaving her in her empty tub.

She wondered fleetingly if he would actually bring the kettle, and whether she should have asked for the leaves as well. She knew he'd be angry when she sent him back, but she couldn't find the strength to care. She pushed him easily out of her mind to continue staring at the faucet. She wanted to turn it on, she was cold. But she was afraid the darkness would flood out of it instead of water. She shivered.

The Blindfold Test, Book 4.1 of Angie and Christie's Literature and Blogging Project

Judge a Book By Its Cover

When i picked The Blindfold Test for this category, i could'nt wait to read and find out what it's about. I mean, how do you turn down a book with a cut-out disguise on the cover?! There's only one correct answer to that question: You don't.

I've owned this book for about four months now, and i've been successful with avoiding reading the back cover or flipping through the pages (you just don't KNOW what kind of torment this has been!). But now that i'm remembering the "Write about what you expect it's going to be about based solely on the cover art" part, I'm kind of at a loss. I have NO idea what to expect. I know that any guess on my part is going to miss the mark like Helen Keller with a sniper rifle, but here we go:

I think we'll find a stalker ex girlfriend going to extremes to avoid being made by the targets: her ex boyfriend and his new girl. She's a master of disguise, blending into the background as she pursues them from place to place, waiting for her opportunity to strike.

I'm not sure how the title's going to fit in with this plot.

Or maybe. . .

A guy is kidnapped and blindfolded by corporate goons wearing cheesy disguises (you know, so they can't be identified and stuff). The goons throw the hapless guy into a dark room with a single dull lightbulb suspended from the ceiling over a table with two chairs opposing one another. In front of him are two cups of liquid, and his opinion is being forcibly solicited:

"Which one tastes better", they demand, "Which one feels better on the tongue?" "Which one has the better aroma?" "Which one? WHICH ONE?!"

He's caught in the middle of a corporation flavour-war. The ultimate Pepsi challenge has been issued, and he's not sure he's up to the task.

At least the title fits, right?

Or maybe. . .

He's been invited to a Halloween party with his girlfriend. He abhors dressing up and refuses to waste any money on something he knows he'll never wear again. The solution? Some construction paper, a pair of scissors and some string. He'll cut himself out some sunglasses and a fake beard, then raid his uncle's closet for his old army-issue trench coat. Maybe he'll get lucky and find a ridiculous hat, too. Lame? Maybe. But at the end of the night, at least he will still have his fifty bucks and his dignity. Well, maybe not his dignity.

Again, not sure how the title'll tie into a plot like that. I think i'm just going to have to face the fact that i'm shooting in the dark with blanks here. So here're my hopes for the book, which are more realistic than the expectations i've just created on the spot (honestly, i've got no expectations at all):

* I hope it's funny, and the humour is dry and/or cheesy.
* I hope the author doesn't try any pretentious "ground breaking" literary styles that'll make it difficult to read.
* I hope it involves a guy NOT getting the girl (or vice versa).
* I hope the Blindfold part isn't figurative.
* I hope it isn't set in the 1980's.
* I hope there's some disguising and/or furtiveness involved.
* I hope it isn't secret agent crap.
* I hope the main character is geeky.

Now i think i'll go read. Balls know i've waited long enough!