Now I Know What People Mean When They Say, "It's not the flavor- it's the texture that sicks me out"!

I'm really trying to give whole wheat pasta a chance, but it's just so. . . mealy. I haven't been able to make the leap yet, even though I started off small; I switched from semolina pasta to semolina/whole grain blend, and that wasn't so bad. The flavor was virtually identical, and the texture was only slightly off. After a few dinners, I couldn't even tell that I wasn't eating white pasta anymore.

Satisfied I'd mastered the first step toward whole-grain-dom, I tried to take it to the next level: I bought a box of whole wheat spaghetti. The flavor was noticeably different, and not even unpleasantly so, but I couldn't believe how NASTY the texture was! I thought at first that I'd undercooked it, so I threw it back in the water and boiled it for a while longer. It got mushier, but it retained its graininess, and I ended up just chucking the whole thing and going back to my blend.

Every now and then, I'll come across a box that promises improved texture (I must not be the only one who thinks it's inedibly gritty), and I buy it, full of hope that this time will be the time I can finally convert to whole grain. I go home and cook it, all the while suppressing the fear that the manufacturer was lying to me; my fears are always realized, and I mutter curses at them for robbing me of ~2$. Jerks.

You Know What's Bullshit?

I fill my tub with sparkling water turned Caribbean blue by the aromatic bath salts I got for Christmas. I lay my book down on the ledge of the tub (the water damaged one, so a good one doesn't get ruined), adjust my bath pillow placement, and place my phone within easy reach; close the door, step in, draw the curtain to trap the steam, and ease myself down into the not-quite-boiling water. An audible sigh of contentment escapes me, rising to mingle with the water vapor saturating the air in the small bathroom I call "mine".

As I lay there, the water gradually escapes via one of those half-way-up-the-tub secondary drains. At first, I ignore it. But soon, bits of me are sticking up above the waterline like bathing vessel islands. I glare at the drain as fully half of my water (and contentment) bails on me, leaving half of me warm and languid, and the other half goose-pimply. My bathing spirit somewhat dampened (har!), I turn the knob and add more water, only to be in the same spot I was fifteen minutes ago.

I have not been able to figure out why these things exist, except to deprive me of about half of my bath water.

It's in case you accidentally leave the water running, so the water has a place to drain off, you may be mentally suggesting.

My answer to that would be (if you were, in fact, suggesting, which you probably aren't), No way; the drain-to-fill ratio is heavily stacked in Fill's favour, and the water would end up overflowing anyway. Not even the unreasonably low placement of the drain would give any added benefit to that scenario.

It's for the babies! The babies could turn the water back on, and they'd drown if that drain wasn't there.

My answer, again, is the comparatively poor drain rate. If some neglectful parent were to leave their baby alone in the tub long enough for the water to over flow, that drain wouldn't save the kid. And shame on you, Theoretical Neglectful Parent, for supplanting watchful parenting with badly-conceptualized household fixtures!

What about the people who fall asleep in the tub? They could drown if the water level was too high!

This may be true, but it's one of the risks we knowingly undertake when we make the decision to plead with Calgon to take us away. Someone could just as easily drown in half a tub of water as a fully one, I'd be willing to bet; especially as small as my tub is. A full tub in my house is a rather idle threat.

One day, I'm going to find a way to plug it up (thus far, saran wrap, plastic bags, silly putty, and press-n-seal have proved to be ineffective measures). Then I will bathe in fully-submerged, baby-endangering, potentially-drownable bliss. It's gonna be. . . well, blissful.

Jesus May Or May Not Be The Reason For The Season, But. . .

I was out yesterday, shopping for Christmas cards. I LOVE sending Christmas cards! It usually takes me several days of careful shopping and comparisons involving pictures of packages taken with my cell phone, labeled with the store I found the contender for the title of Christie's Christmas Card of the Year; and possibly stashing a contender in an unrelated department (if it happens to be the last of the package) while I take my time deciding if it'll make the leap from Runner Up to First Place. Once I decide, I buy pens with ink that match the card, and I buy envelope sealers that complement the card inside, and I even get complimenting address labels.

Yup, I'm obsessive about sending the perfect Christmas card.

Here are several criteria a package of cards must meet in order to be considered worthy of the 44 cent badge it'll eventually wear on its way to my loved ones:

* Size matters! I don't usually have a whole lot to say in my cards (hard to believe, right?), and nothing emphasizes that lack like a big ole card full of unused writing space. That's right, I like my cards small. So I'm looking for something around the size of a printed photo (what're those, 4 x 6?).

* The design must be simple; austere, even. I hate busy cards.

* The design can't feature anything religious. No manger scenes, no fish, no doves, no baby Jesuses, no wise men. . . you get the idea. Those usually fall under "busy" anyway.

* No funny! I've got nothing against funny cards. I like receiving them just fine, but for some reason, I just don't like buying or sending them.

* The message inside can't be religious. I'm not a religious person, and that just feels like hypocrisy.

* The message must be simple. Nobody reads all those lengthy, long-winded cards anyway. Let's face it- they're just looking for the check.

* The message MUST reference Christmas.

This last criterion's the meat and bones of the problem I encountered yesterday. I found lots of wishes for the happiness of the season, lots of season's greetings, stupid numbers of warm holiday wishes, various encouragements to enjoy the holiday season, happy holidayses, happy holiday seasonses, blah blah blah. Holidays, seasons, and holiday seasons, my friends! Very few cards outside the religious category actually said CHRISTMAS!

Now, I think I already mentioned that I am not a religious person, and yes, I'm well aware of the Christian connotation of the word "Christmas". But doesn't "Happy Holidays" just sound so dry and generic? And how many of us actually grew up saying "Happy Holidays" or "Seasons Greetings" to one another?! If there are any, I'm sure yall're in the minority; if one of my third grade class mates had said that shit to me, I'd have likely stuck a Kick Me sign on his/her back at the earliest opportunity. Say it out loud to someone today- I guarantee you'll feel and sound like a complete tool.

Most of us who celebrate December 25th grew up saying "Merry Christmas". So why is it slowly becoming more difficult to find a damn Christmas card that says Merry Christmas, and does NOT feature a manger scene or a lamb or a blue-cloaked lady holding a beatific baby? Let's hear it, Hallmark! I'm all ears!

Dear Makers of Fat Girls' Clothing,

I'm not much of a shopper; jeans and tshirts comprise about 85% of my wardrobe, with the remaining 15% being undies, socks, pajama bottoms, and one skirt with dust so thick it'd be more like an excavation than merely taking it out of the closet.

But then my stepspawn went and decided to graduate after all, so I had to show up in something nice-ish. I knew this meant a shopping trip, and I wasn't looking forward to it at all. I mean, it's been years since last I set foot in an actual clothing store.

So five hours before he was due to fall asleep in front of the valedictorian giving a speech nobody would give a rat's ass about, I hit up a few purveyors of plus size clothing (yeah, yeah, lose weight blah blah blah. Shut up. I'm working on it, and I've got to wear something in the mean time). It was the most ghastly experience I've had in quite a long time, and not just because I dislike browsing around and trying on clothes. So I've put together a few questions and helpful hints for you of the Plus Size Clothing Industry:

* Who told you guys that us fat chicks want all of our shirts made out of t-shirt material?! Printed jersey shirts, floral jersey shirts, button down jersey shirts, "dressy" jersey shirts! I mean, a few of those shirts could've been really nice had they been made out of a nice linen or silk or satin. . or even burlap, for chrissakes. So helpful suggestion for the future: consider different fabrics when your instinct tells you your target demographic would just LOVE another chance at wearing quasi-tshirts.


* I saw some really cute blouses in the smaller sizes, and the same style of shirt was available in plus size. But somehow, you thought instead of that nice, tasteful solid colour with the embroidery around the neck and sleeves that we'd prefer huge flowers and paisleys and god-knows-what-else that was supposed to be. Newsflash! Busy print does NOT make us look thinner! It doesn't even distract from it. Nope, wearing it just makes a person think, "Oh, here comes another fat girl wearing a huge printed shirt. Who does she think she's trying to kid?! Floral prints don't hide a second chin!" Seriously, guys, fat girls have tasteful fashion sense, too. The only reason we wear that crap is it's the only thing we can find. So instead of splurging on a whole different fabric for fat girl shirts, just use the same stuff you used on the skinny girl shirt and make it bigger.


* With it being summer, it's hard as hell to find a shirt that isn't sleeveless. Why not throw a little sleeve on it? It doesn't have to be long, mind you, but you have to know that nobody wants to see these ham hock upper arms of mine. Provide them with a bit of cover-up, please! You can still be summery with a little sleeve. And the spaghetti straps? Come on. That's just uncalled for.

We'd like the opportunity to be just as cute wearing your clothing as that size 2 bitch shopping next to us while not-so-surreptitiously eyeing us with distaste. I hope you'll take these suggestions into consideration, and pass them on to the department most appropriate for effecting these tasteful changes. I'm not advocating completely doing away with the things you're making now! But with the addition of some alternatives, you'll find a wider variety of satisfied consumers, myself among them.

Christie Love.

Bullshit Virgins

Technical Virgins are complete bullshit. You know the type I'm talking about- they're giving up the anal and the oral and "everything but", and they're still calling themselves virgins since the hymen's still intact. If that's the only thing that hasn't been despoiled, then don't go calling yourself a virgin. You know good and goddamn well that ain't "Saving It For Marriage", that's a fucking technicality; and a really flimsy one, at that.

You've been fucked. You're not a virgin. Just stop deluding yourself.


While we're on the subject, we might as well talk about the other kind of bullshit virgin- The Born Again Virgins. Who dreamed up this oxymoronic bit of nonsense?! That shit ain't Jesus- you don't "find" it again just because you decided having it off isn't for you anymore. Regret doesn't make it grow back, people! Once it's gone, it's gone.

Once again, you've been fucked. You're not a virgin. You're just deluding yourself and pissing everyone else off.

Don't Be Such A Fucking Douche Nozzle On The Lanes, or How To Piss Me Off When I'm Bowling

Wear Your Wet Fucking Shoes Down In The Pit

Anyone who bowls knows that you end on a slide before hurling the ball down the lane. They also know that if you step in something wet, you won't slide- you'll go and attempt to slide, and pitch forward directly onto your face, fucking up your face and the frame. It's winter, people! Take your wet fucking shoes off on the goddamn carpet!

Bring Your Screaming 2 Year Old

. . . and please, don't bother trying to control them. By all means, plead with them as they scream and run all over the lanes, as though that will cause them to see the error of their ways, go sit sedately on the bench and tone it the fuck down. Don't mind me standing there on the approach, waiting for you to collect your snot-nosed spawn out of my path. And you know how much I love it when they let out that piercing shriek when you finally decide to give up with the pathetic-voiced cajoling, remember that they're portable, and come and carry them back to your side of the bench!

Try On Six Pairs Of Shoes Each While I Wait To Pay

Really?? How is it that you don't know your own shoe size?! Oh, you DO know your shoe size, you're just looking for that perfect-fitting pair of RENTAL shoes. Well, that makes perfect sense. Rather, it would if they weren't RENTAL shoes.

Ignore Lane Courtesy

Seriously, if you don't know any better than to wait for the guy next to you to throw the fucking ball before you go charging up there to throw your granny-shot, just don't even bother lacing up your shoes. This is one of the single jerkiest things you can do to another bowler.

Arrive In A Group of Pre-Teen Girls

Pre-teen girls shouldn't be allowed in public in groups of larger than, oh, say, one. They definitely shouldn't be allowed to congregate on the lane next to me and scream OMG OMG OMG!!! at one another. Strike, spare, gutter ball, the ball returning. . . it all elicits the same response, and I hate them for it. So if you're a girl between the age of 10 and 17, kindly stay home and spare those around you the agony of your presence.

Occasionally, I Hate Blogging On MySpace

My primary blog is on MySpace (yeah, yeah, i know, MySpace is for 14 year old girls who like to spend their days taking/posting hundreds of pictures of themselves). Why do I blog there? I don't know, it's where I started and I have a steady readership over there. I have never had any hate comments (anyone who's ever blogged on MySpace knows all about those- they attack you as a person rather than what you've just written about), and I get some pretty good feedback from writers I like to read. I like how you can leave a kudo if you don't have anything in particular to say, but want the author to know you liked it. In short, it has its perks and its irritations, much like anything else in life.

Yesterday I experienced an unanticipated irritation.

Eventually, if you read the same people often enough, you start moving in the same circles as other readers of that persons blog. Sometimes, if they like your comments, they'll come read your blog. Very occasionally, someone you don't like ends up reading your blog, and you have to choose between responding neutrally to their comments, or telling them to go piss up a rope. Option 2 is the more honest, upfront thing to do, but then (depending on who it is) you risk the wrath of that person's whole blog circle coming down on you and bombarding you with hate comments/mails/messages/what-have-yous. It's an issue that seems to be unique to MySpace blogging, and I've never been bothered by it until a few weeks ago. Enter "Jane" (name changed to protect blah blah blah).

I've seen her comments on other blogs I've read before, and she'd replied to a few of the comments I'd left myself, but I don't really care for her. I found her to be a rather obsequious sycophant, and a long-winded one, at that. Anyhow, my policy for dealing with unpalatable online personalities is simply not to respond to them, and that's how I'd dealt with her in my infrequent brushings with her.

Then she started reading my blog. Fuck.

She pulls the same over-the-top OMG I AGREE WITH YOU SO MUCH type comments on mine as she does on everyone else's, and I'd decided to deal with her monosyllabically whenever possible. After all, when one kisses as much ass as she does, one gathers quite a few friends, and she sports quite a few drama bloggers as friends. Not a scene I'm interested in! I just want to post my rants about my daily life, my bits of fiction, random dreams, and be on my way. Preferably with mild interaction with my readers.

So she's been reading my blog for a few weeks now, and I popped over to her blog, out of courtesy, and read a little bit. She's an issues blogger, which is a turn-off to me in the first place, and the cause she champions isn't one that interests me. Throw in all the bad grammar and spelling, and I decided to politely unsubscribe.

That's polite, right? Unsubscribing quietly?

Apparently, it isn't. I got a message from her yesterday asking why she hadn't seen me commenting on her blog. Fuck, and double fuck! Now I'm back at my initial problem: be honest or be vague. Here's vague:

Sorry I haven't spent much time at your blog, I've got a lot of subscriptions and as much as I try to make it to everyone, I don't always succeed. I'll try to be better in the future.

Apologies,
Christie.

Then I can visit her blog daily and hit the kudos button, making it look as though i read it. But that's really WAY too much effort, and it's just downright dishonest. I already feel horrible just for having thought about it.

Here's honesty:

I don't have a lot of free time, and I'm not going to spend that little bit that I do have reading shit that I don't enjoy, by people I don't like. I don't expect people to read my blog just because I read theirs, I expect people to read it because they like it. If they don't like it? I'd prefer they politely unsubscribe and spend their time elsewhere- no drama, no flaming, no butt-hurtedness. Everybody wins! So please, unsubscribe in an undramatic fashion. You really would be doing me a solid.

Best of luck,
Christie.

And I honestly feel that way! I don't expect people to read me just because I read them. It doesn't change the fact that I enjoy their writing, and I'm going to continue reading it. I found out a long time ago that very few MySpace people feel this way- if they spend time reading and commenting your blog, they damn sure expect that you reciprocate. If you don't, most of the time, they just quietly unsubscribe (yay for quiet unsubscription!) and you stop hearing from them.

Oh, but not Jane! No, she requires explanations. I've done my best to avoid dealing with her, and that's clearly not going to work. So I think I'll go halfway between vague and honest:

I'm sorry I haven't made it to your blog, but at this time, I don't have time for additional subscriptions. I appreciate the time you take to read and comment mine, but if it isn't something you enjoy doing for its own sake, then please don't feel obligated to continue doing so. I know your time is valuable too, and I wouldn't want you to waste it on a one-sided blogging relationship.

Best of luck to you and your cause,
Christie.

A firm Thanks-But-No-Thanks, but not a rude one. I hope she quietly unsubscribes and refrains from tossing me to the lions.

Montserrat Rocks Bristle Ridge's Face Off

Rob, Jim, Angie and I gathered up our hangover collection and stumbled out the door Saturday morning on our planned trip to the Montserrat Winery outside Knob Noster, Missouri (yeah, yeah, go ahead and snicker at the Nosters of Knobs- i sure as hell did). It wasn't a long trip, maybe thirtyish minutes. The brochure we'd read promised tours and tastings and unique gifts, and i was very excited about it, having never actually been to a winery before.

Our exit held a wonderful surprise for us: right next door to our destination was Bristle Ridge Winery! We hadn't noticed it at first on the brochure, but sure enough, they, too boasted tours, tastings, and unique gifts. Two wineries in one trip. . .fucking score! Bristle Ridge was actually before Montserrat, so we stopped there first.

We parked on the hill and climbed up to a large, surprisingly elegant covered patio nestled among absolutely stunning landscaping. The patio sported high, round tables and chairs, each with a little brazier in the center to keep the winers warm as the weather cooled. Inside, we were greeted by a weird odor and more elegance: the chandelier, the light fixtures, the hardwood floors, the fire place, and the bar were all beautifully ornate and candle-lit. The bar was tended by an old lady polishing a wine glass with a towel and an air of superiority. She smiled perfunctorily at us as we entered, and asked if she could help us. She really looked as though she'd rather not. Help us, that is.

Rob approached her and asked if we could take the tour. She coolly informed him that there were no tours at this winery, and not-quite-demanded to know who told us we could take a tour. Angie produced the brochure, which the Bar Crone barely even glanced at before crisply telling us that there were no tours. She stared at Rob with Will That Be All? Face, but to her ill-concealed dismay, he asked if we could get a tasting. She said of course we could, and produced a wine/price list before returning to the vigorous glass-polishing we'd so rudely interrupted.

The wine list looked about how we'd expect a wine list to look except for the price: tastes were two bucks each, for a two ounce sample. Somehow i didn't think this winery produced dollar-per-ounce quality wine, but i was eager to get on with trying to salvage my souring first-winery experience. We talked about which wines we wanted to try, and then looked back at the Bar Crone, who studiously ignored us.

I decided to go and have a look at the Unique Gifts, since they were the only thing left on the brochure that hadn't disappointed me yet. They were varied and wine-related, and expensive, but i found a few things i liked and i was trying to decide what i wanted to buy when Jim went to step out for a smoke. Now, we all had obviously arrived together: we all piled out of the same car, walked up and entered together, and spoke familiarly with one another; in short, we were clearly at the winery as a group. But when Jim went to the door, cigarette in mouth, the Bar Crone looked up and dismissively thanked him for coming as though he was going to leave without the rest of us.

I probably don't need to mention that her Thanks For Coming sounded more like a Get The Hell Out Of My Tasting Room. We all looked at each other, and Rob shrugged.

"Well, if you want us to leave, we will," he said, and the rest of us headed for the door. She didn't thank the rest of us for coming. I later learned that the Bar Crone was the owner.

That's right. The. Owner. (Well, she and her husband). I wouldn't have believed how rude she was if i hadn't just experienced it myself.

By contrast, the atmosphere at Montserrat was warm and inviting. The tasting room smelled terrific, and the guy working the bar greeted us like he might have actually been glad to see us. The decor lacked the elegance of Bristle Ridge, there were fewer gifts to browse, and no tours were offered here either, but we were offered a wine list as soon as we walked in, the samples were FREE, the bar guy was friendly, and he actually gave us samples once we'd made up our minds!

We tasted several wines, including a chocolate wine (that's right- Chocolate!). The wines were tasty, and Bar Guy told us about the local wine industry while we sampled. Never at any point did we feel rushed or unwelcome, and my disappointment evaporated as though Bristle Ridge never happened. After some great wine and conversation, we bought a few bottles and left with good memories and a mental note to return next time we came through Knob Noster. Oh, and the Bar Guy? Not an owner, just an employee. It's a sad, sad day when an employee treats the clientele better than the owner of an establishment.

When Men USED To Be Men

When someone says "rodeo" to me, the scene that pops into my mind is clowns dashing around a dirt ring, trying to distract a living Mack truck from making ground beef of a fallen guy in a pair of chaps, a hat, and a shield-sized belt buckle. Rugged, Skoal-chewing, filterless cigarette-smoking, dust covered, five-o-clock-shadow-sporting manly men daring the wrath of the beasts they ride. Stetsons and lassos, testosterone and dung, accents and animal noises. And, of course, country music. This is what i remember the rodeo being like.

Sometimes ESPN plays the rodeo, and i watch it. You know, just to satisfy that East Texas itch i sometimes get since i left. My husband found it today when he was flipping through the channels, and we watched it for a few minutes. . . and i have to ask-

What in the blue FUCK has happened to the rodeo?!

When did the manly men get replaced by umpire-mask, padded flack-jacket wearing Nancies?! Elbow pads?? Seriously?? Now, i'm not saying i enjoy seeing guys get hurt. This is why i don't watch the rodeo regularly (well, one of several reasons). But it seems to me if they didn't want to risk suffering injury they should be sitting behind desks or giving PowerPoint presentations or something. I mean, when it comes down to it, is an elbow pad really going to save you? No. You just look like your mom said, "Not without your elbow pads, Bobby, you know how nervous i get," and you meekly submitted to her demands (and by this, i mean handed her your balls to keep in her purse).

But that wasn't the worst of it. The final insult: in place of the country music we all associate with cowboy-oriented sports, they were playing "Tricky" by Run DMC. Now, under normal circumstances, i'd pick Run DMC over Waylon Jennings any day of the week. But it doesn't make a suitable sound track for a manly sport like the rodeo! Even for this watered down Rodeo Lite, i would expect to hear some sugary-pop Carrie Underwood type country music. Run DMC is just. . . well, inappropriate! It'd be like showing up to the X-games and enjoying some nice Phil Collins in the background. It just isn't right!

And that about sums up the whole few minutes i was able to stomach before outrage set in: It just isn't right.

Getting It Off My Chest

Housebreaking a puppy makes me doubt the wisdom of getting said puppy in the first place. I'm a bad person for sometimes thinking that.

I'm sorry you don't like our boss. Bosses suck, welcome to real life.

You don't have the fucking swine flu, you contemptible sympathy monger! You're always sick in the head.

Who're you trying to convince? Us, or yourself?

Say what's really on your mind, and *maybe* you'll get the results you're looking for.

I need them. I don't need them, but i want them. It all amounts to the same thing in the end.

People think you're a backstabbing bitch because you are a backstabbing bitch.

Of course it's inappropriate! That's why it's so damn funny!

At least this face is the only one i've got.

You're making that shit up, and we all know it. Just stop.

I really thought you were smarter than to listen to her.

I suggest you do what your parents did! Get a JOB, sir!

We're not friends. We're coworkers.

The mess i'm in is my own fault. I know. I don't need you to tell me, nor do i need you to list the contributing events.

The mess you're in is your own fault. You know. You don't need to blame them, nor do you need pretend you don't know the contributing events.

Honestly, i don't understand because i don't want to.

The Trouble With 4 am

It just comes way too fucking early. You can't adequately prepare for 4 am. You can go to bed at 8 pm, and if you can manage to fall asleep at a ridiculously early hour like that (i mean, come on! That's when all the GOOD shows air!), you still kinda fall bonelessly out of bed, wondering why it's still so DARK out there. After you realize that the alarm buzzing in your brain is actually your day starting three hours early, not part of your dream, it does get a little easier. The worst is over.

*sighs*
*trudges off to begin the day*

Small Rant About The Makers Of Movies

Moviemakers can do absolutely amazing things with films now-a-days. CGI, special effects, "magic". . . Harry Potter movies take my breath away everytime i see one. There's literally only one thing cinematographers haven't seem to have mastered yet:

Making the voices the same volume as (or a little louder than) the goddamn music and effects.


It happens every time! I'm sitting there, watching a movie, and i have to turn the volume WAY up to hear the conversation, only to have my ear drums ruptured when someone fires a gun, or music starts playing. I go from this:





to this:






and it drives me insane! They spend all that money on developing newer, better explosions, realistic looking fire. . . hell, they can even make it look like someone's missing limbs! How bout spending a little time on sound research, eh?

Howie Mandel is NOT Your Friend

Lucky Contestant: Number 11, Howie! WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Case-Holder [to Lucky Contestant]: It's a low number, i can feel it!
Howie [to Case-Holder]: Open the case.

[Queue the suspense music as the Case-Holder slowly opens the case, shoving his huge, impatient head in the way in the attempt to glimpse the amount before everyone else. The Disappointment Sound Cue tells us to "AWWWE!" as the $500,000 is revealed, and the Lucky Contestant loses the $81,000 deal she opted not to take.]

[Cringing] Case-Holder: I'm so sorry!
[Keeping a stiff upper lip] Lucky Contestant: It's okay, it's okay!
Howie: It's okay! The $100,000 is still in play, and you only have four cases to open! You could have that $100,000 right here!
[Howie takes a call from The Banker]

The mistake Lucky Contestant most likely made here was listening to Howie Mandell. The banker called up, offered $81,000, and Lucky Contestant probably leapt on the inside, thinking of all the improvements that money could bring to her life. Then Howie craftily put in his two cents. He said little things like, "Do you BELIEVE the half million is here?" (as if belief had anything to do with the amount in her case), and delivered the Banker's taunts. He emphasized the odds of opening small amounts,making them sound almost guaranteed.

Lucky Contestant is too distracted by large sums of money to realize that Howie is not on her side. Howie's whole job is to keep her slamming that cheap little plastic box, yelling out "NO DEAL! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Even when things go south, Howie's there to make her feel better. When she loses her $81,000, Howie is there to help her get over it as quickly as possible, probably by convincing her she actually has a good chance at the hundred grand. Howie is there to conquer her inner voice of reason.

She's falling for the old Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. Is Howie really that good at his job? Or is she really that greedy? They probably wouldn't even televise my episode if i made it on that show. I'd take the first deal they offered and run. I would defeat you, Howie!

DEAL!

General Ramblings About Dental Hygiene

From Urbandictionary.com:

Flossin':

1. Showing off an object which usually possesses great value.
2. Rolling in a fine ride with the general intent to enjoy ostenstation, prestige.

But that's not really what i'm talking about. I'm talking about flossin' in the dental context of the word. That's right, the piece of string, the bathroom sink, and a prayer that it really is just a mirror, and not a pane of two-way glass concealing some asshole with a video camera and too much time on his hands. Nobody likes to be blackmailed.

Since early childhood, i've heard them say it to me at the beginning of every checkup, "Have you been flossing after each meal?"

"Yes," i would lie. I'm sure they knew, and they knew that i knew that they knew. You really can't bullshit a dentist, especially at ten years old.

Besides, what self-respecting ten year old has the kind of time to blow standing in front of a mirror, yanking a piece of string back and forth between their teeth?! Not this one, i asssure you (or would have assured you, if i were writing this when i was ten). There were frogs to be caught, dirt to be made into mud, and mud to be made into pies, for Biff's sake! Taking time out of my urgent plans to further explore the wheat field across the street (against the express wishes of the owner of said wheat field), just for basic hygiene every day was distraction enough- that dentist better be glad i spared fifteen seconds to push a brush across my teeth at all.

Priorities, man.

My oral hygiene life went about like that until i got my first cavity when i was. . . fifteenish. I was mortified. Inevitably, the dentist asked the question i'd been sweating since he first pronounced the dreaded C-word (no, not THAT C-word, stay focused!):

"Have you been flossing after each meal?"

I hung my head, and finally confessed my life-long lie: the only times a bit of string ever passed through the between-parts of my teeth were when i had celery and peanutbutter packed in my lunch, and when the dentist himself did it every six months. The dentist frowned with a surliness any Catholic school marm would have been proud of, and gravely told me that this cavity could have been prevented if i'd only taken a little time out of my day to floss.

Oh, fine. Rub my nose in it, why dontcha?

Then he delivered the REALLY bad news- if i didn't start flossing, i was going to be wearing full dentures before my senior prom.

I was fairly sure he was making this up, but he DID have that dour countenance, and all those frightening pictures of gingivitis and rotting teeth festooning the walls like the disease wing of a periodontal art gallery. Before i could stop it, a vision of my top dentures coming loose in my boyfriend's mouth when he kissed me for our prom pictures popped into my head. I could already see the revulsion in his face, and the corner of pinky-fake gums and back molars hanging out of his mouth, immortalized on celluloid. Making shit up or not, this was not a vision i was willing to risk seeing become reality, and i gave in. I resolved to give this flossing thing a try.

Flash forward to the present day, i now go insane if i don't have any dental floss available right after i eat. I can just feel my teeth starting to decay right in my head; i can envision all the bacteria swarming and descending on my undefended enamel with their little jackhammers and hard hats, trying to get under my gums and rob me of my ease of mastication. I will even ask random strangers if they have any floss, to escape this feeling. You'd be surprised at the number of people who sympathize with my paranoia, and break me off a bit of waxed, mint-flavoured oral salvation before going on their way.

Or maybe it's their way of distracting me in order to make good their escape, like a wolf gnawing off a paw stuck in a trap.

Either way, I will not succumb to a life of polident and sea bond so easily. I'd like to thank that nameless, faceless dentist of my childhood for assisting in the birth of one of my first OCD fixations.

A Brief Rant About People Who Reprhase Questions

Has someone ever asked you a question you didn't know the answer to? Did they then turn around and rephrase the question so that it sounds a little different, and then ask you again? That's a practice quite a few people i encounter in daily life engage in, probably without even realizing what they're doing.

I don't get it. Recomposing the same question in a different format generally isn't going to cause me to suddenly know the answer. My boss is particularly fond of this tactic.

"How many boxes of syringes did we get?"

"Not sure."

"Do you know how many pallets there were?"

". . . no. . ."

"How many did the invoice say there were?"

ARGH!!! It doesn't matter HOW you ask me about the quantity of syringes that came. . . I still don't fucking know how many we got in!!



"How much longer on that viable particle monitoring?"

"I didn't know i was supposed to do that."

"Did you start it?"

"No, i didn't know i was supposed to."

"When do you think it'll be done?"

"I don't know, i haven't started it!"

"Well how long is it going to take?"

This line of questioning makes me want to brain myself with a package of Trypticase Soybean-Casein agar plates. Only then i wouldn't be able to use them to do viable particle monitoring.

Sorry, What Was That?

Over the years, i've become quite deaf. Not Christy Smith-deaf, you understand, but somewhat hard-of-hearing, especially for my age. I attribute it to all the concerts i've attended without protection for my ears, the volume theaters like to play movie sound at these days, and driving a Jeep for the last eightish years. Okay, the volume at which i play my music probably had something to do with it, too, but i digress.

As a result of this loss of hearing sensitivity, i've noticed two annoying things: one thing that i do, and one thing that other people do TO me. I never noticed the thing that i do until it was pointed out to me yesterday by a buddy of mine while i was at work.

People i work with are well aware that i can't hear worth a damn. Rather, that i have difficulty distinguishing what they say over the background noise. Sometimes, i just get tired of saying, "Huh?", and "What?" and "Sorry, what was that?", and i just smile and nod or say something noncomittal. So John was telling me something yesterday that i just couldn't make out. I nodded and said something like "Okay". . . i honestly don't remember exactly what i said, and continued with whatever it was i was doing.

All the sudden he got really annoyed with me and burst out, "Why do you do that?!" Well. THAT certainly got my attention.

"Do what?"

"Act like you heard me when you know damn well you didn't! I said, 'Line 4 is for you, it's Capintec!'"

Fantastic. I almost missed a call i've been waiting for for a week now. I took the call, and hung up to find John standing over me. Nope, he wasn't going to let this go.

"You've gotta quit doing that."

"I know, i'm sorry. I will."

"You don't even know you're doing it! Fucking pay attention!"

"I said i will!" Jeeze, i didn't mean to blow him off. I just get so tired of asking people to repeat themselves. I didn't realize how often i was i was Smiling And Nodding at people. I can see how that'd be irritating as hell. I resolved not to be irritating as hell in that fashion anymore, though i had a sneaking suspicion people were gonna get right sick of saying everything more than once.

Then he did the thing that irritates the hell out of ME: he started saying something, then he turned around and walked away while still talking. Now i REALLY can't hear what he's saying.

"Seriously? You harangue me for not listening, but then you walk away and expect me to hear what you're saying? I've TOLD you how much i hate that!"

He looked over his shoulder and smirked. Bastard.

Random Things People Do That Give Me Feelings Akin To Road Rage

Advertising themselves as Editors For Hire. . . and then you read their blogs, and realize they can't spell or use punctuation for shit. They've essentially fucked up their own resume.

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Create Myspace blogs that are just links to an external blog.


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Posting "OMG FIRST?" as a blog comment. Congratulations. You've just wasted the spot where your comment can't be blogdicked to page 35 by not saying anything meaningful at all.



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Posting "OMG FIRST?!", but being nowhere near first, so when i'm hardy enough to weather three pages of comments, there they are in all their tardy glory.


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Blatant sycophancy in general.


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Saying, "Didn't i tell you?" when i give you a blank stare after you've just referenced something you obviously thought i knew about. I don't hand out blank stares to extract explanations for things i've already been told.


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Fishing for compliments by saying negative things about yourself. Don't bother, i'll just agree with you.


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Laughing really loudly just so i'll ask what's so funny.


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Laughing even louder when i fail to ask. Yes, i heard you laughing the first time. I figured if it was worth sharing, you just would.


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When people say, "Guess what?" and actually mean it.


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Saying, "Six of one, half dozen of another."


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When i say i dislike something, and someone smugly replies, "Oh, but you haven't tried MINE."


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The inevitable offense people take when i try THEIRS and still dislike it.


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Tagging themselves in pictures they're not in.

You KNOW You Didn't Bring That!

It started out as any other day at work. I arrived, tossed my purse and sweater on my desk and hit the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea before going in to get third run out the door. I put my tea bag into the water, and opened the cabinet to discover we're out of Splenda.

Damn.

Luckily, i keep a tupperware container of loose Splenda on my desk in case we run out. So i traipsed over to my desk to retrieve the bowl, only to discover that someone had already plundered it. They left me about a spoon and a half. It's been a few months since i've had to use that emergency stash, but i happen to know i've only had to use it ONCE since i brought it. . . That was enough to ruin my day right there. I ended up having to use sugar, and i dislike sugar in my tea.

On a whim, i decided to take inventory of the stuff i normally keep on my desk but don't always pay attention to. I discovered i was also missing:

Some hot cocoa, some tea, some cereal, my package of gum, my last fiber one bar, my gingerbread coffee creamer and a can of tomato soup. Mother FUCKER!

I don't get these people. What is it about MY stuff that makes them think it's okay for THEM to consume it?! Am i someone's fucking mom? Do i buy groceries for them? NO! Splenda isn't cheap. Neither is the other stuff i buy. And just because it's there for months on end (like the can of soup), doesn't mean i'm not interested in eating it at some point. It DOES, however, mean that i fully expect it to be there when i finally DO decide to eat it. Do these people not understand that taking something from someone's desk is fucking theft?!

I hate, hate, hate people who do this!

Naturally, i went off on some people. I'm pretty sure it was Mrs. Staypuft (not her real name, obviously, but believe me. . . the name should paint a pretty accurate picture), who had the nerve to play innocent. Bitch. She better hope i don't replace the coffee creamer with Milk of Magnesia or some other form of colon blow next time. That'd teach her.

Fudge vs. Fuck

Anyone know one of those people who says "fudge" instead of "fuck"? "God bless America" instead of "Goddamn it"? "What the crap?" instead of "What the Hell?"? "BS" instead of "bullshit"? It's obnoxious.

Ever gotten a look like you just slapped someone when you actually use one of the words instead of substituting the PC version of it?


I confess, i don't understand the compulsion people feel for word substitutions. The heat of emotion you were feeling at the described moment was completely lost when you told people about that "a-hole" who cut you off in traffic. Seriously, if 'asshole' is the word you're reaching for, why not just use it? Otherwise, there's a whole smorgasboard of nonexpletives out there available and ready to be used. How about 'jerk'? 'Jerk' conveys how you feel about the person who cut you off in traffic without making you sound like you're afraid the FCC is hiding behind a bush waiting to slap you with a fine and/or piece of duct tape for saying 'asshole' when it's perfectly obvious you really wanted to.

It isn't that i disapprove of people who don't want to curse; quite the opposite, it's difficult in this day and age to be one of those people and i have a lot of respect for non-cursing folk. But these aren't the people you usually overhear using words like 'bee-yotch' when referring to a female they don't get along well with.

No, my problem is with the people who insist on self-censoring with similar sounding words. Think: 'frickin' instead of 'fucking'. At that point, why not just say 'fucking', or omit the expression altogether? "I asked you to take out the frickin trash half an hour ago!" doesn't pack the same punch as "I asked you to take out the fucking trash half an hour ago!", so why not just reduce it down to "I asked you to take the trash out half an hour ago!"?

Half the time, the things people are saying are just as ugly as, if not uglier than, the words they're cutting out. Do they think it'd hurt their coworker's feelings any less if she heard em say "I wish that fat beyotch would wash her stanky hams so she'd quit funkin' up the washroom" instead of, "I wish that fat bitch would wash her stanky ass so she'd quit funkin' up the bathroom"? (Someone said this about our secretary on Thursday.) They're not making themselves look like the better person by removing 'bitch' and 'ass' from the discussion.

Words are powerful. Think about the words you want to use, choose them carefully, and your point will seldom be lost on someone. And maybe, just maybe, you'll also save yourself from sounding like a jackass because of how you're saying something, if not because of what you're saying.

Acai Berry, My Ass!

You know what's really pissing me off right now?

The Acai berry diet. Not the diet specifically, but the ads being used here on Myspace to promote it. They throw up a Before picture of Star Jones next to a current After picture of Star Jones with a little caption underneath that says lose 25 pounds in 30 days or some crap like that.

Hello?! Do the Acai berry people think we've forgotten that Star Jones lost her weight via bariatric surgery?! And let's face it: she lost a HELL of a lot more than 25 lbs.

On another occasion i saw a current picture of Kirstie Alley being passed off as a 'before' picture, and a picture of Kirstie from the late 80's/early 90's being passed off as an 'after' picture. Same caption, Lose up to 25 lbs in 30 days.

Again, that's way more than a 25 lb difference, and i highly doubt Kirstie's found a way to start life older and become younger as time progresses. Her weight loss roller coaster is a famous one, and last i checked, she was using Jenny Craig, not South American fruit pills.

Then there's the ones where they just throw up pictures of random celebrities: Jennifer Anniston, Angelina Jolie, Salma Hayek, Jessica Simpson, Kate Winslet. . . All with a simple caption: Lose 25 lbs. Like ANY of these women need to lose 25 lbs! And i seriously doubt that the Acai berry is making up any of their diet or supplements.

I mean, isn't it false advertising to throw up a skinny picture of Angelina Jolie and a Lose 25 lbs caption? Doesn't that kind of insinuate that Angelina endorses or uses their product? How do the makers of the ads get away with blatantly lying to hundreds of thousands of young, impressionble teenage girls?


Edit (from Wikipedia.org): Açaí has an exceptional content of fats, including oleic acid (56.2% of total), palmitic acid (24.1% of total), and linoleic acid (12.5% of total),^[2] and also contains a high amount of beta-sitosterol (78–91% of total sterols).

Doesn't sound like it'd make a good dietary supplement at all.