So, as I begin to write this blog post, it’s 10:52 PM on a Monday night, and I’m just biding my time until midnight.  Why, you may ask?  That’s because, at midnight, the final book in Suzanne Collin’s The Hunger Games trilogy comes out, and I have pre-ordered it for delivery on my Kindle.  I want to get an hour or two of reading in tonight if I am able.

I’ve not been this excited about the release of a book since Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows came out back in 2007.  The Hunger Games ranks right up there in my list of favorites along with Harry Potter and the Fablehaven series.

While I’m waiting, I’m doing laundry, doing dishes, and listening to the audiobook of You Suck by Christopher Moore…a very funny novel that is basically what Twilight would have been if it were written by a sarcastic sex-crazed frat boy instead of a sexually frustrated suburban housewife with attachment issues.  (In all honesty, Stephenie Meyers is a really nice person, and pretty cool in real life, but sometimes, reading the Twilight saga is enough to make me sprout breasts.)

And I’m blogging.  Because, seriously, if you’re lame enough to be waiting up until Midnight for a BOOK, then you might as well cement your lameness by writing a blog post about the fact that you’re waiting up until Midnight for a book.

I thought about writing an epic rant about the jackbags who are trying to stop the building of an Islamic cultural center near ground zero, but I feel like this topic has been played out in the media far too much.  I won’t write a full-blown rant, but I would like to say a few things.

  • If you are one of the mindless masses campaigning against the building of an Islamic Cultural Center near Ground Zero, you should be ASHAMED of yourself.  Ashamed. 
  • If you’re a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and you’re campaigning against the building of an Islamic cultural center near ground zero, you should be ashamed of yourself, and then you better go repent.  LEST member of the LDS church forget, less than 40 years ago, it was still officially legal to kill a Mormon in the state of Missouri.  If you’ve been in the church for any amount of time, then you know what can happen when we start being prejudiced based on religion.  And for a group of people who make up less than 2% of the population of the United States,  you should be fighting for these Muslim’s rights as though they were your own…because one they were your own rights that needed fighting for, and almost certainly they will be again. 
  • Islam does not equal terrorism.  Saying that an Islamic center shouldn’t be built next to Ground Zero is like saying that Marriage should be made illegal in Utah and Arizona because there are a few polygamists living there. 
  • Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  With all of the problems going on in the world, THIS is what we’re going to focus on?  Whether a group of Muslims can take an abandoned Burlington Coat Factory building and turn it into a community and cultural center two blocks away from the site of the world training which, by the way, you can’t even SEE from ground zero, is really the MOST important thing we can be dealing with?  How about working on joblessness, or homelessness, or lambasting Dr. Laura for saying the N-Word on the radio.

Okay.  I’m stopping now.  Seriously, though, if another person sends me an invite on Facebook to join another Anti-Muslim group, I might have to look up their address and firebomb their house.  Oh wait.  Then they’ll probably start discriminating against gay Mormons.  Oh.  Wait.  They already do that.  Nevermind.

*Rant Mode Off*

Eliza?  Where the hell are my slippers?

Anyway, um, Mockingjay.  Can’t wait.  I will probably be worthless at work tomorrow.  Which, let’s be honest, isn’t a huge step from how I am most of the time.  This new job has me feeling more than a little inadequate…something that I’m not used to feeling at work.  In my personal life and human relationships, yes.  But not at work.

Whew.  This blog post got all angsty all of a sudden.  I think I need to go sit in a hot bath with a cold popsicle.  (And no, that’s not a euphemism for anything.  You’ve got such a dirty mind.)

To all of you Hunger Games fans, here’s to a fantastic Mockingjay Day!

In November 2003, Shawn, Emily, and I had Thanksgiving dinner at my apartment in Sevierville, Tennessee.  Shawn and I had gone shopping a couple of nights before, I had done most of the cooking, and we ate ourselves sick.  We had to have our dinner before Thanksgiving, since we had to perform shows all day on Thanksgiving day proper.  In mid-meal, there was a knock on the door, and I got to learn, first hand, what Brown could do for me.  It was the UPS man with a box for me.  (I’m really fighting the urge to put a tasteless joke about a big package from the UPS man…and I’m failing.)  Anyway, inside this large package (ahem) was a little invention that changed my life forever.  The ever-blessed TiVo Series 2.

Since that day, I have never been without a TiVo in my life…except for that truly painful four months after I left hell Tennessee where I lived at home with my mom in Michigan.  It wasn’t the living with my mom that was painful, it’s that a) my parents to this day still don’t have a DVR, and b) my mother is incapable of correctly channel surfing when commercials are on.  She’s like a little kid who sees a bright shiny–she just flips to another channel and gets engrossed until a commercial comes on on that channel, then she’ll flip to a third channel, etc.  The woman has never watched an entire television show from beginning to end in her whole adult life.  It’s enough to drive me up the wall.  (HI MOM!)

Anyway, since that wonderful day 6 1/2 (!) years ago when I waltzed from the world of the commercial watchers into the much more sophisticated and urbane world of the television time shifters, I nearly never watch commercials.  If I can’t generate that satisfying little "bloop, bloop, bloop" sound and fast forward though 5 minutes of mind-meltingly stupid television advertising, then as far as I’m concerned, I’d rather not watch TV at all.

Every great once in a while, though, I run out of things to watch on my TiVo.  It doesn’t happen that often, but with the truly abysmal quality of most of the primetime television on this season, I will often find myself flipping the channel to Food Network or HGTV and just letting it play in the background while I cook, eat, or pack up my life for the 5,000th time into boxes and prepare to move once again not that I’m bitter.

It was during one of these times of television background noise that a certain commercial was brought to my attention.  And, my fellow Americans, It. Was. NOT. Okay. 

Perhaps you have seen this commercial.  It contains a couple of little animated bears hocking Charmin toilet paper.  They’ve, apparently, been in a whole series of commercials, and they look like this:

Cute, right?  Except in this particular commercial, a mother bear catches her young cub looking through a telescope at the ass of another bear who is sitting up in a tree and who, apparently , has toilet paper remnants stuck to said ass.  There are many, many things wrong with this commercial.  First, a voyeuristic child is using a telescope to spy on an adult going to the bathroom.  And apparently, is getting so up close and personal that he can notice mini TP dingleberries in the adult’s butt hair.  Secondly, the kid’s mother is RIGHT THERE.  Wake up, mama bear!  I don’t know about you, but if I had a kid who was so fascinated with watching the bathroom habits of the neighbors with a telescope, I’d have that kid in front of either a psychotherapist or priest so fast it would make his head spin.  But no, you just sit there and think it’s cute.  "Ah look honey.  Little cubby’s got a sick fascination with the neighbor’s toilet time.  Better call Dr. Freud!"

Apparently, this is not the only commercial where Charmin thinks it’s okay to go probing (ahem) through the annals (AHEM) of toilet paper posterior problems.  Thanks to YouTube, I have since seen a mother chasing her cub (who, by the way, has the most annoying giggle ever recorded) around the forest with a dustpan and broom to remove "leftover pieces of toilet paper."  Call me kooky, but somehow, I think that a hand broom and a dustpan aren’t really the best tools to take care of the problem of left over toilet paper.

And then there’s the commercial that spawned this screen capture, which I found by typing in the words "Charmin Bears":

 

[charmin+bears.png]

Yikes.  I don’t exactly know what’s going on in this picture, I’m pretty sure this is probably how most gay porn films start.  "Hey coach, do I look like I have any extra toilet paper on my butt?"

Here’s my question, though: Is this really a problem?  I mean, let’s be honest here.  I’ve got a very screwed up digestive system.  I visit the bathroom more times a day than anyone I know.  I can manage to go through a truly heroic amount of toilet paper in a week.  I’ve never had problems with leftover toilet paper sticking where it doesn’t belong.  And I don’t use Charmin.  I use Cottonelle.  Exclusively.  And I have for a long time.  And I got to thinking: who, exactly, are these commercials trying to reach.  What’s the intended audience?  I’m set in my toilet paper ways.  And I’m certainly not being swayed into switching by watching animated ursine fetishists.

Then there’s this:

 

Seriously, Charmin?  SERIOUSLY?  I’m sorry, but I’ve been using dry toilet paper for nearly 30 years now.  I’m not going to start buying what are, in essence, baby wipes, even if the moron you’ve got doing your product demo is so mentally challenged he can’t get toothpaste off his hand with toilet tissue.  For experimentation’s sake, I was able to get it off my hand in a single swipe, and my skin didn’t even taste like toothpaste afterwards.  What’s your problem, dimwit?

All of this contemplation about toilet paper got my mind going.  First, I needed to gather some information.  Then, I needed to parse and mull on said information.  Then I needed to take a good long look at why the subject of toilet paper preferences fascinates me so deeply and investigate the myriad of other things I could have spent my mental currency on that would have made a positive difference to the world or my personal life.  But instead, I wrote a quick post in the middle last week to get some information about toilet paper.  And I learned some interesting things:

  1. When it comes to toilet paper, there are generally two kinds of people:  Those who have a single brand that they stand behind with a religious furvor, and those who buy whatever happens to be cheapest.
  2. Those people who buy specific toilet papers only because they’re cheap are horrible, horrible people, and we can no longer be friends.
  3. Surprisingly, Angel Soft seems to be the most popular brand.  I don’t get it.  Compared to Cottonelle or the TP of the creepy bears, Angel soft just doesn’t compare. 
  4. One ply toilet paper is universally loathed, and the only people who think it is appropriate to buy, even despite it’s very low cost, are the people responsible for purchasing supplies for companies who obviously don’t give a rat’s ass (no pun intended) about the physical well-being of their employees.  In fact, my employer, whose name rhymes with Nicroloft, buys toilet paper that is simultaneously so thin that you can see your own fingerprints through it and so roughly processed that it will give you splinters.  I’m sorry, but if I wanted to rub wood pulp across my sphincter, I’d go outside, pull down my pants, and rub my butt up against a pine tree.  For someone who has to go to the restroom as often as I do, (warning: overshare ahead) I have actually had the toilet paper at work make me bleed.  Now, when someone says, "that really chaps my ass," I know first hand what they means.
  5. Toilet paper should always be hung with the leading squares coming up over the top of the roll.   ALWAYS.  If you do it any other way you’re wrong.  If you ever come into my house and turn the toilet paper over so it’s coming out of the bottom of the roll, you’re forever uninvited from my house.  Overhand only.

And finally, for the service of those readers who mentioned this in their comments, I would like to provide you a few rules about toilet paper etiquette which you must follow, at the risk of having your toilet paper privileges taken away forever.

  1. If you finish a roll of toilet paper, it is your responsibility to replace the roll of toilet paper.  Failure to do so means that there will be no place in heaven for you in the next life.  Fail to replace the roll and go to Hell.  It’s that simple.
  2. Replacing the roll means taking off the old paper tube, and replacing the roll completely on the dispenser.  It does not mean setting it on the counter.  It does not mean placing it on the floor.  It, under no circumstance, means simply placing it on top of the empty tube which your lazy rear end left in the dispenser.  Failure to fully replace the empty roll will result in severe beatings.
  3. Please, for the love of all things good an holy, PLEASE leave at least one extra roll in the bathroom at all times.  Do NOT keep all your extra toilet paper out in the hallway closet.  Because if I run out TP in your house, and there’s not an extra roll in the bathroom, I will walk out of your bathroom with my pants around my ankles doing that bent-knee wide stance waddle so as not to cause any smearing.  Then I will waddle into your living room, sit down, and start dragging my butt across the carpet like a dog with worms.  You have been warned.

Now you know.

So, what did my mental foray into the world of toilet tissue teach me?  First, that toilet tissue is very personal, and that the way I do it is right, and the way everyone else does it is wrong unless they do it just like me.  That being cheap when it comes to toilet paper will only end in heartache.  That it’s really hard to find a decent way to refer to your own anus as a "Brown-Eyed Susan" without making it sound forced.  That the Charmin bears are freaky, and more than a little creepy, and most of all…

I need to start TiVo’ing more television shows.

Hey guys,

Have you ever been in a relationship where the other person treats you like garbage, and you keep trying to leave, but every time you do, you convince yourself that you’ll never find anyone out there who’s better, and then you end up coming right back to the same person who treats you like garbage?  And then you suffer in the relationship and wonder where your life went so wrong that you’re willing to just stay put and put up with the abuse, because you used to be so strong, so independent, and if you had told yourself a year ago that you’d be in this position you’d never believe it?

Well, until yesterday, that was me. 

On October 16, 2008, I walked into a Best Buy and purchased an iPhone 3G.  I had put off purchasing the iPhone for a long time.  I had a phone.  It worked fairly well.  It got pretty good service.  But it was coming to the end of its life cycle, and I realized that I would soon need a new means of communicating.  I was excited.  I’m not a fan of Apple products, overall.  I find them to be overpriced, overdesigned, underperforming, and honestly, pretty ugly.  I, to this day, can’t stand to use iTunes.  I would sooner set my money on fire than spend it on one of your ridiculously overpriced Mac computers.  But I had to admit–the iPhone was a pretty sexy piece of tech.  Sure, it still looked like a reject from the Wall-E character models, but it had a lot of cool features, the OS worked fairly well, and it had a great app store.

I got the iPhone, and spent the next day or two playing with it.  And I loved the device immensely.  Except for one thing:  It didn’t make or receive calls.

Now, call me crazy, but it seems to me that when you spend several hundred dollars on a phone, locking yourself into a RIDICULOUSLY overpriced two-year contract, the one thing that you should have every right to expect your phone to do is to MAKE AND RECEIVE CALLS.  My phone regularly got 0-1 bars of service from within my apartment.  At work, I got five bars, but I still couldn’t make calls, check my email, or send text messages.  I wouldn’t get emails or voicemails until hours or even days after they had been sent.  I did everything:  I reset the phone, reset the network settings, spent $300 on a cell signal repeater for my apartment, got a new SIM Card, even tried to get a replacement phone.  All with no luck.  But I was so in love with the iPhone’s non-phone functionality that I decided to keep it anyway, and instead got a land line in my apartment.

Let me repeat that.  I spent $300 on a phone, was under a contract to spend a minimum of $90 a month for service I couldn’t use for two years, and in order to keep the device, was forced to go out and spend another $50 a month just so I could have the ability to make phone calls from my apartment.  I should have taken that as a warning sign.  What idiot in their right mind spends that kind of money on a phone that can’t make or receive phone calls? 

But I persisted.  Sometimes the phone would work just fine.  Most of the time though, it would drop calls, fail to deliver voicemails, connect to wi-fi, or perform any of its regular communication duties.  I was once on hold for 30 minutes to talk to someone at the IRS and had the phone drop my call less than 20 seconds after the IRS agent picked up the line.  But like a battered wife, I stuck with it, hoping that someday he would change.

Several months ago, Sprint came out with the Palm Pre, and at last, I thought, there is a Smartphone that will be able to free me from my AT&T shackles.  But, alas, I was mistaken.  I bought the phone and decided to try it out for a few days before porting my number and cancelling my account with AT&T.  (I was fully willing to pay AT&T’s early termination fee just to have them out of my life.)  The Pre was a decent phone, but the limitations and the lack of third party software, coupled with the atrocious battery life made the phone unusable.  I took it back to the carrier, and decided to stick with the iPhone.

I looked and looked for a better Smartphone…one that could do what the iPhone could do and also function as, you know, a phone.  There weren’t a lot of options.  So, last month, I bit the bullet, and decided that it was time to try an iPhone upgrade…I was going to try to get the 3GS, hoping against hope that maybe now, my phone would function as less of a PDA and more of an actual Smartphone. 

I need hardly mention that, once again, my hopes were dashed.  The 3GS was just the same: no calls, no texts, no voicemails.  All of my incoming calls go through Google Voice, which simul-rings both my cell and my landline.  I would sit there and watch the landline phone ring, but the iPhone do nothing, even though it had 4-5 bars.  If I let the call go to voicemail, it usually wouldn’t show up on the iPhone until two days later.  Now I had just spent $500 on a new phone and protection plan, and had foolishly extended my contract with AT&T for another two years.  Just on the hope that the only phone that functions as a decent PDA would also be able to make calls on "The Country’s Fastest 3G Network."

Let me just take a moment to send a special message to AT&T:  I realize that you claim that you have, and I quote, "The Country’s Fastest 3G Network."  While it’s true that, theoretically, your network is capable of delivering data at a faster rate than any other network currently built in the US, that hardly matters if the people who use said network are never able to connect.  I live less than two miles away from a major AT&T Wireless Building.  I live less than a mile away from the largest software company in the world.  If there is a single place in the entire world I should be able to get excellent service from your network, it should be here.  And now, Verizon is mocking the overall performance of your network by TELLING THE TRUTH in their television ads and using a Apples to Apples comparison of a coverage map that you have validated is accurate, and you respond like a poopy-pantsed cry baby and take them to court because they said mean things about you.  If you don’t like what Verizon is saying, how about you FIX YOUR NETWORK.  But no, instead you hire Luke Wilson to shoot a commercial that looks like it was written, produced, directed, and edited in about 45 minutes by a mentally challenged marketing exec on a bender.  If your network didn’t make people want to join the West Baghdad Suicide Bomber Union Chapter #306, none of this would even be necessary.  But it’s easier to go whining to the judge that Verizon called you a bad name.  Grow up.

In any case, I thought that I was going to be forever in your grasp.  That there was never a device out there that could compete with the iPhone, and therefore no way that I would ever be able to escape from the clutches of the abortion known as the AT&T "Country’s Fastest 3G Network that doesn’t actually let you make calls or check email."  But last week, deliverance: The Verizon Droid was released.

I bought one of these phones on Friday night, and already, I feel as though my live has been changed for the better.  The Droid is a hella sexy beast.  It’s got a gorgeous screen, a METAL body, a physical keyboard, a standard USB connector, an open-source OS, a very respectable app store, a better camera, a camera flash, interchangeable memory, a removable battery, and best of all, IT MAKES CALLS!  It doesn’t need iTunes to sync to my computer.  It allows me to drag and drop files over USB or bluetooth.  AND IT MAKES CALLS!  It can multi-task, does visual voicemail and voice dialing, doesn’t have ridiculous limits on the size of files that it will allow you to download over the 3G network (like podcasts), and did I mention, IT MAKES CALLS!  I’ve never in my life found so much relief from a piece of technology.  DROID is the Rolaids of the cell phone world.  I walked out of the store on Friday night feeling like Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes.

You see, AT&T, there was a time where I was beholden to you.  But I’m older, and I make better money.  Towanda!  I’m the kind of customer that you should really want to keep.  I spend money on technology like it’s going out of style.  I have never in my life kept one phone for my entire two year contract.  I am always paying more for my phone than most, because I do early upgrades.  I will pay extra for the data plan and the accessories, and the special features. 

It should also say something to you that I am willing to break my contract and pay the full break contract fee less 34 days after I renewed it and paid $500 for a phone.  You pushed me to the edge with your lousy service and your overpriced payment plans.  And the only thing that was holding me back from leaving you a long time ago was that I couldn’t find the right phone.  Well Motorola has done it.  Their phone has made it possible for me to escape from your clutches.  I know that one person leaving you isn’t that big of a deal, but I know several folks who are more than anxious to jump off of your network the instant their contracts expire if there’s another phone out there that can compete with the iPhone.  And not only is there, but there’s one that’s a WHOLE lot better…that can do everything the iPhone can, and a whole lot more.

So "Good Day" to you AT&T and Apple.  I SAID GOOD DAY!  AT&T, I don’t know that I will ever be willing to go back to you again.  Pretty much the only way I would is if you were somehow able to get a phone that could clean my house and walk my dog…and make calls.  And Apple, maybe next time you should be a little more careful about who you get into bed with.  Because in the cell-phone world, you picked the partner with technological Chlamydia.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m off to go make some custom ringtones, check my email, post to my Twitter feed, and download some apps on my new Droid. 

Dear US Postal Service,

Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  It’s no wonder nobody uses you anymore.  It’s not enough that you fill my mailbox with so much junk mail that I could use it to reconstruct the Taj Mahal out of Paper Mache twice a week.  It’s not enough that I get stuck with the surly mailwoman who writes pissy little messages on my Netflix envelopes about the fact that my address is so long that the apartment number doesn’t fit in the window.  It’s not my fault that they named the street West Lake Sammammish Parkway NE, nor is it my fault that Netflix INSISTS upon using the USPS standardized address, which, in turn, makes the address too long to fit in the window.  But today was the last straw.  Four months ago, I purchased a piece of electronic equipment, and got a rebate form.  I went through the ludicrous hoops of getting said form filled out, sent in with all of the documentation and UPC codes (paper clipped, not stapled) and I waited.  And today, I got my rebate check.  Or, to be more accurate, I got 25% of my rebate check.  Because the other 75% was apparently shredded by your automatic sorting machines.  But that’s okay.  To make it all better, you put what remained of my mangled check in a giant plastic bag with a printed message explaining that, sorry, that’s just the way it is because you have machinery that operates at a really high rate of speed in order to provide fast and friendly service, and you apologize for the inconvenience.

Well how about this, dimwits: how about, rather than being sorry for the inconvenience, why don’t YOU write me the check for $40.  Because your machines that sort the mail in a more convenient fashion managed to tear off the contact information for the bank, the check number, and the rebate number, thus making it impossible for me to contact the company and see if it would even be possible to get my check replaced.  In fact, all your damn machine managed to save was half of the bank account number, the last three letters of my name, and the amount of money I will NOT be getting because you’re sorry for the inconvenience.  I WAS going to use that money to buy the ridiculously overpriced stamps that I was planning on using when I sent out my dozens of Christmas Cards this year.  But since you’re sorry for the inconvenience, I will be sending out my cards via e-mail to my friends and family.

Suck on that.

With Coldest Regards,

Matt

***

Dear Häagen Dazs,

This is going to be one of the hardest letters I have ever had to write.  But recent changes in my life have made this absolutely necessary.  It pains me to say what I am about to say, but it has to be done.

I’m breaking up with you.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  I do.  More than you know.  But I can’t trust you.  I can’t rely on you.  You let me down time and time again.  Every time it seems like things will get better, that you’re getting your act together, you pull something like this last stunt, and we’re right back to where we started.  And I can’t take it anymore.  I need the kind of stability and support that you’re just not capable of giving me.  It’s time I move on.

Wow.  That was hard to write.  I wish it didn’t have to end this way.  We’ve been together through so much over the years.  You’ve been there when times are good and life is happy.  You’ve seen me cry.  You helped pull me through times of depression or dejection.  We used to sit on the couch in the living room together and make fun of the people on the Biggest Loser while we basked in each other’s company.  I’ve told you secrets that I’ve told almost nobody.  I gave you my grocery money, I introduced you to my friends and family.  I even took you home with me for the holidays.  And you repay me by running away.

First it was the Chocolate Brownie Walnut.  Then the Sticky Toffee Pudding.  And, finally, the last straw, the Fleur de Sel Caramel.  Each time, I’ve given you my heart, and you’ve just thrown it away.  I’ve written and called, I’ve begged you not to change, not to disappear again.  But nothing seems to work.  All I ever get in reply are these terse, formal, cold letters explaining that sometimes, you just need a change.  Well, I don’t need a change.  I need the Häagen Dazs that I fell in love with, the Häagen Dazs that I always turned to in my hour of need, the Häagen Dazs that always seemed to love me in return.

So, I’ve moved on.  I can’t afford to give my heart to you if you can’t guarantee that you will still be there in six months or a year from now.  I’m leaving you, and I’m moving in with a delightful new couple, Ben and Jerry.  They can’t compete with you on any level, really.  They aren’t anywhere near as classy or sophisticated.  They don’t know me as well as you do.   Nor can Ben and Jerry excite me the same way that you do.  But I can trust them.  I may not ever be able to give my heart fully to these two, but at least I know that what I do give them won’t be ripped out and thrown away.  There are even moments while I’m with them where I almost forget the beautiful thing that we shared together.

I still love you deeply.  And if you come back with Fleur de Sel, I’ll be right by your side again.  But until that day, I just can’t look at you anymore.  It’s like I don’t even know who you are.

I hope you have a good life, and that someday, you will grow up enough that you can realize your true potential.  And if that day ever comes, you know where you can find me.

Have a wonderful life,

Matt

So, last week I went to the local Home Depot in order to buy a bunch of big, manly power tools dowel on which I could dry homemade pasta. In all reality, my construction experience amounts to little more than whining non-stop while being forced by my labor camp jailor dad to strip all the oak moldings down to the bare wood in our old house in Albion, and an occasional tryst into building a set for a high school theatre production.  (Although, let’s be honest, at my high school, all it took to be called a set was a couple of flats and one of the desks from the art classroom across the hallway.  We were not endowed with a liberal budget for the theatrical arts at Albion High School.  I think they gave us $1,000 a year for two shows…about enough to buy two gallons of paint and a McDonalds Extra Value Meal.)  Despite my lack of practical construction experience, I enjoy the occasional Home Depot trip.  Yes, I have a decidedly, well, for lack of a better word, feminine approach to my personal preferences *ahem* but even I can’t overcome the allure of testosterone which carries within it’s all-encompassing powers an uncontrollable desire to own and operate power tools.  As is evidenced by the fact that, last year at this time, I bought this to cut firewood:

image

Then three months later, I moved into an apartment with no fireplace.  I can’t even begin to tell you why I would spend the money to own such a ridiculous thing when I work at a desk publishing television and movie content at day, read audiobooks by night, and live in a 750 square foot apartment.  Add an over-enthusiastic 80 pound Golden Retriever into the mix, and it’s a plug-in health insurance tester.  Nevertheless, in a moment of testosterone-fueled weakness, I pissed away $100 to buy a power tool that is more likely to come to life and kill me in my sleep than it is to be used again in the next five years.

I also like going to Home Depot because of the people.  There are generally two types of people you run into at the HD.  The first type are the people who are in WAY over their heads.  You can see them from a mile away.  They are almost always wearing sweatpants, usually smell bad, haven’t shaved in several days, and have that wild look of desperation in their eyes, as though their last grasp on sanity can only be maintained if they find a 5/16” hexagonal washer in bronze-coated titanium.  Usually these people are men, often tackling projects so far and above their abilities, that you can just see the waves of desperation.  These men are one telephone call away from complete and total emasculation, and are doing anything in their power to prevent their wives from bringing in Joe-Bob the plumber.

The other group of people at Home Depot look like they just came from Central Casting to audition for the role of the HGTV Carpenter:

image image image image

 

I mean, really. People like this don’t really exist in real life, unless you happen to cross the threshold of a Home Depot.  If you’re gay, it’s worth the trip just for the eye candy.  If you’re straight, you want to follow these guys around just and do what they do, because maybe you can learn from osmosis. It reminds me of that old 80’s television commercial:  “You All Right!  I Learned it by watching you!”

In any case, I went to Home Depot to buy a large dowel that I could use to dry pasta (That’s what she said) and while I was there, I happened to wander down toward the garden center to look at some of the indoor plants, because apparently, the 15 houseplants I have at work isn’t quite enough to make me forget that fact that I’m working in a gray cubicle and staring at computer screens all day long with the sole purpose of publishing television and movies, and maybe plant #16 will transport me to that magical wonderland where I can lay on the beach all day in the sun and not get burned like the pasty, doughy, afraid-of-the-sun redhead I actually am.

As I browsed the plants, I took a look to me left and realized that, despite the fact that it was only October 3rd, Home Depot had put out its entire stock of Christmas decorations.  Now granted, HD’s decorations generally run more along the lines of the white trash inflatable snow globes in the front yard next to the lighted 1960s plastic nativity where all the wise men look like Chester the Molester.  But they do have a full complement of artificial Christmas Trees, tree skirts, lights, wreaths, etc. 

Last year, I decided I’d try to get a real tree, because let’s be honest, real Christmas Trees are the only ones really worth having.  Unfortunately, I drive car with a rounded roof.  My math skills are a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure I can sum up the experience with the following equation:

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+

almost assuredly =

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Last year, the only way they could get the tree on my car was to have me get in the car, then tie the tree to the car through the opened windows, effective tying me inside my car to try to get an 8’ tree home while trying to to travel more than 12 miles an hour on a major arterial on a Saturday afternoon.  Then when I got home, I couldn’t get out of the car because they had tied the doors shut with me in the car, so I sat in the parking lot for 5 minutes trying to break through the twine with my mailbox key so I could open the door, take down the tree, and try to haul all 13,000 pounds of it up three flights of stairs.  It was a magical experience, full of joy, holiday spirit, and a complete lack of language that would make a sailor blush.   I therefore decided that, since Nissan USA is a bunch of stupid people who obviously don’t want to take 1/10th of my monthly salary on a car payment for a new vehicle much more capable of carting said Christmas Tree home (separate blog post), that I was going to have to break down and get an artificial tree.  Plus, a fake tree will allow me to decorate sooner and leave it up longer.

This was the mental conversation I was having on October 3rd inside the Home Depot, mind you.  I came for a giant rod, and I was contemplating leaving with an 8’ tree.  (Insert any inappropriate “Got Wood” jokes here that will amuse you.  Are we done?  Good.)  I mean, honestly, most of the trees haven’t even started changing color.  It’s still in the 60s during the day, and we’ve not yet commenced into the seven month slit-your-wrist rainy season that marks the onset of winter.  But here I was in the store, seriously contemplating the purchase of a Christmas Tree. 

That got me to realizing:  I’m very excited for Christmas decorations this year.  Last year, I went all hog wild on the Black Friday sales at Kohls and bought myself a full-blown Christmas village.  And my new apartment has the horizontal space (thanks to my thoroughly fashionable new furniture choices) that will allow me to display it in my most festive (A.K.A. Frou-Frou) manner. 

I ended up not buying the tree yet, because I’ve decided that if I’m going to have an artificial tree, it needs to look as realistic as possible, so I want to do comparison shopping.  Plus, it gives me another opportunity to go shopping, which I love like the girl that I am.  Somehow, I just get the sneaking suspicion that Home Depot, while being the location of some of the most interesting people watching outside of an airport, probably isn’t the best place to find the highest quality Christmas Trees.  You know, that, and most of the leaves haven’t even started turning color here yet.

But I haven’t been able to stop planning how I’m going to decorate for Christmas this year in my head.  I’ve scheduled my trip to the storage unit to get all my Christmas decorations.  I’m mulling over my choices for the tree’s decorations.  I’ve even started looking for pine-scented candles to give me that it’s-not-a-real-tree-but-we’ll-pretend-that-it-is smell.  It’s beginning to look a lot like Autumn!

Plus, now I have another excuse to go back to Home Depot.

Warning: This post may contain far more information about my personal bodily functions than would considered decent by most people.  Proceed at your own risk.

About nine and a half months ago, I crossed a fairly substantial milestone in my life. I went from my 20s to my 30s.  It was a somewhat surreal transition.  I purposely didn’t mention my birthday to my co-workers.  (This was before they were keeping that damnable birthday calendar culled from our personnel files—and the ridiculous desk decorations that ensued.  Whoever decided that it was a good idea to sprinkle confetti on a person’s desk to celebrate their birthday needs to be shot.)  I simply went to work, did my job, came home at the end of the day, and went out to dinner.  Throw in a little homework, and that could be three days out of every week for me.  It was pretty low key.  I’m not into birthday parties much (or parties in general).

So, overall, my entrance into a new decade of life went largely unheralded.  It didn’t seem all that weird.  Turning 27 was, thus far, the strangest birthday.  I was no longer in my mid-20s.  I was now officially in my upper 20s.  But 30?  Meh.

However, I’ve begun to notice that, right about the time I turned 30, certain things started changing.  My body began to malfunction.  Things that used to work stopped working.  Things I used to be able to do were no longer possible without severe consequences.  I’m not talking the things you expect like pulling a muscle or hurting my back.  No, this was far more sinister and off-putting.

The biggest change I’ve noticed in the last year is my digestion.  I’ve never had what one might call in iron stomach.  The simple act of eating anything at all often sends me to the bathroom.  If you ever go out to eat with me, chances are that, toward the end of the meal, I will have to excuse myself to go to the restroom.  I know what you’re all thinking, and I want to put this to rest right now.  Would a bulimic person have a gut like mine?  I mean, for reals.  If I’m going to binge and purge, you better believe I’m going to make sure I’m skinny.  Throwing up is bad enough, but if you’re going to do it purpose, it better show results.  

Right around 30, though, I began to notice that my body was reacting in a particularly violent way to certain foods.  Take bacon, for instance.  Bacon is Ambrosia—food of the gods.  I think we can all agree that God probably has bacon served to him at every meal and never gains a pound.  I LOVE bacon.  I used to be able to sit down and eat a pound of bacon (pre-cooked weight) and not think twice about it.  Three or four bacon sandwiches, plus a few extra strips for good measure.  Yeah, not anymore.  I so much as smell that smoky, glorious scent of bacon frying, and I’m running to the nearest commode.  With violent diarrhea. Not that this has stopped me from eating bacon, mind you.  I just have to carry a cork around in my pocket.

I have also started to get heartburn.  A lot.  It seems like everything gives me heartburn.  The worst, though, is pizza.  Pizza is a heavenly food.  Yet eating pizza makes me feel like someone poured acid down my throat which, technically, is half true.  I’ve got someone splashing acid up my throat.  Mexican Food, Indian Food, Chinese Food, American Food.  Pretty much the only things that don’t give me heartburn are Pho (Vietnamese Noodle Soup) and Red Mango Frozen Yogurt.  What’s a foodie to do?  I’ve begun crunching on Tums.  I eat them like popcorn.  I just sit down in front of the TV with a bowl of tropical flavor Tums and a bottle of water for a couple of hours before bed just so I can sleep horizontally without my stomach acids burning off my nose hairs.

Not that I couldn’t stand with having my nose hair burned off.  Seriously.  Nose hair?  What kind of a cruel joke is that?  Just thinking about nose hair pisses me off.  I started going bald at the age 19.  NINETEEN!  I went through three miserable (and largely worthless) hair transplant surgeries in a misguided attempt to ensure that I could continue having a career in the performing arts.  And despite it all, my hair is still falling out—everything except the transplanted follicles around my hairline.  This means that I’m going to look like a monk with a bad case of chemo-head.  But don’t you worry.  What I am missing in hair on my head, I make up for with hair in my nose.  It’s only been in the last couple of years, but my nose hair has started getting out of control.  I’ve gotten into the habit of pulling my nose hair (for when I want to look like I’ve been crying even when I’m not sad).  Some of my nose hairs have been 3/4 of an inch long.  Why does anyone in their right mind need 3/4” nose hair?  What evolutionary purpose does that serve?  Now I have to keep extra AAA batteries in the house for my two different types of nose hair trimmers—the ones with the straight blades, and the ones with the round blades.  And even those don’t always work.  Sometimes I need to go in there with mini scissors, or go back to plucking (and looking like Meredith Baxter Birney as the battered wife in the latest movie of the week on Lifetime: Television for Women.)

Then let’s talk about clothing.  I’m sorry, but what is a 30-year-old man supposed to do for clothing?  Where can I shop?  I used to get clothes at H&M, Abercrombie, Gap, American Eagle, Aeropostale, Old Navy, Express.  If I walk into those stores now, I feel like a dirty old man encroaching on the purview of junior high girls.  And none of the clothing in these stores is something that I could be caught dead wearing in public.  I refuse to look like a giant douche by wearing pink polo shirts with the collar up that look like they’ve been run over by a car.  Nor am I willing to pay exorbitant prices for the privelege of advertising for the store.  Dammit, if I’m going to wear a banner for your store on my chest all day long, you better be paying me to do it.  And I’m sick and tired of dodging these slutty-looking 14-year-olds who are wearing skirts that barely cover their coochie with fuzzy pink boots walking around the mall glistening in body glitter.  (BTW, would someone please tell women everywhere that big bulky boots with short skirts looks STUPID?  If you wear this combination, YOU look stupid.  Knock it off.  It’s even worse than wearing leggings underneath a skirt a la Madonna circa 1983 or every high school girl circa 2006.  Also, body glitter comes from one place and one place only—Satan’s in-house cosmetic line.  It’s not cute.  It’s annoying.  And I don’t want to be picking glitter out of my nose hair for six months just because I happened to walk within five feet of your person).  I’m too young to shop in the cool shops, and I’m not yet so far gone that I want to start shopping for my clothing at Mervyns or Sears (Softer side my @#$).  I’m too poor to shop at places like Banana Republic or Nordstrom, and where would I wear all that expensive clothing around anyway?  I hardly think that wearing an outfit that cost me $700 is appropriate for going grocery shopping to walking to the dog park.

However, I think I can say that the worst part of getting older are my night times.  I’m only 30, and I can’t make it through the night without having to get up and go to the bathroom at least once—usually more.  There’s nothing worse than waking up for no apparent reason at 3:00 am, snuggled up in your blankets with your puppy sleeping next to you, warm and comfortable, only to realize that you need to pee.  Then, you usually spend three minutes trying to convince yourself that you don’t need to go that bad, and if you can just get back to sleep, you’ll be fine until your alarm goes off.  But then you realize that you’ll never be able to go back to sleep having to pee so badly.  Then you remember that one time when you peed the bed at someone else’s house when you were spending the night and, oh yeah, you were 26 at the time, and you just washed your sheets three days ago and you don’t want to have to wash them again because you still have laundry in the washing machine that needs to be put in the dryer and you hope that it hasn’t been in there so long that it’s started to grow mold and then it will have to be washed again.  (What?  You don’t have that thought?)  So you get out of your warm, comfy bed, and stumble into the bathroom, trying not to turn on the lights because it’s always harder to go back to sleep when you turn on the lights.  Being a man, you try to pee standing up, but you’re in the dark, so we can all imagine how well that ends up going.  Plus, the sound of urine hitting the water in toilet bowl is magically magnified between the hours of 1AM at 8AM so that the simple act of urination can deafen your neighbors, set off your car alarm in the parking lot, and cause earthquakes in small third world countries.

The thing that worries me the most about getting older, though, is that I’m only 30, and I sound like I’m a 75 year old man with an enlarged prostate and irritable bowel syndrome.  I can’t wait to see what I’m going to be like by the time I hit 50.  At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably be in a wheelchair, drooling on myself, and talking to my imaginary children who never come to visit me.

But you better believe I’ll still be eating bacon.

Today, on my way to work, and again on my way home, I found myself behind the same white Honda Accord.  I live close to work, in an area without a lot of residential properties, so seeing the same cars frequently is not uncommon.  However, this one really stuck out because the car had a bumper sticker that left me wondering.  It said:

“Freedom to Smoke without Harassment.”

The way I see it, this sticker means one of two things:

1) The freedom to smoke regular cigarettes in public without being harassed.

2) The freedom to smoke pot without fear of legal consequences.

In either case, the bumper sticker left me a little flummoxed.

Let’s start with #2 first.  I’m going to pull a Nancy Reagan, go out on a limb, and say outright that DRUGS. ARE. STUPID.  There are arguments both for and against the legalization of pot.  I’m personally against the legalization of pot, but then again, if it were up to me, booze would be illegal too.  If, by putting this bumper sticker on your car, you’re saying that you want pot legalized, you’re being pretty stupid about it.  Of course you’ll be harassed for smoking pot.  It is against the law.  Don’t like the law?  Get it changed.  But don’t complain that you’re being harassed by the cops when your upstairs neighbor call them because she and her four year old daughter are getting a contact high from the fumes wafting up through the floorboards.  For the love of all things good and holy, Seattle just passed a law outlawing trans fats in food sold in restaurants, just outlawed the use of plastic bags in grocery stores, and just outlawed the use of plastic silverware.  But despite the supreme nanny state of this area, there is a huge contingent of people who want to legalize pot.  That’s great.  You won’t let me eat foods that are deep-fried in Crisco, but you’ll let me smoke a joint.  Great.  Sounds like we got our priorities in order now.

Now, moving on to number #1.  If the supremely unattractive woman in the car mean that she wanted the ability to smoke regular cigarettes without being harassed, I have one thing to say: go to Hell.  Seriously.  Just pack your bags, grab your lucky strikes, your Bic lighter, and just traipse yourself right on down into the bowels of Hell. Seriously?  You’re harassed when you smoke a cigarette.  And, pray tell, what exactly qualifies as harassment in your book.  Would it be the disgusted looks you get when you stand just outside the door of the building blowing your smoke all over the place because it’s raining outside and you don’t want to get wet?  Or maybe you want to be able to smoke at your desk.  How about in restaurants?

See here’s the problem.  I’m allergic to smoke.  It makes me sick.  If you' get upset because I have to hold my breath in order to walk by you without having to inhale your second-hand smog, then just imagine how I feel having to walk by your yellow teeth and stanky clothes just to leave the building to go to my car.  You know what I want?  I was the right to breath without harassment.  It seems to me like you’re assaulting me and my health is JUST a little more important that you not feeling judged because I shoot you a disgusted look when you smoke.  If you want to smoke in your car or in your house, go right ahead.  Stick in on up.  One of the reasons why I moved to my new apartment is because my downstairs neighbors smoked like chimneys and I hated my apartment smelling like smoke every time I opened the windows.  But guess what?  I didn’t complain, because you were doing it in your apartment.  Now if you stood outside my apartment door and blew smoke in my face whenever I left, you better believe that there would be a whole lot more than simple harassment taking place.

And you want your smoking section back in the restaurants?  Okay, that’s fair.  Because we all know that putting the smokers in one section and the non-smokers in another section separated only by a metal railing is going to keep the smoke contained. 

Freedom to smoke without harassment.  Give me a freakin’ break.  Typical American attitude.  You want to do something stupid and you don’t want to have to feel guilty or judged or to deal with the consequences.  Next think you know, I’m going to be asked to start apologizing to smokers for segregating them from the population.  Smokers have rights too!  (The right to remain silent.)  I can’t tell you the number of times that my family had to leave a restaurant because the smoke was so bad one of us kids would start to get sick.  We actively had to avoid activities like going bowling because we couldn’t be in that environment.  Why are you so put upon?  Why is your segregation so much worse?  At least you were stupid enough to CHOOSE to smoke.  I didn’t get to choose whether or not I was allergic to it.

There really is a simple solution, though.  STOP. SMOKING.  If you need a little incentive to help you start, keep reading:

  • Smoking make you ugly.  I’m sorry, but have you ever seen a smoker in real life who looks good past the age of 40?  If you want to look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet, go for it. Nasty skin, yellow teeth, smoker cough.  Gross.  I’d rather make out with the south end of a northbound musk ox.
  • Smoking makes you stink.  I don’t care what cologne, body spray, or perfume you put on, you just smell like smoke and cologne, body spray, or perfume.  Your clothes stink, your hair stinks, your breath stinks.  Moreover, you will forever ruin the odor with which you try to mask your stench.  In 1999, I had a dance partner who smoked and who used to try to cover it up with Bath and Body Works Vanilla spray.  To this day, I still can’t smell Vanilla candles or body spray without gagging.
  • If you’re a smoker, I can’t be friends with you in real life.  I can’t be around you.  And while you may not realize it now, that’s a real loss.
  • I know I can’t ask this in job interviews, but if I were interviewing you and realized that you were a smoker, you’d be off my list in a heartbeat.  Smokers are inefficient.  Every single smoker I know takes at least 45 a day (in addition to their regular breaks) to smoke.
  • I’d go into the whole health thing, but apparently people don’t care enough about their health to let that influence their decision
  • You throw away SO MUCH MONEY.  You could feed a third world nation for what you’re going burn in cigarettes over your lifetime.  Imagine how much money you could make if every time you wanted to buy a pack of cigs, you bought a share of stock.  MONEY.

Overall, I don’t care if you smoke.  If you’re stupid enough to do something so completely brainless, go ahead.  There has never been a GOOD reason to smoke, let alone a good reason to KEEP smoking.  If you want to smoke, keep it to yourself.  Smoke in your car, in your house, or the state mandated MINIMUM of 25 feet from the building.  Just stay out of my way, and get used to be “harassed” by a nasty look if you keep insisting on blowing your death air in my direction. 

You’re gross.

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