What Do You Even Want?

I was whining talking to Jessica earlier about how badly I wanted to make sweet, sweet taste bud love to a piece of cheesecake.

Me: Dude, did you hear me? Not just any cheesecake, blueberry lemon cheesecake.

Jessica (distractedly): Yeah, I heard you.

Me (outright sulking like an emo teenager just denied access to texting): Fucking Weight Watchers.

Jessica (pausing): Uh huh.

Me (finally noticing her who-cares attitude): What?

Jessica (marshaling her expression): Nothing!

Me: Seriously, what?

Jessica (scrutinizing me to see if I really wanted to know): It's just. . .

Me (prompting after a few seconds): . . . just?

Jessica: Nobody's twisting your arm to do WW, you know.

Me (taken aback): Oh, I know-

Jessica (cutting me off): So what do you want? Do you want to lose weight, or do you want a big, cheesecake-induced ass? You can't have it all. Make up your mind and quit feeling sorry for yourself.

I watched her stalk off, floundering somewhere between shocked speechlessness and How Dare You. The scales tipped all the way past How Dare You, straight to Fuck You, Bitch! I dodged her for the next couple of hours, thinking dark thoughts and hoping that somehow all her tires were on flat when she went out to the parking lot after work.

Now that I'm home and calmed down, I'm developing a little perspective. Am I really that annoying to people? True, I complain about being fat in the same breath as I whine about not being able to throw anything I want down my face with impunity, but lots of people do that. Right?

I know what I want, and it isn't possible. I can't just eat whatever I want and have the kind of body I can be proud of. So I think I'll take her question seriously: What do I want, anyway?

WARNING! I'm about to give way more information than is really tasteful, so stop reading now if you're not interested in feeling nauseous.

1. I want my belly not to poke up out of the water when I take a bath.
2. I want to be able to see my *ahem* business when I look down.
3. It would be nice if my upper arms resembled *arms* more than they do winged hams.
4. I want my entire ass to fit in the airplane seat without oozing underneath and around the arm-rests.
5. I want to see my muffin top on a milk carton, only I won't be offering a reward for finding it.
6. I want my life to be structured around things I enjoy doing, not around meals.
7. I want the strength to push my plate away, even though there's clearly still food on it.
8. I want to be able to say no thanks to sweets, and really mean it.
9. I want not to be cranky anymore when I opt out of the [insert misc. bad-for-me baked goods here] left by someone's thoughtful wife on the break room table.
10. I want not to have to spend more on clothing because that clothing requires more cloth to make.
10a. I want not to be limited by ugly plus-sized clothing.
10b. I want to stop wearing clothes that are way too big for me in the failed effort at hiding my body.

This is by no means a comprehensive list of I Want, but it's a good start. The important thing I need to remember is, I have more wants that are achievable by WW, and their fulfillment will make me happier than cheesecake.

"I'm Full" vs. ". . . But I Already Paid For It!"

It's another whiny Weight Watcher's post, so feel free to skip it if you want to. I won't be offended, I promise!

One of the things WW tries to teach us fat chicks chronic over eaters is how to stop eating before we're so stuffed our pants that are already straining at the seams like a busted can of refrigerator biscuits don't feel comfortable.

I don't know about yall, but I was raised in the Eat What's On Your Plate, There Are Starving Children In China generation. This has had a couple of results: 1) I'm less wasteful, 2) I feel guilty when I don't finish my food, and 3) I learned to completely disregard my brain's natural For The Love of GOD Will You PLEASE Put The Fork Down signals at such an early age that I never learned what "satisfied" felt like. It sounds simple enough, right? Eat until you're not hungry anymore and then stop. But the problem is, if I wasn't suffocating under the weight of way too much food, I thought that meant I was still hungry. There was no middle ground between starving and stuffed.

And if the food's tasty? Forget it- I'm going straight to UnButtonMyJeansVille.

But after doing WW for three years now, I slowly re-acquired that lost ability to stop eating when I'm satisfied; now when I'm overfull, I'm miserable, and it's a great incentive to push the plate away. Yay me for returning to how nature intended my brain to work! Three years sounds like a long time, but when you stop and consider how long it took me to disconnect my full-meter, it's actually a pretty impressive feat.

Yet sometimes, in spite of this new skill, I'll go to put my fork down and take a look at what's left on my plate. And I catch myself thinking, "But I already paid for that!" (translation: I tracked it, and now I feel robbed because I didn't get to finish it). Then the internal argument ensues:

Me: Don't even think about it.

Saboteur-Me: But I TRACKED it!

Me: So what? You're totally satisfied!

Saboteur-Me: But don't they say you should eat ALL your points? If I don't finish this, I won't be eating all my points.

Me: Dude! There's no more space!

Saboteur-Me (in a whiny voice): But it's TAS-ty!

Me (sighing inwardly): It is tasty.

Saboteur-Me (smelling victory): And it's already written down! It's as good as eaten! And I have the points for it, right?

Me: . . . right. . .

Saboteur-Me: It's settled then!

Me (caving): Fine. If you can find some place to put it. . .

But Saboteur-Me has already stopped listening, and is elatedly shoveling the remains of my meal into my eagerly waiting face. I never stood a chance against the conspiracy between Saboteur-Me and her backstabby accomplices- The Taste Buds. Belatedly, my ostensible ally (Stomach) starts objecting to the extra load and starts pushing against her confines (My Jeans).

Me: Where were you ten minutes ago, Stomach?!

*sigh* I get it right most of the time, but I do look forward to the day the wasted points won't matter to me anymore.

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!

*Insert Excuse Here*

Okie, seriously, I've been crazy-busy with trying to relocate a nuclear pharmacy (you have NO idea what kind of red tape that involves), my pottery class, my ceramics class, Mrs. C's blogging challenge (which is over, and I won *yay*), Weight Watchers, trying to get more exercise into my life, getting over being sick, and spending more time with my husband and my stepchild, who will be gone in another couple of months.

The end result of all this is I've got about five or six weeks worth of unread blogs, that I do have every intention of reading! It'll be slow, but I'll catch up.

Then my next priority is you, Ang! I WILL get my reading and blogging project blog done this week if it fucking kills me. I really don't think it will, though, I'm just being dramatic.

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.

Tea in a Cold Room

A steaming cup of Darjeeling in a still, cold room is a thing of beauty. The crisp, austere white porcelain foils so agreeably with the clear russet fluid it carries.

The line between the surface and the air just above is a smear, blurred by the liquid transmuting to steam and taking wing before your very eyes. The newborn vapors rise in a thick, straight rope; the rope doesn't twist or furl in the quiet, undisturbed air.

The faint muscatel scent ascends in this medium, astride the column of mist before dispersing into cool atmosphere, invisible but delightful in its presence.

An unseen corona of heat gently suffuses the cup, eager to provide comfort to the chill-shrunken hands that embrace it.

A pleasure to all five senses, all that remains is to raise it to the lips, invite the piping wetness to cross the threshold of the mouth and let the tinge of its astringency linger briefly on the tongue before sliding down to warm the body and infuse the spirit.

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.

Group Blog Thursday: Tacky Holiday Traditions

This is my first time contributing to Stephanie's Group Blog Thursday. This week's topic is tacky Christmas traditions that we'd like to see banished from today's society. Take a gander at hers, The Ugly Christmas Sweater, and contribute if you like :) You've always been a tough act to follow, Steph, but here goes!


While i was checking out at Big Buys yesterday, i had the following conversation with the cashier:


"Will that be all for you today?"

"Yes, thank you."

"I only ask because. . . ," she paused and eyed my meager selection of purchases-to-be. "To be blunt, it just seems you're being a little chintzy this year."

"Well, it's not exactly chintziness. I took a pay cut-," i began defensively.

"Yeah, yeah, the economy, blah blah blah," she interrupted, "You know, this is the one time of year where you have the opportunity let everyone in your life know how much you care about them, and you're about to drop the ball with some of them, and completely blow it with others. I mean, if you're willing to sacrifice your friends' and family's perfect holiday, that's your prerogative."

I was at a loss. She was right, i was buying things i knew my kids weren't exactly hoping for, and outright not buying for others at all. I tried not to look ashamed.

"Well, i . . . ," i stammered, groping for an unScroogely excuse. She held up her hand, mercifully forestalling my lameness.

"But there IS something you can do about it."

"There is?" Relief washed over me.

"Yes. You can apply for our Big Buys Visa card and max it out. Nothing says, 'I care' like a maxed balance on your store credit card."

"Hmm, i don't know. . . "

"Low monthly payments! A very competitive 35% APR! And a guaranteed line of credit that's unjustifiably high, given your recently-trimmed salary."

"Won't that take me like, 25 years to pay off?"

"Pah, 21! PLUS you'll get 10% off your first purchase!"

"10%! Do you know what this means?!" i enthused, my mind racing with the possibilities.

"I certainly do. You can buy 10% MORE gifts. That means you can even buy for a few co-workers you don't even like! Come on, let's face it. This is NOT the time to hide behind flimsy excuses like 'your budget' and 'the economy'."

"You're absolutely right. What're you waiting for?! Sign me up!" I smiled beatifically at the saviour of my family's holiday happiness as she ran my instant credit app.

****

Okay, so it didn't quite happen like that, but that's how it feels when every person who works at the store stuffs instant credit apps in my face as i shop. So the tacky holiday tradition i'd like to see done away with: companies trying to strong-arm me into fiscal irresponsibility by pushing credit cards on me (that i know damn well i can't afford), using the illusion that holiday happiness comes from a store.

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.

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.

Autumn is. . . (Dew Write)

Dew Write <---Click that if you wanna know what it's all about.


I shuffled my feet through the pile of leaves i just spent all morning raking up off of the lawn that i don't care about. The browns of dead leaves are much lovelier than the browns of dead grass, i decided, tracking the leaves back across the lawn. It looked kind of naked without the leaves covering it up. The lawn, i mean. But i did just spend all morning cultivating that nude look. . . if i cover it back up, i'll have wasted my time.

Or would i have? I mean, is it a waste of time to erase something, if what i wrote over it was better? And wouldn't the wind eventually do that anyway? Blow the leaves back around the yard, i mean. It isn't as though stray leaves from another lawn will obey the invisible boundaries of tidiness i just created. Better me than the wind, i agreed to myself. Shuffling is going to take all day, though, i'd better start running. . . maybe pick some up and toss them in the air for more even grass-coverage.

But would it be so bad to take all day? I'm always in such a hurry, and it's so nice outside. I can't quite see my breath, and i'm just warm enough in my hooded sweater. The browns are so vibrant, and i can smell the threat of snow in the coming months.

No, it would be better to take all day, i concluded. Soon, i'll have to bundle up and drive carefully over the treacherous roads, sitting uncomfortably in my car in clothing that makes me feel large and ungainly. Better to savor the browns before they fade to white.

This is what Autumn is. Autumn is taking all day re-blanketing the yard with leaves, wearing my hoodie, and marveling at the browns before the snow hides them all from me.

My Wife The Jerk

This is my attempt to rise to Stephanie's Challenge Here it is, in a nutshell: The challenge is to write about what it is like to date or live with you from the other person's perspective. It's about putting all of your flaws out there for the world to see.

So here's my story, written from the point of view of my husband.


You ever try living with a girl with bipolar disorder? It's no picnic, lemme tell ya. First off, not to state the obvious or anything, but she is moody as FUCK! One minute, she's in a good mood; next minute, she's crying about something. Or nothing. Or both. "But the super-good mood's the pay out, right?" you may be asking right now, and the answer is no. When the super-good mood comes, she goes out and spends up all the money. Usually on bullshit like tea. Because she really needs another flavour of tea.

Second off, she's OCD about the stupidest things. Must wash the hands for the five hundredth time today. Must find the gas station that's one cent cheaper than all the other ones (nevermind she just blew half her tank looking for said cheaper gas station). Must measure EVERY serving of food she puts past those pearly whites, down to the gram. And forget a spontaneous trip to the movies or restaurant. She's gotta investigate the points value of every menu item, pop her own popcorn, and pack her own snacks. Inevitably, carrots is one of those snacks. Carrots are loud and embarrassing.

Third. . . she shuts down emotionally when she's mad. Don't EVEN expect an explanation regarding what you've done wrong anytime over the next three days.

Don't want to hear about her shitty day and her shitty coworkers? Too bad. Prepare to hear about it, in great detail, at great length. And don't let her catch you not paying attention, or see "Third". And don't offer solutions. It's like she prepares her reasons they won't work out in advance, before you can even suggest them.

Ever wonder what it's like to live with an Alzheimer's patient? Move in with my wife. She'll tell you the same story three or four times, because she didn't remember telling you the first two or three times. And then she'll leave out something important, and swear up and down she already told you about it three weeks ago. Chances are, she told someone else three or four times.

Enjoy a messy house? She's your gal. Whininess about how no one ever helps her clean the messy house? She doesn't disappoint there, either. If you're lucky, she might even wash your clothes along with hers.

I could carry on, but for brevity's sake, i won't. I don't mean to give the impression that there're no redeeming qualities about living with her. . . i mean, she can make a mean box of Hamburger Helper (when she bothers), and she's affectionate (when she's not pissed off). But i often wonder what i got myself into when i said, "I do."

No Justice for Jada

I've had difficulty this week focusing on the deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett because of a local piece of news that's been unfolding over the last couple of weeks, the tragic culmination of which occurred the same day as the King of Pop's demise. The investigation is ongoing, but this is what we've been told so far:

Jada Justice's parents left their two year old daughter in the care of her cousin, Engelica Castillo and her boyfriend Tim while they went out of town for a couple of days. During some potty training issues, Engelica beat Jada to death, and then placed her in some plastic bags. She and her boyfriend then tried to set fire to Jada's body, but succeeded in burning Tim instead. Then they placed her body in a plastic tote, poured concrete into it, and dumped it in the place where Tim's father had killed his mother and then himself six years earlier. Three days later, Engelica reported Jada missing, claiming to have left her in her car while she went into a convenience store to buy milk and cigarettes. She told police that when she returned to her car a few moments later, Jada was gone.

The search began. The convenience store in question is on my route home from work, and for days, i passed volunteers handing out flyers with Jada's face and description, begging for information and prayers. I felt sad for these people, and for Jada, whom i was losing hope for as time went on.

Engelica has a long history as a troubled child, including drug abuse at an early age, running away from home with older men, and run-ins with the law, including commitment to a mental facility. I wondered what sort of parent would voluntarily leave their child in the care of such a person. I felt that finding Jada alive was probably not going to happen, but i tried to remain hopeful.

Then late Thursday afternoon, news that the Hobart police department had found the burned remains of a toddler broke. Police were sure that it was Jada's body, and were only waiting for forensic confirmation. Over the next couple of days, we learned that while Engelica stuck to her initial story, her boyfriend Tim is the one who told police where to find Jada, and the real events leading up to the little girl's death. He told the police that after they put her in plastic bags, the two of them put her in the car, and went out to buy drugs and got high before attempting to conceal their crime.

I've been incredibly sad since learning that Jada is dead. I can't make sense of the violence someone could do not only to a small child, but a relative. Engelica is the worst kind of thief there is- she's stolen something that can never be repaid. She's stolen seventy five years of triumphs, failures, love. . . she's stolen an entire future, and pieces of the futures of the people who would've shared Jada's experiences with her. A whole life wasted by a complete waste of life.

Engelica will go to jail, and so will Tim, but where's the justice in that? We live in a capital punishment state, and as far as i know, neither will be charged with ultimate punishment. But it doesn't matter- detaining or killing these thieves won't bring Jada back or avenge her. It won't restore missing years or her presence to her family. Where murder is concerned, i don't think the concept of justice exists.

"It's An Acquired Taste"

Smoking. Coffee. Beer. Red wine. Dissonant music. Dark chocolate. Raw Oysters. Someone ever convince you to try something that you ended up disliking? You look at them enjoying their nasty, slimy globs on a half shell, and wonder what it is they're getting out of it that you're not. Ever ask? I bet the answer was "It's an acquired taste".

I wonder about acquired tastes. I wonder what it is about something a person could place in their mouth, hate, and then think, "Hey, i gotta get me some more of that! I gotta get more, and continue forcing myself to eat it until i like it". Typically, the more i try to force myself to do something i dislike, the more disinclined i am to do it in the future. It becomes like an anti-habit for me.

What motivates a person to want to do that? Maybe it's a palette broadening thing? Smoking's an obvious one: you just do it till the addiction kicks in. Maybe it's a social thing - someone wants to appear sophisticated, so they choke down the wine until they don't mind it anymore. Maybe it's to learn to find something pleasing in things we find distasteful. It seems like that'd be a good skill to be able to apply to people ;)

I don't usually do the question thing, but i think i will this time. Do you have any acquired tastes? What made you want to acquire it? Do you have anyone in your life right now that's an acquired taste?

Bitter?

A girl at work came in yesterday and gave me a bunch of her black tea. She said she wasn't going to drink black tea anymore.

Why not?, i asked.

I'm only drinking red, green, and herbal teas now.

. . . But why?

It's too bitter for me, she replied. Then she took a big ole swig of her convenience-store coffee.

I didn't understand how black tea could be too bitter, but coffee was just fine. I personally don't drink coffee because it's too bitter. But i didn't probe too deeply, because she'd brought some really good flavours, and i really wanted that tea.

Digital: It's Not Just For Watches Anymore!

Have you ever been reading something (a book, magazine, blog. . . whatever; it isn't important) and encountered a word you didn't know? What do you do with it? Use the context to gather a ballpark meaning and continue on? Pull out a dictionary of some sort? Google/Wikipedia it?

Or do you ignore it and move on?

I'm usually pretty faithful about looking up words that i don't know the immediate meaning of. A ballpark definition isn't generally specific enough, in case i like the word and want to use it later.

Reading stuff on my Kindle, i discovered, has made me a bit lazy. There is a built-in dictionary in it, and all i have to do is highlight the line with the word in question on it, and it returns to me the definition of every major word on the line. Too much information? Maybe. But i kinda like it.

Recently, i was forced to put my Kindle down and read an actual, honest-to-grapes paperback book. It was an absolutely miserable experience! I was tethered to my desk while reading at home so i could have access to Merriam-Webster.com. Reading out? I had to try and remember words i wanted to look up. About halfway through the book, i surrendered looking things up altogether just to get through the damn thing. For the first time in my life, i got a glimpse into the life of someone who hates to read, though i'm sure the reading-hater wouldn't cite the lack of a good, ready dictionary as their primary reason. The result of this surrender: i misused a word and was called out on it.

Probably not the worst thing a person could do, but i was pretty mortified, seeing as how one of my pet peeves is when people bandy words about without knowing what the hell they mean. It just makes you look stupid (or, in my case, lazy).

Anyway, to get to my point, i have to say that i really hate actual paper books. I wish everything was published digitally.

I'm Not A Racist, But . . .

Have you ever been involved in a conversation where someone dropped that line on you?

I was standing around at work the other day, bullshitting with one of my less-liked coworkers, who cornered me while i was making some tea. I asked her how the new girl, "Jane", was working out; my coworker glanced around, dropped her voice a few octaves (which didn't help, believe me), and told me that Jane's work ethic was sub-par.

I'm going to interrupt myself to give you a bit of background info on Jane: She's worked here before. She was fast, efficient, friendly, and a genuinely likable person, even if she did take twenty years to tell a story. She was fired for attendance issues, but this was all before my coworker's time, so she just assumed that Jane was fired for being a shitty worker.

Curious about what had changed, i asked my coworker what she meant by Jane's work ethic being sub par. I immediately regretted asking as my coworker launched into a long, rambling, incoherent diatribe about Jane's habits. She takes too long on her breaks. She takes too many breaks. She's too flirty with "John" (the other technician on the midnight shift). She leaves early. She doesn't check in packages right. She's moody. And so on.

Eventually her general complaining narrowed down to what her real problem was: John and Jane get along very well, and John and my coworker never have. John and Jane got along very well the first time Jane worked here, and their reunion was a happy one; now my coworker feels like she's on the outside looking in. Then she dropped the million dollar disclaimer on me:

"I'm not a racist or anything, but i don't come to this job so that i can get ganged up on by a pair of darkies. So sorry i don't live in the ghetto!"

And just as she said that, two of my other coworkers walked by and raised their eyebrows at us before walking on. Fucking great! I've just been privy to a racist remark, in front of witnesses.

What happened next was unimportant and unremarkable, but my point is this: when people say dumb shit like that, it makes the other person look like they're a part of the conversation, rather than the recipient of an unwelcome view point. The passers-by assume that the other person (in this case, me) shares that sentiment, and make judgments about both parties. If my boss didn't know me better, and if John weren't a good friend of mine, i could have been in a lot of trouble just for standing there when my coworker said that.

So the next time someone says, "I'm not a racist, but. . . [insert generalized racially-motivated comment here]" in your vicinity, walk away as soon as you hear the first four words. And if you're one of these people who says things like that, i got news for ya, Pal: That disclaimer doesn't make your racist remark any less so for having said it before making your statement. If you make derogatory comments based on someone's skin colour, you're a racist. Period. And fuck you for making the rest of us look like assholes for being polite enough to stand there and listen to you.

New Study Shows Link Between Driving And Nasal Fixation

It started with the guy who was keeping pace with me on the freeway. It always kind of unnerves me when a vehicle is traveling right next to me at the same rate of speed; i always figured courtesy demanded one of you slow down or speed up to gain that sort of staggered spacing that's more conducive to evading potential collisions, you know? This guy, apparently didn't feel that way. I looked over at him, and there he was- buried up to the second knuckle in his right nostril, and completely oblivious to my open-mouthed staring. I decided to be the one to give the courtesy slow-down.

Over the next couple of weeks, I noticed frequent occurrences where people were driving in my vicinity and either picking, scratching, or in some way fucking with their noses. I was mortified when one morning on my way to work, i caught myself scratching the inside of my own nose in traffic. I wasn't trying to be discreet about it or anything, i was just scratching away like i was alone in my bathroom or something. I quickly jerked my finger out of my nose and looked around, to see someone staring at me with what i imagine was a similar expression to the one i wore with the discourteous freeway driver.

So what is it about being in our vehicles that makes us feel so anonymous and unobserved? Especially where dislodging something from our noses is concerned? Pay attention to the people driving around you. I guarantee you'll see more nasal digging than you ever thought you would.

Bye, Anarchy

Pretend, for the moment, that you've joined a social club. You joined this club to get out and meet new people and do interesting things that you by and large can't/don't want to do by yourself.

Initially, you really like this club! The people are funny, the things they do are entertaining and frequent. You form a few closer friendships with some of them, but on the whole, it's a bunch whose company you truly enjoy.

After a while, some of the people you enjoyed being around leave or are asked to leave by the group's leader/organizer. Then some more leave because the initial few take them with them. In the end, you're left with a handful of familiar faces, and none of the closer relationships. Sure, you maintain the relationships with those people, but the club itself isn't the same without them.

Inevitably, new members come, and and then more new members. You try not to be one of those people who compares the way things are to the way things were, but there's something about this new group of joinees that you just don't like. They're obnoxious, they're much younger (or, at least, they act like they are), and they're all out for themselves rather than the group. They don't want to do things with you unless there's something specific they can get out of it. Eventually, you're just there out of habit, and you're not enjoying yourself anymore. You barely even speak to them anymore, but they don't even notice.

So you finally make the decision to break away from the group and seek another one. NOW all of a sudden everyone's concerned about your leaving and make it out to be this big betrayal. They point out all the things they've done for you in the past (the very DISTANT past, at this point), and try to make you feel bad, like you're letting the group down.

Only you know this not to be the case, because it's been months since anyone's asked you to join in on an activity, and when you suggest one, they kind of look at you like you just farted loudly in the middle of a sermon. You tell the leader how you feel about the no-longer-new group of people in the club, about how you don't feel like you fit in with them.

Instead of understanding and letting you go quietly, the leader then starts making you promises you KNOW he can't keep. After all, he couldn't MAKE this bunch be less obnoxious. And why should they have to alter their personalities simply because you find them distasteful? He can't MAKE people choose you for activities or join the ones you want to engage in. Yet he's insisting things will be different if you would only come back.

Sorry, Chris. It's time to move on.