It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. But through it all, I had Blogger.

I don't have any clever predictions or resolutions (I'm not so dumb that I'll post a bunch of "resolutions" that will just be what you can "predict" I will fail at), so I think I'll just hit the highlights of this year, mainly to make me feel better about myself.

January

• I introduce the argyle template for the first time.
• I considered quitting the blog, but experienced hiatus interruptus when I learned that the puck manufacturer for the NHL had laid off half its staff. Because to me that's breaking, blog-worthy news.
  

February

• I get contacts. It turns out that my city didn't have as much smog as I thought it did; I just had bad eyesight.
  
• I begin the search for America's Next Top Flashy and fail.
  

March

• I take my case to trial. AND WIN!
• I go to Hawaii and live to tell about it...in excruciating detail.
• Volcanoes!
• Scary fish!
  
• Whales and dolphins!
  

April

• I finish classes. Hooray!
  

May

• I buy pink shoes for graduation. Hooray!
  
• And then I have to start studying, this time for real. Sad.
  

June

• I post the scariest Friday Cat Blog ever in FCB history.
• I also post a super-scary possum picture.
  

July

• I move into a non-smoking motel that smells like smoke, has an ashtray in my non-smoking room, with a no-smoking sticker on the ashtray.
• I move again, this time into a much nicer motel that has a state-shaped hot tub.
  
• I sit for the bar.
  

August

• I move to The Batcave, Phase II, home to multitudes of Porno shops, Waffle Houses, and Fresh Ho Crack.
  
• ...and quickly evacuate my derriere right back to The Republic.

September

• I spend 5 weeks being the best-fed (but not best-clothed...I mean, did you see what I brought with me?) evacuee on the planet. I even catch the Stars preseason games on tv.
• I get my brows waxed.
  

October

• I finally return to the Batcave. It's a disaster area. It remains disasterous. But at least I have a house.
• I prove I'll cut you. Or a pumpkin. Whichever.
• I died and went to heaven. I eat a fried smores.
• I meet the man of my dreams.
  

November

• I finally clean out my car but only because I totalled it.
  
• I pass the bar.
  
• I turn 35...and get gray hair.
• I sort of solve a Sunday Times.
  

December

• I am sent killer popcorn in the mail. I eat it and live.
• I solve the mystery of the missing Hebrew National.
• I solicit applications for my talk show.
• I finally bake something people want to eat.

Overall, I'd say I had a pretty good year. Sure, bad and even tragic things happened, mostly things I didn't want to blog about and maybe never will. But I'm still alive, and besides this runny nose and the occasional sneeze, I've got my health. I have food (ok, a Snickers and some wine) in my tummy. I have cable internet. I have the delusion of having an audience.

I'm not a sentimental or touchy-feely-let's-get-emotional kind of gal, but I will say that I believe and hope that next year will be an even better year for McPan, Inc. and for all y'all who come here for your schadenfreude kicks. There's no place to go but up! Of course, I live on the southernmost edge of the state, so it's easy for me to say.

As far as celebrating, I'll be ringing in my third consecutive New Year's solo. But this time, I have champagne! I'm already looking forward to putting out my own eye so that I can have something exciting to write about this time next year when I wrap things up again. Eyepatches are in, anyway.

Happy New Year!

E. Laramie McP

Does this make you randy, baby? Does it?

Writing about a man named Ashley last night made me remember that I received a phone call from a woman named Dean the other day. Dean. She spelled it for me. D-E-A-N. And she's a she. I got a phone call from a girl named Randy about my car. I guess maybe it could have been Randie.

I've know a few women in my life named Ryan or Riann (both pronounced Ryan), but just a couple. I also knew a girl named September. She was supposed to be born in August and named August. I guess her parents didn't consider ANY other names. I knew a girl named Aaron because she was supposed to be a he, and I guess her parents couldn't be bothered to change it to the homophonic Erin.

But this whole gender-ambiguous name thing in the South is perplexing to me. Other than A Boy Named Sue or foreign male names that can be American girl names, I don't know many boys with feminine names. Sure, there are a few (Ashley), but they seem to be less prevalent than girls with boy names. Okay, so I have a boy cat whose name is Misha Sue, but at least "Misha" is a perfectly legit Russian boy name.

I'm changing my middle name back to Laramie. Plus it'll be cowboy/girl-chic, just in time for Brokeback Mountain's nationwide opening.

-----------------------
I shagged her rotten, baby!

I call bullshirt

No, it's gotta be your bull.
This shirt only cost like, $5, so I had to get it. Because I've been kicking myself ever since I didn't buy the sparkly pink Cowgirls Like Dirty Boys shirt I saw back in August, pre-hurricane. I usually don't have buyer's remorse because I'm ridiculously frugal and refuse to buy even cheap stuff, so I don't have anything to be remorseful about. I tend to have non-buyer's remorse - I'm sad that I didn't buy it. So when I saw this shirt, I bought it. Impulsively. Now I'm wondering if I can return it even though I've worn it.

I was standing around near a restaurant tonight and a skeevy-looking man kind of gave me the eye. Hi.

Um...hi?

What's your shirt say?

I was wearing a jacket over it, buttoned, but you could see some gold lettering poking out. Well, now I felt ridiculous wearing it, even though I had loved wearing it in the privacy of my own home. I opened up the jacket and showed him, except I held the shirt out so it didn't look so trashy-tight.

This...Girl...Don't...Take...No...Bull. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I buttoned back up and looked the other way, hoping for that damn deus ex machina thing you're always reading about to happen right about NOW. Hey, there's a cop. Maybe he'll arrest me for something, anything, and take me away from this skeevy dude.

So you don't take no bull, huh? That's a good thing. 'Cuz I'm a bull. [I may be wrong, but I think he actually snorted here. Not a bull-ish sort of snort, just a laughter snort. Either way, I had a painful look on my face.] That's a compliment. [He gives me an eyebrow wiggle and a grin. How is it a compliment that I wouldn't want him? I'm confused.]

I briefly wonder if I can projectile vomit with any accuracy, regrettably decide No, I probably can't, turn and walk off. I ended up just going home because I felt too skeeved out to stay.

Seriously, though, I thought the South was supposed to be full of gentlemen carrying pistols and wearing bow ties or cravats or some such, not skeevy dudes who hit on me. I want men saying Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn and having silly names like Ashley or the equally improbable Rhett.

DO NOT TELL ME I BROUGHT MY CURTAINS FROM TEXAS FOR NOTHING!!!

Face off

I saw this over at Legally Blonde's and thought it seemed pretty cool, so I tried it. And it would have been way more cool if I hadn't discovered a few things about myself:

• I looked 3% more Asian about 10 years ago. Which leads to the next point.
  
• I have a face like a middle aged white man's. I wonder if my hands are man hands.
  
• When I look like a girl, I most often resemble Alyson Hannigan. She was almost always listed, especially in more recent years. The second most frequent woman was Tori Amos.
  

I tried a wide variety of pictures, most of them taken within a year or two, and a couple from much longer ago. I put in some of the sadder comparisons because what fun is it if I just tell you I look like all the Asian celebrities in their database. Who, by the way, mostly don't resemble each other. Apparently I am the amalgam of all Asian celebrities. Nice.

Late 70s

Virginia Mayo, 56 %. Tori Amos, 50%.

Summer 1998, atop the Empire State Building

Lucy Liu, 65%. Sadly, followed by Oliver Stone, 59%.

Spring 2004

Meryl Streep, 68%. Scary.

Halloween 2004

Renee Zellweger, 56%. The FAT one. For extra sad points, I had just lost a lot of weight at this point.

Hawaii, Spring 2005
People said nice things about me in this picture, but the software says they were all lying to me because it said I resembled some really ugly people.

Seamus Heaney 55% Helen Clark 55% (She was like, the third most frequent match. Even if she is the PM of New Zealand, she's NOT good looking. Not that Seamus Heaney is) Peter Ustinov, 50%

Spring 2005

Zhang Ziyi, 62%. At least she's Asian. How I look 41% like Boris freakin' Yeltsin is bizarre, even for me. As a side note, the gray suit to the left is my girlfriend. Perhaps that's why I'm so happy in this picture.

I have to question how the software works, or what facial points it goes off of. If you resize the frame around your face, you can get wildly different results, even if you're not adding any facial points to the picture. I did three differently-sized frames on one picture (all on the same try) and only a few candidates were repeats. Most of them were completely different. Something else I noticed was that when I tried pictures where I'm wearing my glasses or sunglasses, I got back more pictures of celebrities with glasses or sunglasses. I mean, just because I wear glasses doesn't mean I look like, say, Boris Yeltsin or Oliver Stone. Yikes. All the more reason to put in the contacts, I guess.

Mensa: The Dorkmakers

Interesting. If you have an LSAT of 163 or better, you qualify for Mensa.

h/t: Divisadero

And now, a horribly fake-photoshopped picture, created by my own sad and jealous hands. Can I say again how much cooler it would be if I even had a basic program like, say, PAINT? This Mac sucks.

Typer Shark

Because I'm the world's biggest nerd who somehow missed her calling of either doing medical transcriptioning or court reporting, I just played a game of Typer Shark that lasted 49 minutes. It was glorious. I had never gotten past Level 11 and tonight I made it to 19. I wonder how far it goes on the web-only version. I'm not sure it would be worth buying, because I already know how to type. It's just competitive nerd typing-entertainment for me.

I had also never made it above 100 wpm either and tonight I did 105 wpm at 98% accuracy and later 107, also at 98%. Of course, I have no idea how they measure that. Is it from when you begin typing the words on the shark? Is it how many you complete? I have no idea, but trust me...in real life I only type around 65 wpm. Because a series of random, backwards, mutating letters, numbers, and symbols isn't "real" typing.

I know this has nothing to do with Typer Shark, but it does relate back to my Ultimate Nerdiness: I miss Oregon Trail. At my "special" school when I was little, we had to learn how to type or something. Since I was already adept at typing, I got to play games - hurrah! Man, I wish I were back in "special" school. For that matter, I wish I still had an Apple IIe.

Hmm

I was watching a stand up show on Comedy Central last week, and saw Dr. Ken perform. He's a Korean who was raised in North Carolina. (Apparently he's been on The Office, but I don't watch it, so I had never heard of him.) He sounded like...well, John Edwards. I personally didn't find him very funny (too many stereotypical jokes [like why you see Asian doctors but not Asian vets...because they eat the patients, and that's not good for business]. One or two would have been ok, but most of the routine was that) but I kept watching him because I was fascinated by the accent coming out of his mouth.

WOW!

I wonder if that's what it's like when people see and hear me talk for the first time. I mean, I was practically enthralled just by any word coming out of his mouth, so I didn't even notice at the time how unfunny I thought he was.

Well, and it's interesting that he's a doctor when he's not a comedian. Perhaps there's hope for me. Becoming a doctor, I mean, not a comedian.

Progress!

I was forced to use a bathroom in Louisiana, but this one was actually decent. The employees weren't smoking. There was a casino, but it was sort of separate from the rest of the gas station. The bathrooms had everything a bathroom ought to have - toilets that flush, doors, TP, soap, water, and paper towels. Most of the bathrooms I have patronized in LA sadly, have usually only had like, 3 of the above, and not necessarily the first three. At least in Mississippi they usually have doors.

Anyway, this bathroom was pretty good, but I did find it a bit strange that there were three - count 'em - three locks on each stall door. And they all worked, so it wasn't like two were broken and so they just put a third in.

1. Button lock on the handle
2. Hotel room kind of fold-over lock
3. Apartment-type inside keyless deadbolt
   

I felt incredibly secure when peeing. I'm not sure I understand the meaning or necessity behind the multiple locks, but hey, you got soap and paper towels and I'll be there.

Next Saturday night we're sending you back...to the future!

I'll be hitting the road again in a few hours for the drive home. It looks like I won't be snowed or iced in for a change, so that's good.

We opened gifts tonight. It was nice, especially when I said, "Maybe it's pajamas!" and it was. And later, "Maybe it's a robe!" and it was. I then thought I should say, "Maybe it's a million dollars!" but that might be pushing my luck. A and I got each other the very same CD, except he had forgotten he had gotten it for me, so he was extra-surprised when I opened his and said, "Crap." Not the response one normally hopes for when giving a gift.

I lost at Scrabble tonight. "Adzed" should not be a word. Because it's stupid.

Anyway, I'll be on the road, so if I miss you tomorrow, Merry Christmas and stuff.

--Elaine

--------------------------------------------------
Ronald Reagan? The actor?!

Skeptimistic

Unlike SG, I don't really think the word is all that stupid. I had never heard it before, but I instantly recognized myself as a skeptimist. I like the ambiguity of whether the "imist" is an "optimist" or a "pessimist" (presumably leaning more pessimist).

At any rate, if SG doesn't want skeptimistic, then I'll take it.

Happy holidays,
Elaine, skeptimist extraordinare

P.S. - Is it bad I almost got a bow tie collar for Misha and would have considered changing his name to Tucker whenever I put it on him? I didn't get it, because I thought the hilarity that ensued wouldn't be worth the $5.99. I got him an olive drab collar instead. I'm going to ship him off to military school and see how he likes it. The other cat (Thomas) gets a nice argyle-type collar. Pictures when I get home.

Clueless

For being 35, I am still sort of naive. Or, rather, there are a lot of expressions I've never heard or understood. Remember the joke about two fellows peeing off a bridge? Like that.

There's an ad for the local cable company (the one that is hockey-less) saying how they're rebuilding the coast, etc. etc. and that they were working hard and they needed workers. I turned to A and said, "See...I could just lay cable for a living."

He laughed. Hard.

"What? They pay really well!"

Apparently, "laying cable" means something besides the installment of cable lines. It's more along the lines of poo. Which I (obviously) didn't know and felt greatly embarrassed afterward to find out.

But then I was telling this to some people and the girls I told this to didn't know that meaning of "laying cable" either, so I felt justified in my ignorance.

Of course, there was probably no excuse for me saying that Hebrew National ought to come out with tiny cocktail-size Hebrew Nationals so I could make pigs in a blanket with them.

The worst, though, involved my mom (who, incidentally, called me about the peeing joke and asked me to explain it to her. I don't think I've ever had to talk about "parts" with my mother, and I think I could have lived without having done so. Incidentally, it's good to know that I can do it and still survive the trauma of it. The human body is amazing that way.) It was a couple of years ago and my little sister Special K and I were flipping through magazines in the kitchen. My mom was telling us about a bowling ball her friend had bought at a garage sale and how it was a perfect fit, etc. When the friend brought it to the bowling league night, my mom noticed it was engraved with HOT BOX. She took the friend aside and I guess pointed out that HOT BOX means something besides the words "hot" and "box."

Special K and I waited for the rest of the story because we had no idea what HOT BOX could possibly mean. I was completely clueless, whereas Special K thought it might mean a car in which the occupants were smoking weed. So we waited. And my mom waited for our response to the HOT BOX bowling ball.

When she realized none was coming, she had to explain it to us. I'd say that having my mom talk to me and my sister about girl parts in the kitchen is worse than me talking to my mom about boy parts over the phone where at least no one could see how embarrassed I was.

One more thing...

If I sent you a Christmas present with a bow on it, there's a good chance I had to use a glue gun to make that bow stay on. Which may explain why it's so hard to get it off. Or why the wrapping paper has fused into the box.

I would have J.B. Welded them on (and thereby avoiding all the hot glue burns) but I didn't want to drive down to the Home Despot.

So...have fun opening them!

I'm a travelin' McPan

On the drive back to The Republic, I went through Vicksburg, Mississippi. It's a historic Civil War battlesite. It took Grant nearly two months and a few tries to win there. I don't have much interest in visiting the place, considering it's in Mississippi (although I'd take it over any Louisiana gas station), but I saw an interesting billboard for one of the local motels.

Vicksburg Motel (or whatever it was called)
Stay Awhile...GRANT did!

Nothing like a little Civil War humor, I guess, to liven up an all-day road trip. Um, it is supposed to be humorous, right? I'm not a native Southerner, so perhaps one of the boys at Southern Appeal could help me out here.

Personal low

Yesterday I used a sweater comb. On a sock.







Shouldn't someone be staging an intervention on me anytime soon?

I'm gonna get snipped

Since I'll be back in the land of civilization for part of the week, I'm going to get my hair cut. It hasn't been cut since October, so it's about time. Although driving to another state for a haircut really marks up the price. Maybe I ought to go back to my original plan of flying in my old LSC hair lady. She even has family in the area, so it's not completely unreasonable.

Anyway, any suggestions on my cut?

Overall, I think I'm going to grow it out a few more months (it's getting pretty long now, well past the shoulders in the back) and then consider the big chop. But in the meantime, I think I'm going to get a bigger fringe of bangs. Long bangs of course, but my last attempt at bangs in October was just a small section which just looked like an accident in cutting layers.

P.S. - See you all in a couple of days unless I get up early to post tomorrow. Unlikely.

I'm just a girl, What's my destiny?

If I keep living the bachelor life, I believe it'll be gastric bypass.

Mac & cheese, Dagwood sandwiches, ramen noodles, take-out (it was sushi, so it could have been worse), brownies, blondies, glazed pecans, lots of coffee, and the occasional vitamin. I wish I had thought ahead and bought Spam singles. Oh well, next time.

It's not as bad as it sounds. I mean, I did make the best brownies ever (and NOT from a box!!!) and some glazed pecans with cinnamon. I'm making more blondies today and would have made more pecans but the store was out. Apparently everyone made a pecan run in the last day and a half because I couldn't find any nuts of any sort. Walnuts, pistachios, hazelnuts, nothing! So...glazed pecans were a rarity in this year's Christmas packages. Um, sorry.

Today's my last day to pretend to be a bachelor, so for brunch I made corned beef hash and French toast (well, I guess it's French toast - egg and bread and some milk, no syrup) and attempted to make it into a sandwich but it sort of fell apart so I had to eat some of it with my fingers. Why use a fork when it only has 4 tines and I have 10 fingers? At any rate, it was really, REALLY good. I think more together-people (as opposed to single, I mean) ought to eat like that. Because it's crazy-tasty.

I love the bachelorette culinary life. Although I don't really like that word bachelorette. I prefer something like bacheloress or even just plain bachelor. I mean, you don't have plumberettes or lawyerettes. Even actresses are moving to the term actor. So I'm going to just refer to myself as a bachelor.

And if this post makes no sense, I hit my head twice on the car door yesterday, and it still hurts on one side. So...yeah.

Just when I thought I had nothing to post about

I went into the bathroom to dry my hair and found this:
AARGH! My precious Cottonelle!!!

I ran out to find this:


WORST! CAT! EVER!

He's never done this before even though he's had the opportunity to do so every day of his life. I wonder if it's because I'm taking Thomas to the vet for his post-surgery check-up and he's jealous. Misha likes trips. Because he's DUMB.

The key is under the mat!

This guy in China repeatedly broke into his blogcrush's apartment while she was sleeping and would sometimes take things from her place. Normally this would be bad.

However, he also washed her dishes, did her laundry, made her snacks (snacks, people, SNACKS!) and even fixed her computer. (Note to potential defense attorneys: the court let him go. Apparently, being a man servant is a mitigating factor.)

Here's what bothers me, though - Why can't anyone like that break into my house? I have dirty dishes, clothes, am hungry, and have a screwy computer.

See, you guys...THAT is how to woo a woman.

Cashmere for your rear

I have a dilemma. I'm broke but I have expensive taste in toilet paper. Which isn't as weird as it sounds because luxury toilet paper is the next big thing.

To illustrate the difference between whatever 1/3-of-a-ply you might be using and the "good stuff," try the toilet paper in the women's restroom in the lobby at the Wyndham Anatole in Dallas. It's so good it ought to be listed under the "Services and Amenities" section, in my opinion. The second best free toilet paper I've ever used was at the Sheraton Gunter in San Antonio when I was there for a wedding. Truly great.

I was discussing this whole "luxury on a dime" problem with one of my sisters. At first she was sympathetic to my plight about trying to save money. She said her husband had tried to limit her to 10 squares per use because she used too much and was therefore costing them too much. She suggested I switch to Charmin because you only need four squares. I told her I didn't like Charmin. Too linty.

What did she suggest next?

I believe it was something to do with bleaching one of my naughty bits. Yes!!! One that begins with an "a" and ends in a "n-u-s." She! Said! That! (If you were just offended/horrified/whatever at that last topic, don't worry. I plan never to discuss that part again. So, yes, it's safe to keep reading.) She saw something about it on tv, which still doesn't justify my ears having to have heard that.

And you thought I was weird. I'm telling you, it's familial. This weird conversation proves the nature v. nurture argument - obviously I'm not related by nature but this whole "nurturing" thing had a profound effect on me. I mean, look how weird I am now. When I get to be her age, I'll be extraordinarily weird.

But going back to toilet paper....I'm a devoted user of Cottonelle's Aloe & E, which is only a single-ply but is amazingly soft and sturdy. I've convinced my girlfriend to use it too, which is convenient for me, because then when I'm at her place, it feels like I'm at my place. Ahhhhh.

I don't like Quilted Northern because it's too flimsy and not very soft, even if someone's grandma quilted on it. Plus, I don't think they ought to work nice old ladies that way anyway. Those commercials make me think of Ben Stiller and his nursing home sweatshop in Happy Gilmore and I just wouldn't feel right using that toilet paper and enjoying it.

And I don't like Charmin (see above), even if, according to the article, it's America's premium TP. At least on drugstore.com, Charmin and Cottonelle work out to be around the same price, $5 for 6 double rolls, so going to Charmin wouldn't really save me any money. And no, I didn't write any of those reviews for the Cottonelle TP (you'll note, though, there are way more reviews for my brand than Charmin).

I don't want to get stuck with 4 rolls of something awful, and I don't think they let you sample in the store. So help a down-on-her-luck ex-law student, people, and sell me on your choice of TP.

Sweet

Two Christmas-themed JAGs in a row. Now 1 "light and easy" sudoku will take me 60 minutes instead of 32.

Friday Cat Blogging: Tunnel Vision Edition

Misha inside the Killer Popcorn box. Notice the front paw peeking out the front.

Blondie Ambition

Obviously I'm not one of those bloggers (WAY too many to mention) who has useful skills like cooking or something, but I do what I can. File this post under "Cooking Triumph." Um, yeah, you're going to have to start a tab for it because so far there haven't been any.

This is perhaps the best cutting job I've ever done. I got out a tape measure to make them roughly the same size. Because I have no spatial skills either.

Ready for transport.

When the tupperware was returned today, all but about 6 were eaten. Granted, I ate a few for quality control, but the majority are now going to someone else's rear end. Haha, suckers!!!

Compare and contrast

These trees stand (well, one kind of leans now) right behind my house.

Pre-Katrina

Post-Katrina

I hope they cut down that tree soon. It doesn't look so bad in the picture, but it's got a severe lean in person. It'd be my luck to have the tree fall onto the newly-fixed roof.

############!!!!!!!

People always ask me how life is here, post-Katrina. I always tell them it's fine. Boring, but fine. The truth is something a little closer to this - it sucks. I don't have any friends here. I'm not licensed here. I'm not sitting for the bar here. I'm probably going to end up working at the McDonald's around the corner. They have a $50 sign-on bonus.

There's nothing to do, no place to eat, no place to get a drink (even coffee, although right now I could stand some other stuff), or even hardly a place to go grocery shopping that doesn't suck. The produce section is nearly nonexistent. The overall selection is pitiful. When I say "nonexistent" or "pitiful" I don't mean they don't have your fancy-pants cremini mushrooms (which are barely fancy) - I mean like, "tomatoes that aren't way bad already when you buy them" or "lettuce with more than 4 leafs on it" or "For god's sake, don't you people even sell name-brand ramen?" The prices are ridiculous. Driving down the one navigable city road that's replaced the state highway is frustrating. Obviously, I wasn't going to get a lot of Christmas shopping done here. Which is why I took an entire day to go to another state to shop.

So when the internets fail me in delivering the Christmas presents I ordered three weeks before Christmas with 3-day shipping, I feel entitled to vent. And if you don't like it, you can shove off.

----------------

8:02 - I call the shipping company.

8:12 - I get a live representative. "What do you mean you don't know where it is? It says it's on the truck for delivery. Since three days ago."

"We actually have no idea where it is, and we don't even know if it got to your city. We do know it got to your state."

"That is NOT helpful." ####################################!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Someone will return your call in 1 to 8 business days."

"That's December 26. When do you celebrate Christmas?" ###################!!!

"You have to call the vendor to arrange for a package trace because you as the recipient can't do that."

8:28 - I call the vendor.

8:35 - I get a representative. What's that you say? To have it sent again and arrive before I leave (which is too late to send out as presents for Christmas this year) would cost as much as the entire original package? So, a $25 package would turn into a $75 one? 25 for the original, 25 for the replacement, and 25 more in shipping. Sure, I could send back the original, but I have to go through 942 bureaucratic hoops to have it declared "lost" since it's "technically not lost since it's someplace in your state, but that's between you and the vendor to decide who will be liable for those costs."

8:57 - I hang up and consider running away or maybe volunteering for haz-mat cleanup so I never have to talk to anyone again.

----------------

I've been calling since last week about another package from another place. They don't even know if it shipped. And their email server is down, so even if it was, I wouldn't have gotten the tracking email anyway. I guess it'll just be a surprise as to whether I get it or not. I should have specified it wasn't a present for me, so no need to surprise me with it.

----------------

And my other 3 packages? "Tracking information is not available right now."

----------------

Stupidest. #######. Christmas. Ever.

----------------

And while I'm at it, what the hell is wrong with Firefox?!!!! Every time I push the apple button and T to open a new tab, my window jumps to the far end of the screen. It just started doing that like 2 days ago. ####! This! ####!

You talkin' to me? Well, I'm the only one here.

I went to the store today to buy some supplies for my sure-to-be-another-post-to- file-under-cooking-tragedy blondies. There was a man restocking the eggs that gave me a visible once-over when I walked by the first time. Weird! I decided to get all the other stuff first and then maybe he would be done.

Well, he wasn't. And he was blocking the whole section, so I asked him to hand me a dozen large eggs. He leaned in and said something about how I should come back on a Monday or a Tuesday because the truck wasn't going to be there until then. ??? There's like 500 dozen eggs, which is like, a million eggs! I reached in and said, "Oh, I'll just take these. Thanks!" and tried to scoot away as fast as possible.

I didn't make it.

Say, where are you from?

Oh boy. Not this again. I gave him the tight smile and indulged his unnecessary nosiness because I try to be nice most of the time.

Korea.

I waited for the inevitable string of whatever Korean he knew, which I inevitably would not know, and would only be able to respond in Japanese, which is at least, in the same general area of the world. Or I could respond in maybe Latin or Franglish. Or if you're lucky, some Texanized Italian.

Nawww. I been to Korea and you don't look Korean. Man, you are beautiful! (He says this as if he's just discovered something truly amazing: that I am not hideous.) You must be a mix.

At this point, I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

• You're beautiful = flattery.
  
• You're too beautiful to be Korean = insulting, I think.
  
• You're a mutt = definitely insulting.

Hah, [my fake go-away laugh] yes, my mother always says that. I'm adopted, so I really wouldn't know.

Of course, I get the "You don't look Korean" all the time. I'm waiting for my mother to die so I can read the letter she has placed in a safe deposit box that can only be opened upon her death that reveals my true heritage. Because surely she's been hiding something from me all this time.

You...you must be...half...Italian or something because you're just too beautiful to be only Korean.

See previous thoughts but now add in a side of "intriguing" because...well, half-Italian? Bizarre! I was leaning back toward being flattered again because a) I like Italian food b) I made an A in all my Italian classes c) I think Italian women are supposed to be pretty or something. Then I remembered that this whole thing was a bit strange overall, and that I should take my eggs and leave.

Ha ha, [now verging on creeped-out fake laughter] well...thanks.

I escaped, or so I thought. As I was leaving, he was outside collapsing boxes. When he saw me, he called out You take care now! MMM-MMM! (When I say that, it sounds like Dave Chappell...so use that kind of MMM-MMM in your head.) I like those boots!

------------------

This just leaves me with a lot of questions.

• What am I, some kind of niche market?
  
• I mean, I wouldn't call myself objectively beautiful by any means. I figure I hover around average, unless you just dig "I might be Korean, or I could just be some kind of mutt" girls who sound like a redneck and have every phobia not known to regular humanity.
  
• Do objectively pretty girls get hit on like this (provided being told I'm beautiful in the refrigerated section or that I'm cute by your cheesesteak-making grandpa counts as being hit on)? Or do they get less-harassing treatment like just a look-over, or an eyebrow wiggle or something?
• Is it just the current circumstances that make me so suddenly "beautiful"?
  
• What I mean is this: post-hurricane, there's been a huge influx of male workers. Clean-up, roofing, FEMA, insurance adjusters, you name it. I read a local newspaper article comparing the area to the Old West, with males disproportionately outnumbering females. So maybe I'm only beautiful in a relative context. Because I've certainly never been told more than maybe a handful of times in the last 35 years that I'm beautiful by a total stranger, so there has to be some explanation.
  
• What is the appropriate response?
• I don't want to seem like a total bitch, especially if they are (misguidedly) just trying to be nice or compliment me.
• I don't want to overract by say, macing them or kicking them in the groin. I mean, I don't want to be the one in jail at the end of the day for assault. I'm too pretty for jail!

This isn't a post fishing for compliments. Trust me, I've had a few too many lately. It's more about seeking explanations for male behavior. And solutions to it. Or something.

Will the real Shady please stand up? And put one of those fingers on each hand up?

Over Thanksgiving, my mother was dismayed to find that my latest bad habit is to give the bird to people. Usually my sisters, but on occasion, a brother or two. But because I didn't want my mom to see (since I would never knowingly say the F word in front of her), I would hold up my other hand (the hidey-hand) and place it between my mom's view and the person I was paying special attention to.

This worked for about 1/3 of a second. My older brother laughed and shouted, Mom, Elaine's flipping me off! like we were still in grade school or something. Of course, this only made me want to flip him off with both hands, but then I'd need another hidey-hand. No es possible, so I had to be satisfied with The Bird with a side of evil eye.

My mom pretended like she didn't hear us. It was just like the old days.

As the week progressed, it got to the point where I only had to hold up the hidey-hand to get my point across. It was a great shorthand (hahah...short! hand!) way to tell that person how I felt at the moment, and even if my mom did see, I wasn't aaaaactually doing anything bad. I could also quickly pretend to be doing something else, like tai chi, reaching for a pencil, or something equally innocuous.

I was about to say that I don't normally flip off inanimate objects but tonight I found myself giving the bird to the tv over an ad for the airport and some new flights they're going to start up. I tried to buy tickets on the new flights well over a month ago. Cost? A little over $1400. For coach. It'd be cheaper to rent a limo to drive me! With champagne! Needless to say, it's going to be another 20 hour car trip.

Anyway, when I saw this (FYI: don't click these links if you don't want to see some upraised middle fingers), I laughed and wondered if he would do that in front of his mom. And would Fresh do this in front of his mom? Surely there are more pictures out there. I think I'm going to make a collage out of all these pictures because most people reading this are probably past the age of indiscriminate flipping off (apparently I'm just reaching it), and so if you're doing it and taking a picture for posterity, there's got to be a good story.

Particle (wo)man

I saw a woman throw a cigarette butt out her car window the other day. Around here, that's not unusual. Smoking is prevalent. I think it's encouraged, because everyone smokes.

As I passed her, I glanced over into her car and noticed she was wearing one of those dust particle masks like this:
Um...WTF?

The Iron-on Chef

I may not be good at much, but I can iron on an applique or three like nobody's business. I made these little purses for two of my nieces and put a little (and I mean minute...these purses were tiny!) gift inside each one.


I kind of want one for myself now....


I'm going to be attempting to make a holiday party snack at some point. Maybe brownies. I like blondies, but I don't think I have my favorite recipe anymore. But if I wait long enough, maybe I'll get to use my Emergency Chocolate Cake recipe. Maybe I'll do Christmas cookies with sprinkles. Or maybe I'll just take a ton of tiny, tiny purses.

-------
Speaking of cookies, was it wrong for me to be singing this at the post office?

Santa does it all for the cookies!
C'mon, the cookies,
C'mon
So you can take that cookie
And stick it up your yeah!!
Stick it up your yeah!!
Stick it up your yeah!!

....Like a chump, yeah, like a chump

It's not my fault. I had to go to the post twice today, and the interminable line-waiting got to me. The first time I got out of the line because I realized I had enough cash to use the stamp machine in the lobby. Then I realized that the stamp machine was only accepting coins. Which I did not have $14 worth of. So I left.

After lunch, I went to another post office, but now I had a package to mail. So I had to stand in an 18-minute line. Part of what held up the line so long was people reacting to the news that the post office had run out of the religious stamps. Each time someone would loudly complain What do you mean you don't have any more Virgins?! [Elaine snickers and imagines an Onion headline along the lines of USPS announces new rate hike after running out of virgins before Christmas. "Sales were unexpectedly high," say officials.], the line would start to buzz with people revamping their Christmas card stamping choices. Seriously, people were calling their other half in a panic: Honey, they don't got any more of those Madonna and Child stamps. You want the cookies or the Santas?

Me? I did it all for the cookies. And a book of bird ones, just to be different.

He took my job!

I found out today that I didn't get the last job I interviewed for a couple of weeks ago.

They said they would notify me by letter about the job, so I've been waiting ever since for a rejection.




How did I find out I didn't get the job?

Not in a letter. Not in a phone call.

By email....sent from the person who did get the job.

My friend Slim Jim sent me an email today asking what city I was in because he had just gotten X Job in X City! And I was the only person he knew out there! So we could hang out and be cool together! I could hear him singing Good Times already.

I wrote him back and said I wasn't in that city because, um, that was the job I would have moved to X City for. And since he got it, I wouldn't be moving there anymore. I guess he didn't realize we were interviewing for the same job. I haven't heard back from him yet. What was I supposed to say?

----------

AND I can't find my lucky deodorant in stores anymore. I think they've stopped making it. Oh well. I've sort of run out of ambition anyway. Today I chose "Botanical Silk." We'll see how many jobs "Botanical Silk" gets me.

Coming soon to a mailbox near you

Ahhh. The first batch of Christmas cards. I'm upset because I didn't have enough of my sparkly envelope seals to put on all of them. I even went to another state today to go shopping and they didn't have them. Boooooo!

-----------------

In other news: The Apple Store is so innundated with calls, it took me 9 minutes to get to a guy who took my phone number and name and they will "hopefully" call me back tomorrow. Sometime. Um, no rush on the Christmas present I'm ordering or anything....

I got the thermostat blues

At the last motel I was at, I had a really hard time trying to figure out how to make the room warm because if I turned it toward "Warmer," it was also in the "Cooling Econo Zone." I know I'm not the most technologically advanced person, but really, isn't this setup a little bit confusing? A tiny bit?

McPanSpeak: Doubleplusgood. All others: Doubleplusungood

Newsflash..."Used to could" is not good English!!! Which I didn't know. And that's bad. Because I say it. Well, sometimes I say "used to could be able to," so I don't know if it makes my mistake less wrong or not. Probably not.

At any rate, I don't know how "used to could" is any worse than:

Would y'all step back so a girl
Might could get started
Then he won’t have to look twice to see

(emphasis mine)

See it for yourself (wait a few minutes for the entire thing to load and then click on "Watch Intentional Heartache video")! Of course, I've never spray-painted TRAMP on anyone's Monte Carlo (although someone at my school used to drive one and I snickered whenever I saw it), but one time in high school I came home from a football game to discover that someone had shoe-polished BITCH on my car window and the shoe polish had run all onto the paint. I never did find out who did it but the person I always suspected is now a fellow lawyer in my state. Nice.

Six Angry Women

My mom did her civic duty and served on a jury. And got this really cool certificate. I should have taken a wide-view picture because it's the ONLY thing on the fridge. Not a list of my wonderful accomplishments, a stick-it note with my blog address on it, or a note about what to buy at the store. NOTHING except this.

I will say this, though - the woman is dedicated to justice. I mean, look at me. Well, if I had a job.

Friday Cat Blogging (on a short leash this week)

The victor chews up the halter and leash

Trimspa, baby!

I went shopping today for Christmas presents for other people but ended up buying things for me. Because I'm selfish that way.

Anyway, that's not the main point of this. I mean, that's not why I've quoted Anna Nicole, in case you were still wondering. No, I haven't posed for Playboy; no, I haven't gotten meganormously fat; no, I haven't had a falling out with Bobby Trendy; and no, I don't have a lawyer named Howard Stern.

I've met someone. Older. WAY older. You know your grandpa? Well, he's probably a bit younger than him, but not by much.

I was at the cheesesteak store for lunch, thinking how sad it was that nobody I know (except my girlfriend) likes cheesesteak. I love cheesesteak. I'll eat pretty much any kind of cheesesteak. Provolone, peppers, onions, mushrooms? Fine. Marinara and Cheez Whiz? Sure. I even went to a place once that was oozing with New Jersey Devils merchandise and newspaper clippings because I heard they had a great cheesesteak. Perhaps I shouldn't have been wearing my Stars jersey, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway...the older man. He was the order-taker/cashier at the cheesesteak store. He was sort of flirtatious in that grumpy Jack Lemmon kind of way. The girl making the cheesesteaks was running behind, so he helped her out. Except the only one he helped her out with was my cheesesteak.

Easy on the mayo, right?

Yessir.

Extra tomatoes and lettuce? And then he winks at me. Twice. He knew I had requested no lettuce, no tomato.

Um, no. No lettuce, no tomato. Because who puts that on a cheesesteak?

Good. Because I wasn't gonna give you any.

Um, great. Glad to hear it.

You're cute.

[I didn't know whether to say "I know" or "Thanks," {I ultimately went with an awkward, Thank you} so I just stood there and mainly became engrossed by how awful the Diet Pepsi I got tasted. You know how it smells when you open a band-aid wrapper? That weird plastic adhesive smell? That's what my Diet Pepsi tasted like. Plastic adhesive. I dumped the rest out and bought a coffee afterward.]

You're hot.

Normally, when old men say this to me, that's my cue to throw something heavy at their head and then run away. But I had already paid for my cheesesteak and I was really, really hungry. So I stayed there and desparately wished I had gone to the CinnaMonster instead. Then I realized that he had said It's hot and not You're hot. Whew. Then I felt embarrassed that I was so vain to think that that's what he said (although, in my defense, he did wink at me and did call me cute).

I wondered what else he might say if I stuck around long enough, but then I thought that unless he was J. Howard rich, I was better off not talking to him. And given the fact that he was working at the cheesesteak store at his age, the odds seemed long against us getting married, him kicking the bucket soon afterward, and me becoming really blonde and rich.

Feel the power...of attorney!

During my evacuation, Mr. Milbarge suggested I rent the Harvey Birdman, Attorney-at-Law cartoons since I was going to start getting Netflix. I had never heard of them, but we have a similar sense of humor, so I put them on the list. They came a couple of weeks ago, but I'm just now getting around to writing about it.

They were really funny, but it was hard to watch two seasons' worth back-to-back. So take an ufunny break or four. Sadly, the DVD commentary was not very interesting, especially the one where they had the legal team for the cartoon sitting in and doing commentary. On occasion there might be a funny remark, usually regarding them having to track down the owner of some crazy-sounding product name for permission, but otherwise, the truth hurts - cartoon lawyers are not funny. So freakin' scratch that off my list of dream jobs!!!

But I liked the improbable situations Harvey got into, because I can really sympathize with that. I also liked his boss, Phil, because he wears an eye patch and a tuxedo. Talk about a man with class! I'm telling you eyepatches are in. Okay, so Clark really has a reason for wearing one, but still.

On a somewhat related note, my girlfriend's birthday was last week, and I strongly considered getting her this (except from Wal-mart, since it was only like, $2.98) but I wasn't sure she'd like it. I got her some really random other stuff instead, like a tiny Slinky and an Etch-a-Sketch pen. She liked my present(s). I didn't tell her about the other thing, because maybe I'll get her that for Christmas anyway. Shhh.

HHHHAHAHA!

Maybe I'd learn how to read for the right book.

Update: You can read the full text here. But only nerds would go there. And certainly only nerds would download it as an e-book.

My name in print. That really makes somebody. Things are going to start happening to me now!

- Any bathroom looks instantly cleaner by throwing away anything with a beer label on it. At least, my bathroom looked instantly cleaner.

- I should be fully dressed and not needing to use the little nuns' room earlier in the day. Because workmen like to show up unannounced when I am not dressed and needing to, you know, use the nuns' room.

- My roof is fixed. My shower still is not, after the third attempt.

- You can turn off the "Maintenance Required" light on the truck. Just read the owner's manual.

- Someone in my neighborhood has found my blog. And read it for a very long time. I hope they know there's a test. I expect my celebrity status to skyrocket. Remember, you pretended to read me way back when, and I thank you for that.

- My man Andy (he lets me call him Andy) was on The Colbert Report last night. I don't know if that's how he normally laughs or if that's his real-sounding fake laugh. He laughs just like that at my jokes, so I hope it's his real laugh. Otherwise, we have some serious things to discuss. Like why he didn't get me a birthday present last month, for starters.

Who is it? Candygram.

Once, when I was working for a PR department (except they didn't call it the PR department, although that's what it was), one of the secretaries told me that I would be a good activities director on a cruise. I've never been on a cruise. I can't swim. I'm afraid of land sharks. I'm afraid of skin cancer. So I found this statement to be very interesting.

But not as interesting as the latest career suggestion to come my way: television talk show host. Because it's the next logical step after my audioblogging career.

But not just ANY talk show. It'd be my talk show (in bed). Called...

...wait for it...

Pillow Talk (in bed). The basic premise would be that I would interview - eventually - celebrities (in bed). And we'd all be in our pajamas (in bed). Of course, it wouldn't be sexual or anything like that, just a regular talk show (in bed).

And if you haven't guessed by now, I'd have a segment where my guests read fortune cookies (in bed).

Really, it's not as weird as it sounds. I mean, how do you think these guys felt explaining to the people who gave them the money to start their restaurants (in bed)?

At first I'd just have to be on public access or something, interviewing friends, family, gullible acquaintances and anyone else I could somehow beg, bribe, or otherwise swindle into appearing on the show until I'm famous and can book celebrities.

Eventually, I'd be noticed (think Wayne's World) and I'd make it big time. Pajama endorsements, mattress commercials, fortune cookies, Noah's Arcade, etc.

Of course, I need a sidekick for this, as all these kinds of shows have a sidekick (Johnny - Ed, Leno - Eubanks, Dave - Shaffer [although I'm not a big fan of the host-bandleader format], Conan - Andy, and Adam - Jimmy. Even Ben Stein - Jimmy, because I liked him better than that girl).

I'm taking applications for sidekicks, as well as volunteer interviewees. Right now I can't afford to fly you in and put you up at a nice hotel or anything, so all that, pajamas, and food (it's not that I'm not willing to provide it, it's more that you probably aren't willing to eat it) is up to you. But you'll always get to say, "Hey, I was on her show back when she was broadcasting out of the Nixon beds!"

The brush-off

I went to the dentist today. There was a lot of paperwork to fill out, more than usual. It was interesting because I got a wide variety of things to choose from when it asked who the primary insurance holder was. Sure, they had the normal categories: Self, Parent, Spouse. But they also had civil union-type options and "live-in partner." Sadly, there was no "Other" category where I could just make up a relationship title like Cabana Boy or Undercover Brother or Mr. Slave.

The office was nice, nicer than my last dentist's. There was Harry Connick, Jr. playing, interesting wall hangings, nice waiting room chairs, and wall-length waterfalls running down a piece of slate. There were fish tanks everywhere, so it's a good thing I don't have ichthyophobia. One big tank served as a partial separation between the lobby and the exam room. There were smaller tanks in the back and pictures and other fishy knick-knack things. When you leaned back in the chair, there was a big poster of a pod of whales (which are NOT fish, and I considered pointing out to them but didn't) over you.

The dental technician lady asked me if I was pregnant or if I might be pregnant. Like a smartass, I said, "I'm doing my worst at trying." She looked puzzled, and so I thought it would be helpful to say, "I really hope not." This wasn't clearing anything up, so I finally said, "There is NO WAY I am." I almost mentioned the Nixon beds but then thought that might be TMI. She began to put the 1,000 pound apron on me. "Because if I were, there would be some serious trouble." She paused. I said, "I'm not. And now I'll shut up."

My x-rays didn't show anything troublesome (hooray!).

My dentist reminded me of Dr. Rey from Dr. 90210 in the way that he's well-put-together but not really actually good-looking. But you can tell he takes care of himself and also that he probably has a lot of money, which probably ups the "good-looking" factor. What I mean is, if he didn't have the money, I don't know if women would say he was attractive after all.

McPan...McPan...German, is it?

No, it's Russian. I think some letters were dropped off when they came to America.

Ah, I see. That happened to my family's name. I think they did something to disgrace the family name, so they dropped the last L in it.

I'm just telling you what they told me. I have no idea if it's true or not.

Hmm. So, Laney, you're 35? [except he said my real age with the same I don't believe you tone]

[I paused here because I don't like to have my name shortened. I decided if he said it again, I would correct him, but otherwise, for someone I would only see once or twice ever, it wasn't worth it to make a big deal out of it.]

Yes. [giggle]

You don't look it. [looks at my I'm a Professional shirt]

I know.

I can't believe it.

Neither can I. Uh, this isn't a test, is it?

He tells me my teeth are in good condition and then asks, "What can I do for you today?" as if this were Burger King and I could have things my way. Pretty much I was just there for the free toothbrush and floss if they gave out floss, so I didn't put in any special requests or anything.

I ended up with a free toothbrush and some toothpaste. I didn't even get a sticker.

And one more thing: They let me be in charge of the spit machine! And I also had to wear these big old people type of sunglasses so water wouldn't get in my eye. Very fancy, I tell you.

Seven

Good readers will know that I am a ginormo fan of the Hebrew National hot dog. If the place I'm at doesn't have them, I'll just eat something else.

Not only are they tasty, but they're intriguing. I mean, they come in a package of seven. Yes, seven hot dogs. But hot dog buns come in a package of eight. I've spent the better part of a year trying to figure this out, pondering the significance of 7 hot dogs as well as what to do with that last hot dog bun.

Here's some of the things I've wondered if they impacted the number of hot dogs per package:

Seven Costanza
Se7en
7 of 9
7th Heaven
You know, all that biblical stuff - trumpets, seals, walls, etc.
7s on a slot machine
7 Dwarfs
7 wonders of the world

Are there more? Sure. But I wasn't getting anywhere close to figuring out what to do with that 8th hot dog bun. And remember, I'm paranoid, not a compulsive list-maker. So I did what a "normal" person would do: I called the Hebrew National hotdog hotline and asked them.

And it turns out, it's just because they're packaged by weight, and the weight of 7 Hebrew Nationals is the same for 8 regular, non-kosher, semi-godless (okay, I made that part up) hot dogs.

They didn't give me any suggestions as to how to use up that last bun. A higher authority, indeed. Hrumph!

Left behind

I dated quite a few (at least 4, maybe more...I forget these things) left-handers in my day. I'm not sure if the gene pool where I'm from was just rife with them (perhaps...a pair of lefty twins in my family, an in-law and a niece and nephew who are left-handed) or if I just had a secret "lefty" magnet in me.

Sadly, I don't think many of those leftys turned out too well, although I know at least one got married. Actually, another got married too, but then divorced (and then came back to my house to see if I was still available. Answer: Um, no. Even if I was.) Being a righty, I like to blame the failed relationships on their left-handedness and not me. It's not my fault it didn't work out; they're lefthanded! They wanted to hold hands the wrong way, and use scissors upside down, and do everything...well, just weird.

Considering the world's got about 9 times as many rightys as leftys, I wonder what the numbers are (if any, or if it's all random) for left-handers being attracted to other left-handers. Do left-handed couples feel that they just "get" each other? Do they like it because they can eat sitting next to each other without jostling elbows? Are left-handers better at reading other left-handers with bad handwriting? I know I can't read bad right-handed chickenscratch, so that is probably not a really good question.

I know that there are several "former leftys" (not sure what the right term is..."recovering lefty?") out there as well as a couple of still - leftys who might be able to shed some light on my impossibly random ponderings.

Could it be...Satan?

Usually I like to get things in the mail. Not bills, of course, but like, packages and magazines and stuff. You know.

So it was really super cool and surprising the other day when the doorbell rang and it was the UPS man (I may or may not have had a Paulette moment right then) with a really big package...for ME! (Stop it; I know what you're thinking and it's not like that.) It was a giant assortment of popcorn, with like, the 5 different flavors and a card that said:

Congratulations on carving the best STARS pumpkin I've ever seen. Just imagine what you would have received if you passed the bar.

Ok...that's a bit odd, considering I did pass the bar, and why is this popcorn person talking about Halloween in December?! And it's not signed. Hmmmm.

Being a paranoid conspiracy theorist kind of girl, I didn't want to eat the popcorn, even though it was clearly sent directly from the manufacturer and was sealed for my "safety." Cheddar flavor? Suuuure...if you pronounce "cheddar" "ARSENIC." It was just too untrustworthy for me to eat right yet.

I tried to think who would send me this mystery popcorn. I wrote an email to friends and family asking them if they had sent me the lovely box of mystery popcorn and/or anthrax, and if so, to please let me know so I can thank them (unless it's anthrax, in which case I would have to report them, apologies in advance). I didn't get a reply in the 12 nanoseconds after I sent it, so I began to panic and compile a list of "People Who Would Want To See Me Dead With Popcorn Bits Stuck Between My Teeth." Obviously it would have to be someone sadistic who would want to see me suffer. Because popcorn in the teeth hurts. This narrowed it down a little bit.

In my head, the query was starting to take shape:

ALLFEDS (McPan AND popcorn! /p (kill! OR murder! OR sadist!) ANDNOT "funny")

• Parents? No, probably not.
  
• Friends? (This list was very short, as it only includes like 4 people, including my imaginary ones, so I could quickly exclude them.) No, probably not.
  
• Did I know anyone who worked at a popcorn factory or had connections at a popcorn factory? Unsure.
• Who had I pissed off recently? "438 Documents Found"
  
• Who had I pissed off a long time ago who might still be mad? "8, 243 Documents Found"?! Yeesh.
  

My head began to hurt. My stomach began to hurt. None of this bothered A. He tore open the triple sealed packages and began to eat MY popcorn. Even if it was Killer Popcorn, I still felt selfish enough to think he shouldn't be eating MY KILLER POPCORN before I got the chance to be killed by it. On the other hand, I do have a lot of insurance on him. Hmmm. I briefly wondered what the local slayer statute was and decided that, since I wasn't "in" on the Killer Popcorn, it shouldn't apply to me, so Yay life insurance proceeds.

--------------------

Now I've totally overhyped this.

Because it turns out that it was just from my sister (I called the company and basically told them I was going to go postal if they didn't tell me who it was from), who actually sent it a long time ago but the order had gotten lost, which was why it seemed particularly bizarre in December.

Once I found that out, I went and sampled every flavor of my inert popcorn. It hasn't killed me (yet) but I ate so much yesterday that I got a little tummyache. Although it could have been a combination of the 5 flavors of popcorn, beer, hot dogs, and macaroni I ate yesterday. I've been out of this bachelorette eating pattern for too long.

Shafted!

Oh...I guess I was supposed to talk about the "law" - whatever that is - to make this list.

Honestly, I think no one would listen (I mean, fewer people than those who already don't listen) if I talked about the law. Because it would be boring. Boring-er, I mean.

So you're disappointed he's a spiritual person?

Well yeah, I got him because he seemed so one-dimensional. I feel misled.

----------------

Speaking of food (in the last post), I've been thinking about making deviled eggs (is that with one or two "l"s?). And I want to make them more interesting, flavorful, whatever.

I was thinking a dash of wasabi powder...or is that just gross?

----------------

David, I'm going to hell! The worst place in the world! With devils and those caves and the ragged clothing! And the heat! My god, the heat! I mean, what do you think about all that?

Will snack for money

I want a job working for these people.

I got stripes, stripes around my thighs

Ever wish you had aerodynamic pants with a low drag coefficient?

Now you can.

I thought sideways stripes were supposed to make you look fat. No wonder they don't have a women's line. It wouldn't sell.

There is, however, free shipping to Greenland (I'm not making this up, although I wonder if they are)...and it claims to lower the crotch heat index up to 22% (good news for those wanna-be-a-dad-someday laptop users).

The Shaggy D.A.

I haven't heard back yet from my latest interview. I got tired of explaining just exactly what and with what entity my interview was with, so I just started telling people it was for the "Shaggy D.A." position.

For those of you too young to know, the Shaggy D.A. is not related to this guy, this guy, or even this guy.

It was a movie from the 70s, and the main character was a guy who sometimes got turned into a dog and is a lawyer. A D.A., to be specific. And he has to elude the dog catcher.

They said a couple of weeks, and I sort of never got around to writing thank you cards, which I still could, but I never got any of their names, and I can't find them on the website. So, maybe I should have sent one card to the main guy and said, "Hey, tell all the others the same stuff I wrote in here. P.S. - Please hire me."

Maybe I'll find out this coming week. And then I can stop plucking my eyebrows so I can really become the shaggy D.A. On second thought, maybe the "shaggy" part of the job is negotiable.

Friday Cat Blog

Pizza...the Hut!

Remember back when I was spazzing out about my gray hair? (I know, I make it sound like it wasn't just a few weeks ago.) And then I ran out and bought that crazy MRE for the face skin polisher so I would continue to look young? Well...it's made me look young again, but not in the way I'd like it to.

Normally I wash with Neutrogena's Anti-Aging Anti-Blemish wash (the reasons why are self-explanatory). And since I've stopped using it in favor of microwaving my face every day, I've become majorly blemished. (Anything above zero counts as majorly at this point.) At first I blamed it on stress: job interviewing, the pressure of eating everything I put onto my plate at Thanksgiving and still having room for a dessert or three, the 31 hour drive, the casino gas stations, Sudoku...you know, all the hard and stressful stuff.

I've quit thermally polishing my face since I got home and have gone back to my old stuff. It's starting to help, but in the meantime, I've been carded at the grocery store TWICE for beer. I mean, I know I can't be the only 35 year-old who uses the Olay stuff, so it must be the zits.

In other words, Do you know what this means?

It means that this damn thing doesn't work at all!

And it burns, burns, burns

Over the Thanksgiving week, I saw Walk the Line. It was a good movie, but I've had I Got Stripes in my head ever since, as evidenced by this month's blogroll.

The movie experience was actually quite pleasant, with the exception of the very large man who sat beside me and hogged the armrest. I think part of what contributed to a nice audience experience was that the mean age of the crowd hovered around 67. And I thought I was underaged at Sideways (mean age in the mid-50s and included my law school dean and wife). Sheesh.

A commented on the choice of actors, pointing out that they are better-looking than the real Cashes. I said, if I were going to be made into a movie, I'd want someone better looking than myself playing me. Hell, hire that Michelle Wie chick. I heard she's Asian, and I'm pretty sure she's tall (unless Craig Bowden is a lot smaller than I think he is)!