2010 was a very good year

Dear grown-ass man who we just saw riding a bicycle while dragging an office chair behind him on a rope,
   Exactly how drunk were you?
   Were you planning on carrying passengers? Because thats not safe.

Also, happy new year. I can only hope 2011 brings more of the same.
 

Thank you for flying

If airport security profiling exists, then I'm going to have to assume the TSA is keeping an eye out for small, white, blonde girls. I got pulled aside at every check point. I got a full body scan, then my laptop got swabbed to be tested for chemicals, then my carry-on got sent threw the scanner twice, and then after all that the carry on ended up having to be checked.

Its a good thing we show up early. Every time we plan to take a plane, we're there at least three hours before we need to board. Honestly, I really don't mind the wait; it gives me an opportunity to catch up on all that back-logged Facebook stalking and drink heavily without guilt. Not that I tend to carry a whole lot of guilt about that sort of thing, but an excuse never hurts. 

I was dreaming of a White Christmas

My holiday season has always ended up being a blur. I don't think I have ever had a Christmas Eve that I've remembered in my entire adult life. I have never be able to contribute to any story that started with "Remember last Christmas when.." Because the answer is always flatly "No." I could try to blame it on Christmas magic; or me getting black-out drunk, but its neither. Its actually a very precise formula, one that sometimes involves no alcohol at all. See, its one part brand new Christmas Eve jammies, one part giant traditional Christmas Eve dinner, a heavy dose of a roaring fire, and a generous helping of my mother telling me to "eat, eaat!", and churning out endless amounts of cookies and sweet breads. Suddenly, I drink a thimble of eggnog and I'm out like a light.  

And now its time to sip Cosmopolitans and watch "White Christmas" with my mom until we pass out, six minutes from now. God Bless us, every one. 

Keep on Travelin'

I hate packing. I think I spend so much time selecting my outfits before a trip because its easier for me to think, "But what if I step in something wet, and I need an extra pair of dry socks?" than, "But what if the plane goes down and we all die a terrible painful death?"

But my favorite part of getting ready to leave is eating all the food in the house. By the last day we've got nothing but milk, celery, a chunk of cheese, and apple juice. I feel like the Macgyver of dinners, if Macgyver just threw stuff out and bought pizza. We also have very similar hair.

Hot to Talented Ratio: Cartoonists

If theres one thing professional snowboarding has taught me, its that if you're a hot girl, you don't actually have to possess any raw natural talent to be wildly successful.

Well, it turns out the same goes for cartooning. If you're a girl who is even mildly attractive, any drunken scribble you create on Microsoft Paint can win you internet fame. Now, I'm not saying ugly people can't be famous; I'm just saying ugly women can't be famous. Men don't have to be pretty to be successful, in fact, sometimes just the opposite is true; look at Shawn White. When I asked my brother, a notable online cartoonist, if he'd noticed the trend of not very talented but popular female cartoonists, he confirmed, "yup, thats a thing". And thats all the investigative journalism I need. Its also all the investigative journalism I did.

I'm not even sure that a good female cartoonist can be hot. Cartoonists and their cartoon groupies are, as a general population, pale, awkward, basement dwellers. Which might explain why being a beautiful woman means more to them than being a good cartoonist, but I think hot female cartoonists might be like thin chefs. You have to be suspicious; they obviously aren't eating what they cook.

I've got Standards.

So, tomorrow is the big day. I take the standardized test that everyone in California has to take to be a substitute teacher. And I know that logically, the worst thing that could happen is that I fail, and I'd have to re-take the test. But emotionally, the worst thing that could happen is that I fail, and my whole life will be over. I'll wake up in a hell where every bathroom door is locked, and can only be unlocked by multiplying fractions.

Yes. Worst case scenario: I'd pee myself.

Google Analytics

To the person who Googled "why are some people in bhutan aren't getting clean water" and ended up on my site, I am pretty sure you did not find what you were looking for. Also, your grammar is terrible. 

And now, a little something Extra

I finally found an obscure beer that Coors hasn't bought yet! I found Caballo Extra at our local SaveMart for on 3.99 a six pack. Its bottled in clear glass so that, I assume, so you can see how good it looks.

'Caballo' means 'Horse' in Spanish, which makes this light bodied beer slightly educational, because I learned a new Spanish word.

What else can I say about Caballo Extra... Well, its a beer. Its imported from El Salvador. Online reviews give it a "D" grade and suggested avoiding it. Thats right; not just not drinking it, but actively avoiding it when you see it in the grocery store. Other reviewers have noted it has a distinct aroma of 'skunky cabbage', and flavor that suggested it may have been brewed from actual horses.

But this kind of a home-run central american cerveza can't be independent forever, so I've gone ahead and created the logo for mega-conglomerate integration. Coors Miller, you're welcome.

From the Land of Sky Blue Waters...

I kind of thought, living in California, I'd be trying all sorts of new wines; becoming a real wine expert--which is a great way to be a drunk and not have to apologize for your lifestyle-- but I've been too distracted by all the new varieties of cheap beer.

Like Hamm's. Its America's Classic Premium Beer, Born in the Land of Sky Blue Waters. Those are their words, not mine. And if you want to learn more about Hamm's, I don't suggest Google-ing "Ham Beer".

Hamm's is from the Coors Miller family of beers. Reaffirming my belief that if Coors Miller was ever an actual family, I wouldn't want to be their neighbor.  Anyway, Mike and I have had a fun evening, Hamming it up with real zingers like, "Who drank my Hamm?" and the deliciousness of a "Rack of Hamm", "Canned Hamm". Yeah, the stuff pretty much sells itself.

Reversed Racism

Earlier this week one of my Asian co-workers reminded me to follow up with the patient I'd been helping earlier. Except I hadn't helped anyone earlier; I had just signed onto my shift. She thought she was talking to my other blonde co-worker. I was finally able to shout, "You people think we all look alike, don't you!" without irony.

Ohhh nuts.

I was on a mission today to clean our Apartment. I vacuumed, cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the stove top and the counters, and right after doing all the dishes, I remembered we have a dishwasher. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the couch.

Miscommunication

Its not often that I actually try to look like an ignorant racist, it usually just happens.

I love the nail salon next to my apartment complex. Its run by two ridiculously nice Asian women. I went in there one time the first week we were in Davis, and when I walked in yesterday, they remembered me. Thats all it takes to be 'ridiculously nice' as far as I'm concerned.

One of the girls, Kaylee, makes excellent small talk. She asked me what I was doing for the holidays, and when I told her I was going to the East Coast to visit my family she told me her family lives in Buthan. I thought, thats cool. I've heard of Buthan. Couldn't point it out on a map, but I've heard of it. I'm assuming its someplace in Asia, thats probably safe bet. Well, as it turns out, she was saying "Boston". Her mom and dad live in Boston. She's actually from New Hampshire. Which, along with being one of those "wow, it's a small world" things, also explains why she had such a terrible grasp on the English Language.

Wait. Theres more.

At my new job, I spend a good chunk of my day working in retail. Which, if you didn't already know, means that I deserve about the same amount of respect you'd give a used Kleenex. At least thats the case in Davis.

But its not like the people don't care about anything around here. At the very least, they care a lot about looking like they care a lot. They are, after all, wearing a bracelet that shows they donated a dollar to help provide clean water to a village in Africa. But that doesn't mean they'll look me in the face.

And to be fair, not everyone around here is like that, even. Some people's condescending nature is so deeply embedded that they don't even know that they're being condescending. For example: Without fail, at some point during my work day-- usually immediately after a customer finds out I'm a college graduate, and not just some trashy bum(although let it be known that there is no trash in Davis. We all recycle)-- I get "the look". The "what did you do so wrong in your life that you ended up here?" look. Which is suppose to be sympathy, but its like going to the Zoo and pitying the monkeys. You don't actually feel bad for those monkeys, but you want people to think you do; you want the monkeys to think you do. The truth is, you love seeing the monkeys there in their cages, throwing feces. It makes you feel good about yourself. You hardly ever throw feces.


This week, I had a guy tell me that he used to be a construction worker, but now he's an undergraduate, studying English. I said, "I have my Bachelors in English. Looking at me is kind of like looking into the future. All of this could be yours." And he gave me a look like that was the worst thing I ever could have said to him.

Aren't we just adorable?

The short answer: Yes.

Tonight Michael and I had a few ideas that may make us rich. So, I'm going to go ahead and say copyright all over the post. and all other posts, for that matter.

Are you Ready? Ok.

We've thought of inventing fart-proof light beer. Mainly for the excellent commercials it will surely bring. Just think, just like Coke Zero has a small 'Splenda' logo on it's can, Bud Light could someday have its own 'Beano' logo. Yeah, He's getting his PhD, and just happens to be wicked smart.

Second, we've come up with a store called "Beer, Bath, and Beyond" Which is exactly like Bed Bath and Beyond, but with a bar. Just imagine a kitchen and bath store where you can also get a beer.

Yeah, I realize that both our genius ideas involve cheap ways to increase consumer spending and alcohol consumption, but contrary to common belief, the stuff does not sell itself. They're not cigarettes, you know.

My Day Off

I cherish my time off. Time to sleep in late, watch tv, and potentially do other things.

Todays 'other things' included going to Woodland and trying to find work-appropriate clothing. I had planned on going to Marshalls, but I was distracted by a thrift store across the street. So, I went there instead.

I'd like to tell you I go to these places for the people watching, and although it WAS excellent people watching, I go to these places because I'm ridiculously cheap, and I don't feel like my work clothes are worth paying full price. Also, I can shamelessly listen to 90s soft rock while I shop. Walking into a super-sized thrift store is a lot like traveling back to the 90s. Beyond Boys to Men on the loud speaker, there are an endless supply of old fax machines, large corded telephones, and all the women's clothing come with shoulder pads. And not the cool, fashionable shoulder pads- bit bad ass, line-backer shoulder pads. Because when I go to an interview, I want my suit to subtly say "I might tackle you."

I'm starting to see how my fashion sense could have been mistaken for that of an old man.

Spooky Scary

In case you hadn't notice, Halloween is less than a week away. Last year, I bought tons of candy. I figured we'd need it; we lived in a well-established neighborhood in the middle of town. But much to my chagrin, my elderly neighbors turned all their lights off to discourage trick or treating; a tactic that worked surprisingly well. We had left over candy until Easter. So, after that epic disappointment, I'm wondering if I should buy any candy at all. But then, theres always that very slim chance we might get totally hammered (I mean-- a lot of kids might come by. Lets be honest, theres more than just a slim chance I'm going to get hammered). Just in case, I'd better buy eight bags of candy. You know, just in case.

AARP Couture

One of my co-workers told me the other day that I remind them of a Grandpa.

Fashion has never been a friend of mine. I always try to make my personal style look effortless, but instead it always ends up looking like I didn't even try.

I thought I'd caught my break when the whole smart-is-sexy thing started popping up around Davis. Geek Chic, if you will. Sort of like a play on Hipsters, without the attitude. But you really need to be naturally beautiful to pull off a look like that, because otherwise a frumpy Mr. Rogers sweater and a pair of loafers just make you look, well, frumpy. And loafish. And thats where I find myself on most days. I'm trying for a sort of Tina Fey on 30 Rock look, but I end up with more of a Fred Mertz.

There is nothing funny about my job

Why do educated people have to be so serious all the time? At my last job, if a man fell slow-motion slip-and-slide style off of a rolling chair, I would have laughed it off, helped him up, and moved on. When it happens at my current job, the guy alludes to a law suit. Don't get my wrong; I still laughed, but the law suit thing made it way darker. Its like people around here are trying to murder my fun.

Everyone I bring into the exam room looks at me like I've got a God damned parrot on my shoulder. Except theres a woman in town who walks around with an actual parrot on her shoulder, and she gets more respect than I do. At the risk of sounding like a petite blonde Rodney Dangerfield, ... I don't even have to say it. Just imagine a petite, blonde Rodney Dangerfield, and you'll begin to understand why no one respects me.

And I know you educated people were told at some point in your life that there are no such thing as stupid questions, and although that might be true, it doesn't mean your questions aren't wasting my time. I mean, lets be realistic here, I have the responsibilities of a Gap employee, do you really have to know what my certifications are? Stop asking questions.

Awkward Out-takes and Bathroom Blogging

After trying to record a video blog post for over an hour, and getting really frustrated with the process, this was the only thing I came up with that was even remotely funny to me:

Awkward Out-take from Kimberly Warren on Vimeo.

But, seeing as I'm trying to update more frequently, here is an actual video post:

Look! I'm in a Bathroom! from Kimberly Warren on Vimeo.

Facebook Foodie

Its that time again. Back to school (okay, so I'm like a month late, but I needed time to build material). Back to posting compulsively on Facebook about how you spent your day.

So, you made dinner for your boyfriend (who you call 'hubby' which is so much less cute than it is sad), and regardless of the fact the meal is bathed in cheese, and is completely unrecognizable as food, you have taken a picture of it and posted it on Facebook. It must be the cold weather that has driven us all indoors and caused this sudden surge in food photography, but it makes me realize that I am just an amateur in the art of gross food photos, and you, Facebook food photographer, are the true master.

Lie to Make Friends

Here is the second of two Video Blog posts.

Lie to Make Friends on Vimeo.

Welcome to the World of Video

Here is my very first Video Blog entry. I know I can't stop making weird faces, just be nice.



The Truth about Teleconferencing from Kimberly Warren on Vimeo.

Say what?

Even though I was only unemployed for a month, I quickly forgot how much work it is to roll out of bed at 8am and do something other than watch Will and Grace reruns all morning. At work, I'm expected to be nice, and wear pants-- at the same time, when everybody knows I'm nicest without pants.

I'm learning what a struggle it is to work in Northern California. The language barrier is daunting. And I'm not talking about the English to Spanish thing; I mean no one understands a G.D. word that comes out of my mouth. I talk too fast, and the only time I end a sentence in the form of a question is when I'm asking a question. I have to curb my use of sarcasm, since it apparently hasn't arrived to California yet and I don't want to scare people. And every time I say 'wicked' or 'awesome' someone breaks into a giggle and we loss track of the conversation. At this point I'm taken about as seriously as a chimpanzee dressed in people clothes, which, interestingly enough, on the scale of work-related-respect is just below 'incompetent unpaid intern', but still a notch above 'unmarried woman'. I knew I had a problem when my co-worker, whose third language is English, was asked to talk to a patient because she is easier to understand than I am.

So, if I haven't been posting as often as I had been, now you know why.

Awkward Flashback

I don't have anything to write about today, so I think I'll just enlighten you as to why I turned out the way that I am today. One of many reasons.

Remember that awkward phase I went through-- the one I never exited from? Well, it started early and came on strong. And I'm not talking about when I had to wear three diapers when I was a baby; I don't even really consider that awkward, just really unfortunate. Anyway, my mom remembers me being the same height as all the other kids when kindergarten started, but by the end of the year, everyone had grown and I was still the same height. By the first grade, I was a head shorter than all the other kids. That was the same year I was in a car accident and I had to have all my hair cut off in an attempt to hide the giant bald spot, which if you're interested, I still have. Over the course of two years, add dark non-symmetrical freckles, big pink enameled Medicaid glasses, and braces. But before you add those braces, add one of those mouth spacers that is suppose to widen your jaw, because that spacer gave me a lisp that lasted all through junior high. I couldn't say anything that had a 'K' sound. And, my name is Kimberly. I still get anxious around cookies. AND I lived in a trailer-- Which was the point where I really have to say enough already. God, What the hell were you thinking? You're telling me that you created a braces wearing, glasses clad, pee-wee ginger with a lisp, and then you said "Hell, I'm going to make her poor too; that'll be a riot."

Now, in case you're suffer from the common misconception that such an awkward little girl would be 'cute',because for some reason everyone reacts that way, I would like to introduce you to this image from AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com because when I saw it, I was SO SURE that this little girl was me, that I had to do background research to make sure it wasn't. Again, this image belongs to AFP.com.

Not a Happy Camper

Until today, I would have told you, with confidence, that Better Homes and Gardens comes up with the grossest pseudo-creative food in the world, but after today, I must admit Shine.com's article on Creative Birthday Cakes for Kids ...takes the cake.

In honor of my sister-in-law's birthday, here is the grossest birthday cake in the world.

You'll have to follow the link to check it out, because there is no way I'm risking copy-write infringement for such a gross image. If it was something cool, sure, but not for this.

In case you followed the link, and it didn't direct you to the exact cake I'm talking about, its number 18 of 20: the Campfire Cake. This wins the World's Grossest Cake Award (WGCA) because it has multiple layers of fail. First, the concept. Camping? What kid aspires to be a camper above all other things? Sure, some kids like fire trucks, or princesses, but Jimmy just wants to sleep outside. Its like the birthday cake equivalent to giving out pennies on Halloween.
Second, as awful as this cake looks, it must taste worse. Tortillas, coconut, pretzels, peanuts, and a cake. What are you-- High?
Lastly, it doesn't even have the benefit of being simple. It requires one hour of prep. If I'm going to spend an hour putting together a cake, there better be some kind of Rube Goldberg machine on it by the time I'm finished.

Happy Birthday, Denise.

Dear MadMen Facebook Fans,

I like it too, but it isn't real. Its a television show. Mrs. Blankenship was a character, played by an actress; no one actually died. I can understand that you'll miss the predictable comic relief she added to the show, but quit "RIP"-ing her.


Also, the characters don't think, because they're not actually people.

California Roll

California is big. The whole country is big, which was news to me, because I thought Vermont was big. I thought we had big mountains, and big trees, and wide open spaces-- but I was wrong. I have a been a goldfish my whole life. My whole world view has been built around a fake plastic castle and a bubbling clam shell. And I feel like someone has dropped me in an ocean out here in California. Except, this ocean kind of smells like weed and everyone says "Cheers" and "Rad" and wear Rayban sunglasses every waking moment (I get it. you're hip).

A few days ago I was biking to work and I almost got hit, and the guy just shouted out "No worries!". No worries? You nearly hit me. Car versus Bike. Actually-- Yeah, I have a little bit of worries about that. You bum.

Panda Regular-Speed

I saw my first stand-alone Panda Express restaurant recently, and apparently its a trend out here. I was under the impression Panda Express was only available in malls, but here was one all by itself, no drive through. It was a walk-in, sit-down restaurant, which begs, whats so express about that?! Do I have to take it upon myself to make my Panda meal express? Run in, scream at the cashier, throw money at her, take my rice and go? I do that at fast food chains already!

Tap the ...Orizabas?

So, I have no way to confirm this, but the Mexican beer Tecate might just be Coors Light in a red can. Take a look at this:




Now, this is just laziness on the part of Coors Brewing Company; Tecate is imported by Coors. And have you seen Keystone recently? They have an almost identical label to Coors as well-- but they don't taste the same. Keystone tastes like a high school gym locker smells.

Coors Light and Tecate on the other hand taste identical. Is this like when Ford Lincoln Mercury were making identical cars with different names? Do you know what you end up with when those things happen? Two equally shitty cars. Do you even remember the tempo/topaz? Do you really want to be drinking that?! I didn't think so.

Coors, all I'm saying is, maybe you should streamline your operation. Do we really need all these different labels for the same beer? Do you want to end up like Anheuser Busch? Five different types of light beer, none of which are worth drinking?

Does a Rose by any other name sound this dumb?

When I think of stereotypical Californians, a few first names come to mind: Brad, Brett, Chad, Barbie, Tori-- that sort of burn-out surfer dude with the question-mark-at-the-end-of-every-sentence girlfriend. And for the record, those people do exist, and there is a high concentration of them in California. But the names that we fictitiously give these people are dated. Those names have grown up, and had children, and they named their children even dumber names. But what adds to the ridiculousness is that these people are not stupid; this town is among the highest educated in the country, and they're not doing themselves any favors being named Poppy Bella. Do you have any idea how hard it is to take a bleach blonde 30-something named Grey Destiny seriously? While she's sitting there twirling her hair, I have no idea what she's talking about because all I can hear is my own inner voice reminding me "shes a doctor. shes a doctor. shes, like, a doctor".

Ok, In conclusion, California, I'm not saying your sons can't be named Angel, I'm just saying your contributing to a bullying epidemic that already plagues this country.

Where do I want to be in five years?

A telemarketer for an online college asked me that. I didn't answer him, because he was a telemarketer. But I assume as I set up more interviews, I may have to actually answer that question, and because every interviewing website on the planet tells me I can't be funny at my interview, I might have to cough off a real answer. The logic of not being funny at an interview is that often you think you're funny, but other people don't. But I know other people don't think I'm funny. I think I'm funny, its why I'm the one laughing. But, in the spirit of getting a job, here's a list of things I wont be saying when my interviewer asks me where I see myself in five years:

"I'll be less than thirty, but more than twenty-five."
"I plan on building up some maternity leave over the next couple of years, and then just riding it out as long as I can." (I'm pretty sure mentioning anything about aspirations to start a family is a no-no. Which is funny, because its the same way in my home...)
"I'm going to have your job."
"I don't have any room for improvement, so I'll probably just continue doing what I'm doing."
"I wont be here, that's for sure."
"I don't know where I'll be, but if I'm still here working this job, I'll probably be bitter."

Alright, well, hopefully that got it out of my system. I make a notoriously bad first impression, which is why I have to turn to interviewing websites for guidance.
The websites say that if you don't have a five year plan, you'll look lazy. But the thing is, I AM lazy. My ideal work environment is a place where I don't actually have to work. And thats the kind of crap I say at interviewers, which is why I still see myself applying for jobs in five years...

How to confuse your friends

Its an extreme sport in our family. And this video was posted by someone who is in my family-- no need to mention how we're related. Its the funniest thing I've seen all day, and I hope he doesn't mind that I stole it.

So, he's trying to explain how to play a simple dice game, but about 5 minutes into the explanation, I realize I would never want to ask for directions from this guy. And although I can totally see how this could quickly become fun a drinking game, if there is one thing these rules don't need, its the added complication of alcohol.

click here for the full link

Or just watch the video here:

Let the End Times Roll from Radical Warren on Vimeo.

Experimenting with Okra

If my plan to take over Delilah's job when she retires doesn't work out, I think I might have to be a take gross pictures of food professionally. The food itself is never gross, but all my pictures are. Remember Bob Evans?

Well, last night and the night before, we experimented with cooking Okra. Now, everyone says cooking Okra is tricky, and there a chance it'll end up all slimy if you don't do it just right, but every Okra recipe on earth involves bacon, so I figured the benefits outweighed the risks. Our first night we cooked fried Okra, fried in what, you ask? Bacon drippings and shortening of course! The Okra taste was kind of lost in all that corn meal and bacon grease, but it was still good. Kind of like fried clam strips; same texture.

The second night we had smothered okra, which still involves bacon grease, but also includes diced tomatoes, garlic, and hot sauce. This was the winner over the two nights. It was easier to cook than the fried was, and you could really taste the okra. And judging by the seven billion recipes on the Internet, anything that you might have laying around the refrigerator is fair game.


So, thank you, really cheap okra stand at the Davis Farmer's Market, for introducing a new vegetable into our home.

Another Day, Another Market

So, Wednesday is Farmer's Market Day in Davis as well as Saturday. And here's what we got this time:


The Kettle Corn in the back is Mike's, he got a little bag at the end of our shopping trip for being a good boy. All said and done, we spent 12 dollars. We'll be cooking the Okra tonight, so wish us luck.

Another interesting landmark on the way to the Farmer's Market was this:


Yes. Its the Bicycle Hall of Fame. What can I say? They like their bikes.

Express yourself

So I thought Vermont had some pretty liberal people, but Davis makes Vermont look like Rush Limbaugh. If I were in the left wing bumper sticker business, I'd make a killing out here. I don't think its possible for the people in this town to have a single private thought without making a bumper sticker about it. At the very least, every car must three bumper stickers: One expressing who they voted for in 2008, one proclaiming the importance of farms/local produce/organic produce, and last but not least, one sticker dedicated to the pet of their choice.

Slow Going...

If there's one thing I've learned about California in the four days I've been here, its that good things come to those who wait. And you'll do a lot of waiting here. I've always been a super fast walker, typer, talker, but in California, its even more exaggerated. Now I know how Superman felt when he'd slow down time so he could get a lot of stuff done.

Luckily, I've learned more than just one thing in the four days I've been here. Like the Chinese restaurant in the shopping plaza next to our apartment is amazing. And sometimes people at IKEA don't know what they're talking about, even when they say it in a really friendly voice. And, most recently, the farmers market in Davis on Saturday mornings is awesome.
Here's a picture I took of everything we got:



I can't wait to see what Mike makes me for dinner...

"You are a Master Ikea Shopper."

Mostly it's luck.

I might get addicted to this whole buying a ton of crap wicked cheap thing.

Because we got rid of almost all of our furniture before the move, Mike and I needed a few things for our new place: Two Dressers, a sofa, three bookcases, a trash bin, and a lamp shade. We also needed Swedish meatballs, and our new neighbor was nice enough to treat us to dinner at the IKEA restaurant. $21 bucks for four adults. We are a cheap date.

We cleaned up. IKEA's As-Is section was 30% today-- so we saved 62% on everything. WOOT.

We're using some of the money we saved on home delivery, which rocks since we live on the second floor and everything is already assembled, so tomorrow we'll be rocking out, sitting on our new, delivered furniture like kings. But for now, we just have meatball breathe, which is ok too.

Road Trip: On the Road Day Four

Miles thus far: 2482.0
Last night at the Motel 6 we met some very nice bikers who thought our cat was adorable because every time a new bike arrived, she'd jump up in the window and watch them.

The last day was shorter than the others, we took a nice route through Tahoe, and I almost got sick from all the swerving roads, but it was nice. Nevada, however, was not nice. 400 miles of desert, even driving 85 miles an hour, that's too much desert. Although, I did hit a tumble weed. that was cool.

6:42am 59 degrees: Departed from Motel 6
6:48am: Burger King, coffee: $3.93
6:56am: Departed from Burger King
6:13am (7:13am): Crossed into Pacific Time
6:53am: Entered Deeth Starr Valley
7:18am: Breakfast, McDonalds, $8.83, (PEED)
7:31am: On the road again
7:38am: Gas stop: $38.21
7:52am: Tunnel
10:52am 68 degrees: Stopped at rest area, switched drivers (PEED)
12:17pm: Gas stop, Carson City, NV $40.34
12:24pm: On the road again
12:36pm 68 degrees: 7,146ft Spooner Summit
12:30pm: Picnic Lunch, Shoals Vista Point (PEED)
1:00pm: On the road again
1:02pm: Tunnel
1:40pm 7,382ft Echo Summit
2:35pm: Switched drivers
3:35pm: Enter Davis!
3:48pm: Arrived at Clubside Apartments
Total miles: 3082.8

Even using our food money at the tolls, we made it all the way to Davis with 4 dollars left. It was a very successful, and eventless trip. And we've got photos. Oh boy, do we have photos...

Road Trip: On The Road Day Three

Today was all highway driving. We had planned on making it as far as Salt Lake City (799.14 miles) but Utah turned out being so pleasant (honest-- No snark!) that we drove all the way to Wendover, UT (919.93 miles) and we sit, walking distance from the Nevada boarder, happily held up in another Motel 6.

Now, I'm off to try to convince Mike to take me to a casino. But first, here's what we did today:

Day Three:
6:40am 74 Degrees: Departed from Grand Island, NE Elevation 1,800 ft
7:11am: Passed under the Great Platte River Road Monument
8:29am 73 degrees: Breakfast; Burger King $12.13 (PEED)
8:50am: On the road again
8:13am: (9:13am)L Crossed into mountain time 1,711.9 miles traveled thus far
10:10am: Entered Wyoming; Switched Drivers (PEED)
10:22am 71 degrees: On the road again; Pine Bluffs WY Elevation 5,049 ft
10:40am: Hilldale, WY First spotted the Rocky Mountains
10:58am: Gas Stop; Cheyenne 15.1 gallons (39.70)
1:04pm Crossed continental divide Elevation 7,000 ft
1:55pm: Stopped at a rest area; (PEED)
2:00pm: On the road again
2:40pm: Lunch; Arby's $15.18; switched drivers (PEED)
2:59pm 61 degrees: on the road again
3:11pm 58 degrees: We went through a tunnel-- it was pretty cool.
3:28pm: Passed Little America, WY Advertised for over 200 miles-- not that cool.
3:59pm 53 degrees: Gas Stop $40.99
4:31pm 57 degrees: Welcome to Utah-- Life Elevated
4:54pm: Utah Welcome Center (27 miles into Utah) (PEED)
5:03pm: On the road again 2307.9 miles thus far
7:01pm: Salt Flats, UT
7:20pm 68 degrees: Wendover UT Motel 6
Total driving time thus far: 2,480.9

Road Trip: On the Road Day Two

Today was much longer than yesterday, we went from Toledo Ohio to Grand Island, Nebraska. Interesting side note: Grand Island is neither Grand, nor an Island.

Day 2:
6:45am: Depart from Toledo
7:35am: Toll $3.75
7:38am: Indiana
803:am 69 degrees: Breakfast, Hardy's $11.18 (PEED)
8:35am: Gas, $42.32
8:57am (central time, actually 9:57am) 80 degrees: Portage IN Toll $7.30
9:18am 82 degrees: Illinois Welcome Center (PEED)
9:26am: On the road again
11:51am: Iowa Welcome Center (PEED)
12:05pm: On the road again
1:35pm 90 degrees: Picnic Lunch of Spam and Pickle, and Egg Salad, Gas, $37.19

1:47pm: On the road again
4:30pm: Entered Nebraska
4:52pm: Rest Stop, Switched drivers (PEED)
5:02pm 91 degrees: On the road again
6:41pm 87 degrees: Motel 6, Grand Island, NE
View from our second story window (thats GreyCat):
Total Miles so far: 1,543.6

Road Trip: On the Road Day One

Here is a ticker of what we did. I'll fill it in with some yummy details when I don't feel like death.

Saturday August 28, 2010
7:27am 52 degrees: Departed Springfield Vermont
Here is a picture of GreyCat, she was VERY excited to get moving:

8:46am: Crossed into New York
9:26am 64 degrees: Breakfast, Dunkin Donuts $10.13 (PEED)
9:45am: I90W
10:02am 69 degrees: Dialed Mommie
10:52am 71 degrees: Service Area, Switched drivers (PEED)
1:58pm: Buffalo toll $12.85
2:28pm 81 degrees: Picnic Lunch, Gas stop $44.81 407.2 miles (PEED)
2:50pm: On the road again
3:27pm: Toll 3.15
3:30pm 81 degrees: Crossed into PA, switched drivers (PEED)
4:23pm: Ohio Welcome Center (PEED)
7:03pm: Motel 6 Toledo OH
Total Miles so far: 696
Heres a picture of the dinner we had at Bob Evans. Mike got the meatloaf, and if you can't tell, I got something called the deep dish chicken noodle, which was noodles and chicken in gravy, over mashed potatoes and biscuits. With a side of buttery dinner rolls. And a heart attack for dessert.

How to Travel Cross Country with a Cat

This post is dedicated to how we plan on traveling cross country with our adorable slightly crazed cat.

First of all, the vet was very clear in saying she does not recommend giving the cat medication to calm her down during the trip. So, no drugs for kitty.

We were given a Guinea Pig cage that fits perfectly in the back of the Camry. The cage is perfect because its much larger than a cat carrier, and its got enough space so she can move around, without the unnecessary height of a large dog crate. What it does not have room for, however, is a litter box. Now, seeing as she sleeps in one spot for eight hours at a time without needing to get up to pee, I'm pretty confident she'll be okay without the litter box until we can get to the hotel room at night, but just in case, I've lined the cage using an old felt table cloth, cut into strips. I lined it twice, and then covered the slippery cloth with an old sheet.
Here is the table cloth all cut up, before being put into the cage.
And here is the cage, all set up without it's lid:


We set the cage up a few days ago so she'd get use to it in the house, and she loves it, she eats all the food in the cage before going to eat her other food, she sleeps in it. Even goes in the little Hidie Hole.
Unfortunately, this is just what the cage looks like without it's cover. With the cover on, she wont go near the thing. Its like the difference between a nice home made just for her, and Soviet Russia.


Cat Prison.

Give Life

Yesterday I gave blood. Giving blood is like a mini check-up, so if you don't have health insurance, its great. Oh, and the whole blah blah blah, your civic duty thing is good too. My iron is normally low, so when I passed the iron test with flying colors without the aid of iron supplements, the assistant congratulated me and wanted to know what I'd done different. I told her I'd kicked up my fruit and vegetable intake.

I didn't mention that the entirety of my 'fruit and vegetable intake' comes from vodka/orange juice.

The Master Plan

Over the next couple of days I will be sharing the details of our cross-country move to Davis California. But first, let's talk cash:

For the 2,955 mile trip, we've estimated spending 400 dollars on gasoline for our 2006 Toyota Camry, roughly 180 dollars on fast food, and 150 dollars on (pet friendly) lodging. Our family has given us 150 dollars for the move, which will be used for hotel stays. We also have $50 worth of gas cards. And along with nuts and gummybears, we will be taking mommy-made sandwiches with us.

Our pre-trip 'game' was to collect all the loose change we could, and then exchange it into cash, and then see how far we can get only buying food with that money. To date, we have $154.26 in food money. We'll see how far we can get; I plan on saying "In your FACE, Rachel Ray!!" At least fourteen times a day.

Moving: Day One

So, we're not actually leaving Vermont until August 28th, but I think our move started today. As promised, the moving truck showed up, between the hours of ten and five. All of our worldly belongings fit into a 4 foot, by 8 foot, by ten foot space, with room to spare. With the help of some super strong friends, it only took 40 minutes. We'll see how well Mike and I do on our own once we get out there.

Sexiest Men (Not) Alive

People magazine's "Sexiest Men Alive" comes out in November, but I'm going to go ahead and make my projections early: Johnny Depp, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, David Beckham. yawn.

Truth be told though, I never found rating living people by their sexiness very interesting. I'm much more interested in how we perceive celebrities once they're dead. Because just like the perception of 'sexy' changes over the years (Mel Gibson won 'sexiest man' in 1985, the first year People ran the issue-- gross), our public perception of the dead changes with time. People adored Elvis Presley, I imagine in 1977 he probably would have won a 'sexiest man (not) alive' competition, but now he's just kind of a fat joke. So, here it is, I opted against a rating system in favor of superlatives, subject to change:

Kimberly's 2010 Dead Sexy List:

James Dean - Taken-before-his-time Sexy
Frank Sinatra - Taken-way-after-his-time Sexy
Marlon Brando - I-didn't-even-know-that-guy-was-dead Sexy
Patrick Swayze - Too soon? Sexy
Cary Grant - Classic movie Sexy
Johnny Cash - Hot-Mess Sexy
And the wild card:
Michael Jackson - Let's-only-remember-the-good-times Sexy

I would have made a Lady List-- but women really loss their appeal once they start lossing their teeth. But, Betty White, you're just waiting in the wing to accept that award, and you know it.

Birthday Gaffe

At what age are people suppose to stop asking you how old you are? I mean, how old does a woman have to be for it to become impolite to ask her age? And when people stop asking me how old I am, should I be insulted? Wouldn't it suggest by not asking, I must be an age worth hiding? Or am I just a big ball of crazy?

And at what age do people start trying to impress you with how old they are? Where is the switch there, where for sixty years a woman denies her age and then suddenly shes waving it around like a big old flag.

I think its safe to assume that regardless of age, I will continue to make an ass out of myself for the rest of my life. Because if I haven't made any of the necessary steps towards growth by now, that train has left the station.

Last week was my birthday, and a family member asked me how old I was turning, and, because I don't know the proper protocol, I decided I would be safe, and not tell her, and her response is "Heck! I'm 40 years older than you are, it hardly matters!"

And this was the dangerous spot. I knew I was excepted, socially, to scoff, say no, you aren't, you look too young, that's impossible. But then, what if by scoffing, I'm patronizing her(mathematical, it makes sense for her to be 40 years older than I am, am I suppose to just ignore basic math?!). Wouldn't it more insulting to be patronized by a younger generation? But by this point, I'd been standing doe-eyed for about 20 seconds, and all that I could come up with was "I.. am not surprised by that." It was probably not the right thing to say.

Go West, little blonde girl

Let the count down begin! 14 days until we move from our small house in Vermont, to our not-so-small apartment in Davis, California. I've spent so much time grieving about moving away from my family and my friends, that I forgot to pack.

But I have a plan:

First: We pack. Here's my three step packing plan:
One: Label boxes. Every time I move, it starts with that key factor. So, the first three boxes are labeled, and then everything else is just crap crammed into anything random beer or liquor box we could find. But not this time. We've got real boxes this time.

Two: Spacebags. I might have mentioned this before, but spacebags are very important to me.

Three: Eat the food. We have rice noodles that have lived with my fiance longer than I have. They have followed us from his apartment in Boston, to our apartment in Boston, to the house in Spoonerville, to the house in Springfield, and that's where it end. We will eat those God damn noodles.

In the next few posts I will do my best to explain how we plan on spending our 2598.99 mile journey with our cat, which, by my calculations, will involve 90 rest area stops.

For Sale

I'm giving Ebay a second chance. And here's why:

The short answer is I need money, but nobody likes the short answer. Although, if you happened to like the short answer, you can stop reading now.

As it stands, its fair to equate my current financial situation to the point in BeJeweled2 where you're down to the end and you're about to lose, and the screen is flashing and you're feverishly clicking on the little jewels before time runs out, but it feels like no matter how many jewels you get rid of, you never get any more time. (In continuation of the how to waste time at work topic, Yahoo! Games has some great time wasters) So, that's part of the reason. Secondly, I remembered that story about the guy a few years back who sold all his worldly possessions, right down to his underwear, on Ebay. And I got inspired. I'm prone to being inspired by stories that end in underwear.

So, it just made sense. I'm going to sell as much of my worldly possessions as I can bare to part with, but I'm stopping at underwear. More of this later...

Sick girls are never funny

Its 90 degrees out and I've got a cold. I'm not suppose to get colds in the summer. I need hot soup, but all I've got is hotdogs. And I've learned that people lack empathy for the summertime cold sufferer. In the winter, you're given a little slack when you come into work and say you aren't feeling well. In the summer time if you say you're sick, people assume you're just hungover.

And as if being sick isn't pathetic enough. I'm too weak to open the little Comtrex safety sealed pill pockets and I have to sit down in the shower because the water pressure is too much for me to fight against.

The PC Line graph

In my head, this explained my theory on humor, but now that I'm looking at it, more than anything I think it really just explains how I failed the math portion of the CBEST practice test even though I was using a calculator.

Too soon?

We had a pregnant 15-year-old come in today after being elbowed in the eye playing basketball at the Special Olympics. It was like meeting all of Sarah Palin's kids at once.

Also, what sort of a retard plays basketball when they're pregnant?-- Oh.. right.

When Informercials Understate..

Spacebag commercials promise a lot. First, they show closets full of clothes overflowing onto the floor and visibly frustrated homeowners, then magically its turned into a closet full of plastic bags, which apparently pleases the once frustrated homeowners.

Where am I going with this? Well, I collect a lot of crap I don't need. For example, I have about seven pieces of hard luggage, and I don't travel. Now that we're moving to California, I'm starting to get concerned that some people might suggest that I don't need ten vintage cocktail dresses. Solution? Spacebags. I have never gotten more excited about a plastic bag. The only thing that the commercial got wrong was that the woman was not excited enough. The Before and After for me was something like this:



I had to call my mom, I was THAT excited. I have never felt more domestic, and I am, as I type, doing laundry and cooking a full turkey dinner. So, yeah.

Could I opt to test out of this test?

When I was in high school, I took the SATs twice, and I didn't break 1000 either time. I never took the practice tests because I figured it was a test on my basic knowledge and why would I study for that? It would be like studying for a common sense quiz-- der. But I knew how important the test itself was, and I had good intentions going in, but once it started I got bored and just skimmed over the questions, quickly filling in the bubbles. I didn't have the patience to read all that garbage. I was so smart that even just guessing, I figured I'd do ok. My beautiful and complex brain would shine through the test results. --Right?

I was wrong. Luckily, I never had to take another standardized test again.

Except. California requires substitute teachers to pass a test called the California Basic Educational Skills Test (CBEST) and I figured, big deal. Basic Educational Skills. I've got basic skills. I went to college. My mother is always telling me about how smart I am. So I took the practice test, and I failed every section. I failed the reading section and I was an ENGLISH MAJOR. I don't have test anxiety, its like I have, the opposite, I have some sort of undiagnosed test over-confidence, that leads my mind to think it can wander. Its like I look at a totally easy question, and by the time my brain gets to the multiple choice answers(oh, did I forget to mention it was a MULTIPLE CHOICE test?), I'm elsewhere. Like this one, for example, the beginning of which was an actually question on the CBEST practice test:




See what I mean?? There has got to be some way around this. I'm sure if I could just talk to the people who grade the tests and reason with them, they would wave the test requirement.

Envying a Sensible Vermonter

I recently finished reading the expanded version of The Urban Homestead: Your Guide to Self-sufficient Living in the Heart of the City By Coyne and Knutzen. I liked that the book had suggestions for every level of commitment, from neat little herb filled window boxes to grey water filtration systems. Although I am hardly living off the grid myself, I love hearing about people who are going to very complex lengths to live more simply. Too often these people are bitter, trudging through their environmental lifestyle like a terrible chore, and giving me the impression that its my fault-- solely my fault-- that they have to poop outdoors. So it is refreshing for me to see someone who is genuinely enjoying their self-inflicted frugal lifestyle. Desiree Giroux is one of those people, or at least she puts on a good show. Her blog: Becoming A Sensible Vermonter is part garden planner/part food blog, and chronicles her and her husband's experiences as new Vermonters. I'm mostly in it for the pictures.

I'll write more on this later, for now, go read her blog.

Tolerance

Ever wonder how long your co-workers will allow you to totally slack off after you announce your engagement? The answer is nine days.

Side note

With our Optometrist's recent decision to leave her part time position with us in favor of a full time position at the VA, I've found myself with a lot of time on my hands. Normally in these cases an employee like myself, being cut from five days a week to only two, would be put on unemployment, but my boss has decided it would be financially beneficial to everyone to just keep me on for the next month, since I'm moving to California in August anyway. So, for the next month, I've got to come up with some time wasting activities at work.

I thought coming up with activities to waste time at work would be easy. It should come more naturally to me than working, but its harder than I had anticipated. So far I can recommend the following websites as prime time wasters:

www.fmylife.com
www.textsfromlastnight.com
www.akwardfamilyphotos.com
www.icanhascheezburger.com

Awkward Family Photos has also branched off to www.awkwardfamilypetphotos.com which I don't see much of a point for, seeing as the really great ones are repeats. But if you're in a real pinch to waste time, then go for it.

Other useless time wasters include staples such as: youtube-ing my favorite music videos (Ok Go, anyone?), facebook, and e-mailing people I'd otherwise not.

EDIT: My good friend Steph has brought to my attention the website www.cutethingsfallingasleep.org which is like a time sucking machine, and I thank her for that recommendation.

Full Disclosure

I need to learn that every time I find myself thinking, "This is the perfect time to have this conversation!" I need to ask myself first: How drunk am I? If the answer is any variation of "very", I should shut up. Because remember kids, buzzed pontifications are drunk pontifications.

Come Do America with Me..

I snagged this from a friend, who took it out of a local newspaper. There is so much I want to say about this, but I think its best just the way it is.

Home Ecomonics..

After a less-than-enriching experience in high school with home economics I decided that a do-over might be a good idea. So, when I found myself left alone for two weeks, I switched up my normal eat-crap-and-watch-crap bachelorette routine and I used this opportunity to learn what other people my age might consider common sense. I've focused on healthy eating, and maintaining a clean house. I'm half way through my two weeks by myself, and I've learned a few things.

For starters, Mr. Clean Magic Erasers are actually magic. No asterisk needed. And the store brand Magic Erasers work just as well. They wipe away stuff that bleach won't even get rid of, which leads me to believe that Mr. Clean Magic Erasers are pretty darn toxic. And in a related revelation-- Don't get Mr. Clean Magic Eraser dust in your eyes. That shit burns like a bitch. For hours.

Another thing I learned is that tofu is good once you quit trying to make it taste like meat. This seems to be a common mis-step-- I don't know what your grocer told you, but Tofu isn't meat, and its never going to taste like meat, so stop it.

Also, My mom's Greek recipes aren't all impossible, but they ARE all wicked bad for my health. Even the green beans and potato dish, which is vegan, is bad for me. That's right, Greeks can even make vegan food give you a heart attack.

Lastly, I have a tendency to save up all my cleaning until the last second, and then break into a marathon clean, and as it turns out that's a stupid idea-- I've got to cut that out.

Plus, I look wicked cute in an apron.

Letters from Fat Camp

I think diets were designed by people who don't need to diet. Otherwise, why would they be so hard?

A few summers ago, I worked at a women's weight loss facility, and even though I actually had a woman say to me, "What happens at fat camp stays at fat camp" I'm going to go ahead and write about it anyway. I spent every spare second I had in the bookstore. I was enamored by the genre of self-help weight loss books. They had so much in common: similar clean, fresh cover designs, a picture of the thin author on the inside cover with a brief history of her (always HER) weight loss struggles, written at a forth grade reading level, geared 100% towards a female audience, though each book would occasionally and tritely reference men. The one thing none of the books had in common was the actual method of losing weight. More water? Less water? Only meat and cheese? Only raw foods? Only positive thoughts? Only eat when your sitting down, and never at night. But then, maybe it doesn't matter where or when you eat, but only eat when your hungry. They all explored blame; your mother making you think you could only be pretty if you were thin, your father forcing you to clean your plate, your competitive sibling, your stressful boss, your friends making you fat by forcing you to socialize with them. Damn your socializing friends! But its never your fault. You're just a fat product of a fat design.

I read almost every book in that store (not really that impressive. they had like ten books) and I didn't lose a pound. I'm not sure, but its possible that losing weight isn't as easy as reading about losing weight. I'm not sure who these books actually inspire, but they must inspire someone, because the only things getting published more often that weight loss books are Danielle Steel novels. Even if they do inspire, I don't think they're designed to work. If there was a book that fat women could read, and it made them get up and lose weight, they'd stop reading. And the market would crumble. The trick is to inspire them just enough to feel positive, but not enough to take action. Like a movie about global warming.

Harry Caray

Until yesterday, I thought Harry Caray, the baseball announcer, commited suicide. And I thought it was a really weird thing to keep referencing him. Well, wouldn't you know it: I'm ignorant.

A Girl of Great Expectations

When I was in highschool I took a course called 'Nutrition'. The point of the course was to teach highschool students how to cook. In retrospect, the only thing I remember learning was how to use a microwave, and we watched a short dramatic video about bulimia. I can see they had high hopes for me.

Dear Justin Bieber,

This has nothing to do with how I feel about you, or your music, but.. Aren't you a little young for a comb-over?

The way we were

This post is brought to you by: People who complain that grocery store music is too brash, people I work with, and news articles illustrating the poorly-researched decline of the American Family. Much like my hate for the overused phrase 'in these economic times', people who use phrases like 'The good old days' or get all glossy-eyed over 'the way things used to be" erk the hell out of me. I've been paying close attention to these statements, and I've discovered some interesting correlations.

First of all, these statements are never made by anyone except old people, unless irony is implied. Secondly, these statements serve a duel purpose for these good-old-day-sayers: They are allowed to be both negative and condescending at the same time: Two birds, one overly simplistic and nostalgic stone.

They complain that music 'just isn't the same' as it used to be. Which is true to an extent, but the logic of the argument is flawed: 'New music isn't music, it's just noise.' --What music isn't noise? Where are you listening to this olde-tyme silent music?

A few weeks ago my co-workers were complaining that there was no where to get a good loaf of bread in town. One of the older women stated that the old bakery never should have closed. 'Everyone went there.' That struck a nerve with me, because my family owned that bakery, and it closed because no one went there. Maybe your neighborhood bakery that you look back on with such nostalgia would still been there if you hadn't decided Wal*mart's bread was 'just as good'. In other words: you ruined your own good old days, you have no one to blame but yourself. Its the same reason you can't find clothes at Wal*Mart that fit like they clothes you used to get at the old department store downtown (more on that later). Which reminds me of another common thread of all this, never disagree. They're wrong, you know it, but they're old, isn't have punishment enough? Just let them think they're right.

Back to clothes. They're not made like they used to be. Well, neither are you, hypothetical old person. Thirty years ago, you could walk into any old store and put on any old thing. Well, you gained thirty pounds, and now you're the old thing. But sure, blame China. Its the same reason make-up isn't made the way it used to be. You're thirty years older, make-up hasn't changed, you just need a hell of a lot more of it. And your hair isn't brassy and fragile because you shampoo is watered down, its because you hair is just brassy and fragile. That's it. Your dollar store Suave coconut conditioner can't compete with that.

But its a dry heat...

Have you ever entered a conversation, and the topic immediately, and suspiciously, changes? Not like the, 'shush, here she comes!' sort of change, but like today, when I walked over and the conversation switched to "Don't you hate when this humidity makes your hair all frizzy and poofy?" Which is how I found out my hair was all frizzy and poofy today.

I was already ready to run and find a hat, but of course it wasn't enough to just point out my poodle-do, what made it worse was one of my other co-workers tried to hypothetically defend frizzy hair. "I think it looks natural." ...I was now beyond find-a-hat embarrassed, by that point I was ready to go find a rock to hide under.

When I was younger, I had this image of myself outgrowing that awkward stage I was in. No. More than that. Everyone-- EVERYONE reassured me I would outgrow that awkward stage I was in. Turns out, I AM that awkward stage. I can only hope that someday I'll go through a stage, however brief, where I'm cool, or smooth. Or at least not hide-under-a-rock awkward. But I doubt it.

Quit blaming the economy, stupid.

I'm totally and completely done with people blaming the economy. Its like that pregnant person who blames everything on the fact that they're pregnant. They're late for work because their pregnant, they're hungry because their pregnant, they're moody because their pregnant. Well, I'm starting to suspect pregnancy is just an excuse to be fat, lazy, and mean. Similarly, the economy can be blamed for just about anything. Certain things are justified (much like pregnancy can cause rudeness and fatness), but people are taking advantage of a bad situation. Cut it out.

Questionable Taste

I will always look a gift horse in the mouth.

I found a consignment shop in nearby New Hampshire that pays you up front for the clothes you drop off. This was a big deal for me for two reasons, one: I have a lot of clothes that I don't wear, And two: Its my money, and I need it now.

So, I dropped the clothes off at this store, which looked like a pretty nice place and the owner called me like an hour later to say she'd looked through the clothes, and taken a few things, and she wanted to offer me 7 dollars for what she took. Which doesn't sound like a lot, but I'm pretty desperate. And suddenly I understand how pawn shops work. But anyway, when I picked up the clothes, the box looked exactly as full as when I dropped it off. So far, the only thing I can recognize as missing is a blue tie-dyed iridescent tunic that was given to me by a relative who was apparently under the impression that I am a middle-age drag queen. But none of the things I was sure she'd be interested in-- the brand new shoes, sundresses, Ann Taylor shirts-- they were all still there. Even with all the skills Cosmo Magazine has given me, is it possible that I have bad taste? Maybe I should have kept that drag queen tunic, maybe that's the direction fashion is heading. ...But probably not.

Trend Alert!

I apparently watch television that is targeting an audience two generations older than myself. All of the commercials are geared toward improving my mobility, buying life insurance without having to have a physical exam, reverse mortgages, and managing my sore bones, loose dentures, and forever ailing health. After watching hours of these commercials, I've collected a few marketing trends that I will use to make the elderly bend to my will-- which will be a real task, seeing as they don't bend very well. Because I plan to use my new communication skills to pacify old, grouchy patients, I'm going to try to write off my cable bill as a business expense.




Old people LOVE American flags, its a proven fact. One of the easiest ways to get an old person's attention is to put slap an American flag on your logo. It reminds them where they are: America.

Nobody likes to be frustrated, but no one hates being frustrated more than old people do. Some of the industries best reenactors have jobs on commercials illustrating old people's biggest fears: a seemingly able-bodied woman struggles to open a pickle jar; you're at your daughter's wedding and your dentures just won't stay put. Your grandchildren are picking on you about your inability to use a cell phone. Your tiny arthritic hands can't zip your tiny zippers. And worst of all-- you can't hear the television. How are you going to know what to be insecure about if you can't hear the tv?!

In conclusion, to motivate the Greatest Generation, you only need two tools: Flags and Fear. Just make sure you speak in a clear, loud voice.

Dear God,

Why does my car suddenly smell like cat pee? Why can't I have nice things?

Ebay is Hard

So, Yahoo Finance convinced me that the key to making a little extra money on the fly is to sell my valuables on EBay. I didn't look into whether or not that article was sponsored by EBay, but I decided it was a good idea to jump right in anyway.

I figured I'd start with a dress that cost me like 150 bucks, and I never wear it. That's like, the scenario of every commercial EBay has, so I thought it was perfect. If I get forty dollars for this thing, I'll be stoked. Now, going into this, I considered myself mildly prepared. I've done the craigslist thing, I figure this is just a giant craigslist. A craigslist where you can't solicit sex from strangers. At least I don't think you can. Maybe you can. Let's leave that for another time.

The listing portion of EBay's website is a nightmare. It's like they make it cryptic on purpose, I felt like I was trying to learn HTML. Every line has a subtext. And next to every bit of HTML-ish subtext is a small bracketed price, and I can't figure out if any of it is actually necessary. I mean, I want my stuff to sell. And then after you fill out all the categories, you have to write a description of the item, but you're not left with a whole hell of a lot of write about. Which confused me more, because I had already described the important stuff in the set-up portion, and now I'm being asked to write all that stuff over again? So, I'm left trying to write something cute, or pully with some cool (read: Lame) catch. How is EBay so popular? It took me over a half hour to list one stupid dress. For all that trouble I could have been, I don't know-- working.

Verdict? I'm not cut out for EBay. I think it would be wise for me to explore low-tech venues. Like yard sales, or bake sales.

Now This is a story all about how... wait a minute.

I need to listen to myself more often. How many times have I said that a person should never ever ask how someone is doing, but yet I still do.

I shouldn't ask people how they're doing because I don't actually care. And even if I did care, which I don't, I don't have time to listen. Today I stupidly asked an 89-year-old man how he was doing, and he said, and I will do my best to relay his exactly ramble:

"Well," he started, "I never would have thought it. Never would have thought I would live this long. I'm almost ninety, you know. Everybody asks me. Asks me how I did it." Now, it took the man almost two full minutes to drag that terrible use of the English language out of his mouth-- damn slow-talking old people-- and so at that point I tried to interject some sort of failed segway, asking 'what is the lowest line on the chart', but to no avail. He'd started, and darn it, he was doing to finish. "Well," he continued, "I stayed away from the Whiskey. Never touched the stuff. Other guys did, but not me. I was born in Colorado you know, and I remember, I remember being a boy. 11 years old. And I took a raft and I across the Mississippi river... " ... At this point I realized that his story was starting to sound suspiciously like the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, simultaneously I realized that this man was balls crazy with oldness. He came into the office wearing an over-sized crazy horse belt buckle, and one of those southwestern style turquoise bolo neckties, and a confederate hat that said 'Bush Gardens' in big gold letters across the front-- but only then did it dawn on me he was not in complete control of his mental facilities. So, I put drop in his eyes and that shut him right up.

If I ever get old enough to weave elementary texts into my own history, I hope I end up a Faulkner novel. But I probably wont. I'll probably be the Catcher in the Rye or something. I imagine by the time I'm 89, there will be an actual diagnosis called 'emo dementia', where not only do you have bouts of forgetfulness, but because of years of listening to crying, whining music, patients also experience deep depressions brought on by previous girlfriends they never actually had.

Am I going to need a helmet for this?

In continuation of a previous post: http://kimwar.blogspot.com/2009/11/did-we-ever-find-out-what-was-eating.html

I still think there is a chance that I'm involved in an elaborate conspiracy to conceal the fact that I am a full blown retard. But I'm still in the process of collection evidence. Yesterday I got a little closer to the truth. To explain, let me first say that our office has a very relaxed dress code. Some people wear flip flops, some people where sweatpants, I normally wear scrubs, and on Mondays and Wednesdays when I do office work, I wear appropriate office clothing. Yesterday, Monday, I wore a sailor's outfit. I don't know why. This weekend at TJMaxx I found a blue and white striped cardigan with gold buttons, and it matched perfectly with a pair of white button-front pants that I already had at home, so I picked it up. It was exactly the kind of outfit that would look adorable on a child, or maybe a terrier. And when I strolled into work that morning, my co-workers didn't say a GD thing to me about it. It probably just looked natural to them, like I was coming into my own. Just as a man-child looks natural in a pair of well-worn overalls, perhaps I was meant to wear dog-costumes. I am currently on the look out for a adult sized pink, prima-ballerina outfit.

All this brings me to my main point. That fact that I have a job that I wear scrubs bothers me. Don't get me wrong, I like my scrubs, but don't scrubs look suspiciously like pajamas? And I don't know about you, but when I see someone out and about in pajamas, I tend to wonder if they're retarded. And thus, I rest my case. For now anyway.

No, Your Mama.

Here are a few 'your mamas so fat' jokes that I came up with that are too practical:

Your mamas so fat, people ask her when shes due and she has to explain to them that she isn't pregnant.

Your mamas so fat, that her weight was a contributing factor in your father's decision to divorce her.

Your mamas so fat, people assume she has diabetes.

Your mamas so fat, that when she goes to grocery shopping, people look into her cart and silently judge her.

Your mamas so fat, she has a hard time getting in and out of her vehicle.

Your mama so fat, she has to pay a higher deductible on her health insurance.

Ugh, now I feel dirty...

Boomarang

People who drive me crazy, part 14: People who get married, and then divorced, and then they remarry that same person again.

What the heck are you thinking, double-offender? Its like going to the thrift store and buying a pair of shoes, only to bring them home and realize that you were the person that donated those shoes to the thrift store in the first place. Because they gave you blisters. Except in your case, you knew the whole time that you were repurchasing ill-fitting goods.

I don't even know what the logic is there. You get divorced, look around and you see nobody, nobody at all, that you'd rather be with than the person you just divorced. Maybe you should just be alone, because obviously you're not good at marriage, or decision making.

And how does that wedding go? Who there is taking you seriously? You're going to have and hold, for as long as you both can handle it this time. Are guests expected to bring gifts, or do the gifts they gave the first time carry over? Does the bride get to wear white? Is it tacky to include the phrase "third times a charm" in the best man's toast??

And finally, if these two people shall ever divorce again, I suggest they both have their marriage licenses revoked-- for good. Marriage is, after all, a privilege.

Thanks, Viagra

You might not know this, but the number one side-effect of the drug Viagra is not sixty-something-year-old women who have to go find another excuse not to have sex with their aged male counterparts. Although that might be a little true, its actually decreased vision. Which makes that old saying just a little more true: 'If you keep doing that, you're going to go blind!' At work, we get a lot of older guys coming in complaining of decreased vision, and of course they aren't going to tell me about their new medication, partly because I'm a girl, but mostly they just don't think they're related, so they don't mention it. But when faced with the reality that their vision has dropped from 20/20 to 20/40 and the only solution is to stop taking Viagra, men know that there is only one thing to do: Make due with 20/40 vision. In some ways, maybe its not such a negative side effect-- With Viagra, you can get an erection. And you can barely see those wrinkles on your wife's face, which means you can keep an erection. Which is why men everywhere should be saying Thanks, Viagra.

Penciling it in

My 'Miss Popularity 2010' day planner still does not have a single event written into it. I bought it to be cheeky and ironic but now its bordering on hurtful.

Review of the Jewish History Museum

Last month I went to the Jewish History Museum in Washington D.C. and I took a tour of their Nazi propaganda exhibit. I'm not a big World War II buff, and I don't do much research on the holocaust (I recently read Benjamin's Crossing, and that was about as formal a holocaust education I've had since high school). But I had heard good things about the museum, so we went mid-week, as soon as it opened, and it wasn't packed with screaming high schoolers, at least, not right away.



I was pretty concerned at first, as I was given a booklet with the story of a Jewish person who was effected by the holocaust, and then asked to step into an elevator that looked suspiciously like a train car. It was starting to look like the Jewish Museum was more of a Jew-musement park. I started to sweat a little as I thought about how tacky, and tasteless this could turn out. Thankfully, the amusement park atmosphere ended there.

All that being said, there isn't a whole lot I want to say about the museum itself. Just go see it if you ever get the chance. There are a few things that seem sort of bias, like for the most part, America is painted as the big war hero, with the glaring exception of a display that references a boat of Jewish refugees that tried to dock in Florida, only to be sent back to Europe. When I was there, there was a 9 or 10 year old girl standing in front of me, and she asked her mom, "Why did we send them away?", which I imagine was probably the single most horrifying and complicated thing this parent had ever had to answer to their child thus far. The mom just sort of fumbled for a few seconds before saying, "We didn't know what they were going to do.". I've been thinking about that statement for over a month now.

My Resume

I fail at resume writing. It might be because I don't know why I do the job I do. Or that resumes force me to expose the fact that I'm not qualified to do my job. Or maybe its because none of my career highlights involve working.

So, I created a resume, because I'll by moving in the Fall, and I hope to have a job so I don't starve. And that's just about all my resume says about me. But that's not my fault, those pre-fab websites only give you 35 characters to describe your career goals. I, of course, have to bullshit, because I have no career goals. Except maybe having a career. That's a goal. And aside from that, no one sounds smart in 35 characters or less. "I like job."

I decided when making my resume, I'd use one of those automatic resume builders, where I pretty much just fill in the blanks. But when it asks me to list five things I'm looking for in my new job, I'm stuck. I'm looking for: A paid hour-long lunch, Dental insurance, 8 hour days, and a coffee maker in the break room. That's about it. But no one wants to hear that. People who are hiring want to hear that your excited to work there. That the job means more to you than just a paycheck. That every patient is special, but the truth is, if I didn't need the money, I would not be holding down a 4-year-old, squeezing drops into their eyes while they kick and scream. At least not everyday.

So the work continues on a resume that will make me look smart, but not lofty. Hardworking, but not totally lame. And above all else: Not crazy.

Say Yes to Depressed

I know I've mentioned TLC's show 'Say Yes to the Dress' before, but today was a rainy Saturday afternoon, and I got pulled in again. Four hours of bride-brawling television later and I find myself feeling pretty bummed. As well as fat, poor, and alone. God Bless Television.

In honor of such feelings, its time for another edition of Bachelor(ette) Cooking, or: Cooking for One, Eating enough for Four. Today's dinner dish: Pierogies with bacon and vegetables.

This is a one skillet meal, deh. For starters, you'll want the following:

Frozen Pierorgies
Frozen Vegetables
Bacon
Canned Tomato Sauce

First, heat the skillet and add the bacon, once the bacon is cooked, remove and add pierogies and vegetables. Cut the bacon up into little pieces and put it back into the pan. It'll finish cooking in just a few minutes. Lastly, add a few tablespoons of sauce to the pan, it doesn't take more than a minute for the sauce to heat up. Now, when plating, I suggest using a clean plate. You're eating by yourself, so it doesn't really matter if eat off of dirty dishes or not, but hey, treat yourself right. And, enjoy. You fat, lonely slob.

Obligatory Pictures of my Cat

Everybody's doing it. You're just jealous. Here is a collection of Pictures of my cat in bags and boxes.