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.