Stream of Consciousness from the beach

10/28:
After months of planning, I have arrived in Hawaii! It started out as a pipe dream that I never thought would happen, and now I'm here!

This trip is either going to be amazing - making me believe in paradise, Eden, God, romance, true love and all things fairy tale (maybe not in that order). OR, it will reveal that reality, suffering, boredom, agony and general sucky things about LIFE exists everywhere, ruining my belief in all things beautiful and magical forever.

Just saw a "Honolulu Waste Removal" van. Hmm... It does have a rainbow on the license plate. Not sure if that's a sign, or what it is pointing to should it be a sign?

Passed by people holding signs begging people to vote someone into political office. I'm on a shuttle from the airport to the hotel. This shuttle is clearly marked. Obviously no one on this bus is a local. But I appreciate their waves and smiles anyway. Still unsure about the tone of this vacation.

I have decided to look for clearer signs. Looking for either a unicorn or a hooker. If I see a unicorn, it's gonna be a great vacation, full of amazement and wonder (kind of like what the circus always promises, but without the animal abuse and disappointment). If I see a hooker first, I'm going to spend this trip drunk. Really, really drunk.

I'm enjoying playing my newly invented game. Unicorn or Hooker? No one on the bus wants to play, including Mr J. Fuck him.

We made it to the hotel, so far no confirmed sightings. On a completely separate note, I always travel with my teddy bear, Toby. I find that carrying him around not only puts me in a more mellow mood, but makes people act nicer, friendlier even, towards me. Probably because they think I'm retarded.

So we're at the hotel, but can't check-in yet, because they haven't cleaned my room yet.

Who was in it last??

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10/29

Lady Gaga tweeted a picture of a unicorn. That must be the sign I was looking for. On an unrelated note, Mr J thinks he might have pink eye. He is no longer allowed to touch ANYTHING!!! So much for my romantic getaway.

It's official. Mr J and I went to urgent care. He does have pink eye. In both eyes. I thought they were more of an orange, really. However I didn't go to medical school, and therefore cannot diagnose color. This means we can not go diving, snorkeling, sunglasses shopping, or anything else that involves eye-wear. I also have to drop some stingy, milky, substance in his eyes every three hours. Oh well, at least there's a beach, and penguins.

Why are their penguins in Hawaii?

Penguins! We saw motherfucking penguins! To be fair, I did not actually see any of the penguins fucking any confirmed mothers. Nor did I see any penguins fucking anyone. But I also wasn't watching them 24/7. It's entirely possible that they were fucking mothers while I wasn't around. What did they do when I was there? Mostly lie on rocks and smell of fish. But penguins man!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10/30

I like it here.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10/31
Oh hey! Did I mention that my brother lives here? Radio Active Slog found time in his busy marine schedule to party it up with us on Halloween!

 I went as Lady Gaga. He went as two horses in a man suit.

Mr J didn't have a costume. So I bought him a mask, and we told everyone that he was a member of the Crazy 88. 

We went out for sushi, and drank sake. I had never had it before. I can now say that I really, really like sake. The combination of drinking too much sake, and Hawaii being FOUR HOURS behind my home of New Mexico, I was passed out asleep in my bed by 9:30.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

11/1

Our last day in Hawaii, and suddenly we realize that perhaps some of our friends are expecting souvenirs. In a rush, we ran to the local corner store. Picking out souvenirs is tricky. You want to pick out something thoughtful, and personal so that they all know you were really thinking of them. But you also don't want to appear to be playing favorites. At first you set a budget. Okay, you're not going to spend more that 5 dollars on anyone. But you can't find a unique, perfect gift for EVERYONE on your list for $5. Some of the perfect gifts only cost 2. So you think, I'll just buy that person two things, to even up the bill, and everything will be fair. But then, you worry that someone will think, hey, how come they got two things? I only got one. Maybe she doesn't like me as much as she likes that other person. And then you start stressing, and getting anxious, when it's drama like that that made you have to take a vacation in the first place!

Eventually, I decided to get everyone Spam. Enjoy your... erm.... meat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

11/2

Sitting at the airport, to begin the long journey home. Waiting, and I am not happy about this.

Let me explain how leaving Hawaii works. Before hitting the airline's check-in desk, you must get all of your bags inspected at the Agriculture Inspection Station. Then you check-in, deposit any bags you'd like the airlines to lose for you, and make your way through security, walk to your gate, board the plane, and finally take two Ambien and pass out on your tray table.

As smoothly as I just made that all sound, it does not go smoothly. At. All. 

The airlines open at 4am. Agriculture Inspection opens at 5am. The airport shuttle you took to the airport drops you off at 3am, because is the only time they could schedule you. So you sit, for two hours outside the inspection area, waving at the attendants at the airline desk for the last hours. They wipe down every visible surface, presumably disinfecting ones, rudely ignoring your waves. You get through agriculture quickly. Since you got there two hours early, you were second in line. The x-ray machine scans your bag, takes pictures of all the exotic sex toys you are taking home from the island. It's all deemed "OK" to leave the state, and you're off to check-in with your airline. Except, wait, suddenly all the desks are empty. All of the clerks have gone missing. So you stand in line, again. Still in that second spot. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

After 30 more minutes, the airlines reopen, they weight your bags to make sure they do no exceed 50 pounds. Heaven help you if they weight more that 50 lbs. They have a tiny Asian woman ready to screech at you if you dare go over 49.9. I know, I saw her go after the one person ahead of me. Claws, teeth, ear splitting sound. I was horrified, yet I couldn't look away. My bags were under 50, so I was ushered to the check-in desk. It's one of those self serve counters. Like the ones you see at the grocery store. The ones that make you scan and bag all your items. The that remind you how much hated working cash registers at your retail job back in high school. And aren't you happy you got yourself a real job? Except wasn't that employee discount great? An hey! If you're doing all the work, scanning and bagging your Doritos, and even looking thought the touch screen to identify what type of product you have before the scanner weights it, why are you paying full retail price? Isn't a discount in order? 10 percent, AT LEAST! FUCK! THEY SHOULD BE PAYING YOU! You're doing more that the self service assistant who never even checks your ID when you're buying vodka. And most likely you'd give less backtalk than the stock boy with the ear bud headphones shoved in his ear holes, with NOTHING PLUGGED IN TO THE CORD.

Anyway..... Mr J and I were on the first plane ride home, talking about the trip, how much planes suck and other such nonsense. Then Mr J confesses that he's sad that we didn't do anything much more adventurous than visit a marina and watch jelly fish swim around not eating other fish, despite my encouraging "FISHY DEATH" chanting. So we decide we will LIE. It's my job to come up with an amusing anecdote about some adventure we had. We will then tell everyone it, swear it's the truth, and bring light into every one's otherwise dark and joyless lives. You may have already seen the flaw in this plan. I'm not the best liar. I always take the lie one step too far. I know this is a problem for me. So I came up with a brilliant plan of my own. I will come up with something ludicrous, and see if Mr J thinks it's believable. He's overconfident in my lying abilities. If he hears the story, and green lights the falsehood, I will turn double agent. I will tell EVERYONE that we have a lie about Hawaii. That Mr J was feeling insecure about our boring trip, that he asked I invent a fake story to dazzle everyone. And that if they hear it, to please play along with the story. No matter how ridiculous. 

This now means that I can continuously take the lie farther and further down the rabbit hole of crazy. Oh sweet Jesus, this is the best thing that I have come up with. I would love to recite the story here, however it changes every time I tell it. The only constants are Carrot Top, tampons and para-sailing. Next time you see me and Mr J, ask us about it. He still doesn't know that everyone is just pretending, and enjoys pulling the wool over your eyes.. Feel free to come up with your own version and send it to me. I'll see if I can get a room full of people to pretend to believe it.

Cuming in 2011

Tired of having to having to filter through so called "voyeur" websites to find the good stuff.

Now you don't have to. 

Coming Soon:

Soon, you'll be able to view unedited photos and videos of the worlds most sexiest ladies, practicing good oral hygiene.  

 Oh yeah.

 You know you want it.

 Almost there!

 Don't just tease me!

 Harder! Harder!

 You like that, don't you?

 I can't wait to see her spit!

 Just turned 18!

Your welcome internet weirdos.

But I'm a cute one

Yesterday I achieved one of my teenage dreams. My grandmother called me a bitch.

SCORE!

Busy growing, and not in width.

You may, or may not, have noticed my scarce appearance in this corner of the internet. It's not that I don't have much to say, it's just that I don't have much time to say it! Work and school are quickly absorbing all of my free time. But please don't give up on me, I'll figure how how to juggle work, school and writing eventually.

Until then...

An ex of mine has recently been e-mailing me spam. Specifically, ads for free samples of Viagra. I have to admit, as far as things-people-do-to-annoy-their-exes, that's pretty damn funny! Good for him.

I'm not so good at keeping secrets

I used to date this guy, let's call him Virgil. He was overweight, and had been that way for as long as he could remember. He made the best german chocolate cake. But that's not the point of this story. After a few dates, and more than a few drinks, he felt the need to open his soul and tell me his deepest, darkest, childhood fears.

Why Virgil? Why? I didn't particularly care to learn about what made him into the individual person he came to be. Aside from his cake skills, he wasn't that good of a boyfriend. I wasn't that good a girlfriend either. But he wanted to share, and I was too drunk to come up with a reason why he shouldn't.

Virgil confessed that he'd been a fat kid. As a young boy, he had reoccurring nightmares; where he would have a feast set before him. He would eat, eat and eat. Until, a la Monty Python, he would explode! He would wake up crying, screaming for his mother.

I asked him what she would do to comfort him, and "make it all better" in the way that only mothers know how.

Virgil told me that she would let him have all the ice cream he wanted, until he felt better.

He then asked me stop laughing. It wasn't funny. But like I said, I wasn't a good girlfriend.

Plus those special 3D TVs are too damn expensive.

Remember back in the day when VHS and Betamax were battling it out for dominance in the home video market? (I sure don't. But good for you if you do.) How about when Blu-ray discs were competing against HD DVD's? It's no secret that the porn industry helped sway that decision for consumers. Porn favored VHS, and Blu-ray.*

So far, I've never send a 3D Blu-ray porn, which means that my well-endowed brothers and anus-bleached sisters are supporting me, in my fight against 3D technology. Because no guy needs to see "the money shot" in 3D, flying out of their TV towards him. It smears those special glasses, and you have to keep replacing them. Consider the money that you constantly have to plug into that investment; it's not worth it.


*Porn beat Betamax so completely**, that my spell check doesn't even recognize it.
**It's has frequent crier miles at the local S&M dungeon.

Are you a Mexican or a Mexican't?

I use live in an apartment complex, with a neighbor that spent most of his time outside, talking to anyone and everyone that walked by. If he could see you, he'd strike up a conversation. He didn't have many interesting things to say, so if you were like me, you'd pretend you couldn't hear and walk very, very fast. But usually this would only make him shout at you louder and follow you. This left me with few options. Typically I'd wait until someone else exited their apartment, watch out my peep hole to make sure he was busy chatting away them, and then sneak out. Or, I'd leave at the same time my roommate needed to leave, I could outrun her, forcing her to deal with him. I'm not a people person. For six months I lived like this! Avoiding my neighbor, who I'm not even sure lived in one of the apartments, since he was always outside. 

He was missing enough teeth to make eating an apple impossible, but he didn't smell like booze. He seemed like a nice guy, who I never caught trying to look down my shirt/up my skirt. He really just seemed like a lonely guy who was just trying to be friendly. I just didn't see how we could have anything in common. I like the inside of my apartment, I keep to myself, and I have a job. He didn't, at least not that I could tell. It would be very sweet if I could say that he and I finally did have a conversation, and I realized that we really did have a lot in common. How inspiring would it be if I wrote that I overcame my prejudices and we became friends? THAT'S NOT THE KIND OF STORY I TELL, PEOPLE.

Despite my careful planning, I would occasionally find myself forced to talk to this old man. The conversations, almost always went like this.

Old man : "Buenos dias!"

Me : "Hello!"

Old man : "No, no! Buenos dias!"

Me: "B-when-nose Diaz?"

Old man : "Buenos dias! It means g'morning in Spanish. You speak Spanish." It was a statement, not a question. Every time it was a statement. Never a question.

Me : "No, I'm afraid I don't speak any Spanish."

Old man : "But your father, he speak Spanish."

Me : "No, he doesn't speak Spanish either. Please excuse me, I really need to get to work."

Old man : "Your father, he speak Spanish. You should learn Spanish."

Me : "I know, I should. But I'm going to be late. Excuse me." And I'd run hastily away. Far, far away.

Every time I was stuck talking to this man, who was obviously extremely proud of his Hispanic heritage, the conversation would go the same way. He'd say some greeting to me in Spanish, I'd mispronounce it back to him and he'd feel shame for me. I was not embracing my Hispanic heritage. I should be proud to come from such fine stock, but I was shaming my family and my people by not learn my culture's native language.

 Except the last time I talked to him, I was late for work, and was heading out to my car. He yelled out, "Buonas tardes" (Good afternoon).

I pretended to be hard of hearing and hurried to the parking lot. HE FOLLOWED ME! "You should learn Spanish, your father, your mother, speak Spanish." He was smiling, and I wasn't threatened, I just had to go to work!

"No, my parents don't speak Spanish."

Still smiling, "But your grandpa, grandma, they speak Spanish."

"No, no one in my family speaks Spanish."

He looked smug. He knew what to say to prove to me that learning Spanish was the best way to honor my ancestors. "You are Spanish. I'll show you, what's your last name?"

"Anderson."

The smile was replaced by shock. "Anderzen?"

"Yup. Anderson."

He smiled again. "Oh! Then you must learn Norweeeegian!" He chuckled and left me alone for the rest of the time I lived there. He'd still wave at me, and I'd wave back. But he was no longer interested in being my friend. 

Racist.

Why does my head hurt?

This morning I awoke with a headache. This could only be the result of one of two things.

Last night a catholic priest and a rabbi strolled into my bedroom. The rabbi watched as the priest punched me in the face.

"What the fuck was that for?!" I screamed.

"You never go to Sunday church anymore." The priest replied.

"I'm Jewish! You cannibalize your God! Leave me alone!" I screamed again. I then rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Then the rabbi punched me in the face.

"JESUS CHRIST! What was that for?" I was starting to get pissed.

The rabbi calmly said, "You never go to temple, and you celebrate Christmas."

The priest then slapped me upside the head, "That's for taking the Lord's name in vain." He said "lord" with a capital "L".

"Yes, I'm a bad Jew, now leave my house."

OR.........

I'm hungover from all of the margaritas I drank with my family last night.

You decide.

Breaking blogging rules, blogging about work.

I work in a office full of cubicles. And today I was finally given permission to cover my dull grey cubicle walls with fabric. As long as it isn't political, religious, have nude pictures, have swear words, and isn't offensive. That limits my options greatly, but anything is better than grey. I now have a zebra print cubicle! There is now one more tick mark in the "I have the best job ever" column of the score board.

My cubicle is grouped with three other cubes. I call the four cubes a "quad", because I have no desire to look up the actual term. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in the work going on my cubicle, that I ignore what's going on in the rest of the quad. This leads to awkward conversations, like "What are you three laughing at?" "You went on vacation?" and "Why is there a dead chicken, lying in a pool of it's own blood, on your desk?" Add a tick mark in the "I have the worst job ever" column of the score board.

In the four plus years that I've been working for this company, I have had to ask "Why is there a dead chicken, lying in a pool of it's own blood, on your desk", twice. Each time to a different person. ................... uh...at least my score board is now zebra print!!

I won! I won!

Last night I dream't that I was going back to school. Which I am. In my dream I had to choose my major. Which I do. In my dream I chose to major in Canada. Not Canadian history, literature, all of Canada. Then, this morning, I got an e-mail. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Subject line & contents:

Your Mail Id Has Been Awarded £1,000,000.00 In The British Tobaco Online Promo:‏For Claims

vaughn-c@sbcglobal.net

6:16 AM (9 hours ago)

Send Your Details Name.. Sex.. Location.. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's weird that The British Tobaco (one "c") Association has it's spies tracking my dreams. But if they want to financially support my relocation to Canada, who am I to ignore such an obvious sign, ey?

Oh, Canada!

Last night Mr J asked me why I hate fireworks. I feel that this is an unfair representation of my feelings towards fireworks. I don't hate them. I don't love them either. My true opinion on fireworks? They're loud. Not bad, or good, just loud.

If I were to guess how the rumor of my hatred of fireworks began, I'd bet my last dollar that it got confused with my hatred of drunk people with fireworks. Especially if they're in my neighborhood. If you are yelling, slurred lyrics to a Bruce Springsteen song, and shooting bottle rockets at your fence/your neighbor's garage, you deserve to have the cops called on you. I find it ridiculous that once a year, in the United States*, this is acceptable behavior.

Drunk people with explosives is definitely on my hate list. Right up there with arson.



*I can already see the nasty e-mail now. "If you don't like it, you can leave! Unpatriotic bitch!!" And while there are many clever responses, that I could say. I'm just going to tell you all "Go back to blowing your cousin Earl, you aren't finished yet."

Job Posting

I have been so busy at work. How busy, you probably aren't asking? I'm too busy to go shoe shopping! Do you have any idea how much I have to have going on in my life, to prevent me from buying shoes?!

I'm thinking of hiring a personal assistant. You know, to pick up my groceries, do my laundry, wash my car, screen my phone calls, shower for me, go to the gym for me, take my cats to the groomers, fetch my lunch, and separate the border pieces of my puzzles from the rest of the puzzles so I can get to the fun part faster!

The pay will be next to nothing... actually, it may be nothing, with no benefits whatsoever. Any one interested?

Oh my GOD!

In my free time, when in a crafting mood, I knit, crochet, make yoda ears, etc. 

Mr. J makes........

I think I just got propositioned on Facebook, by a man who lives in Turkey.


He told me "humidity waiting for you I want you". I have no idea that what means.


Be honest. Y'all would tell me if I look like a Turkish prostitute........ right?

Conversations overheard

Mr J: "Did you hear? Corey Haim died!"

Jane: "Yeah, I heard."

Mr J: "When did you hear? I only just found out."

Jane: "About a month ago, you know, when he died."

Mr J: "He died a month ago?!"

Jane: "Yeah...."

Mr J: ".........Which one was he again?"

Jane: "Uh... the one who wasn't Corey Feldman?"

Mr J: "............................. Thanks."

I suspect he was being sarcastic.

I'm FDA approved!!!

Y'all, I've got news! After years of experiments, I have found the cure to "Rage" (the highly contagious virus that infected a large portion of Great Britain. Anyone infected took on severe zombie-like, cannibal symptoms). And after even more years of testing by the FDA, I am proud to announce that it can now be bought, over the counter, in single serving juice boxes. 

They're berry flavored.

And recyclable!!!

I suggest you stock up. Just in case.

Itchy Eyes - Open letter

Dear Scientists,

It's the year 2010, have you noticed? I don't want to sound ungrateful, like those whiny bitches who want a jet pack, but I'd like an explanation. Why hasn't an allergy medication been invented that works?! One that stopping the urge to scratch my eyeballs out, just because the grass is turning green. One that doesn't leave me so doped up that I forget it's not Monday, it's Tuesday and I've forgotten to pick up my mother at the hospital. Mankind has been patient for this kind of change. And I think we're ready and responsible enough to handle the kind of power that being allergy free would give us.

Please?
Suicidal Jane

P.S. If you could also get to work on chocolate that makes women lose weight, I'd be forever grateful.

Split Personality

While sitting in the bathroom, moaning about menstrual cramps, I voice in my head appeared. A new voice. One I had never heard before. One that had her own life story and opinions on everything thing.

And she wanted her own Twitter page.

To suddenly be making demands of me, I thought she must be very powerful. I hoped that if I gave her an outlet to voice herself that she'd be satisfied for a while, and would let me be.

I was wrong.

She's taken control my life and says she won't get me back my body for 3-5 days! She says that even when she does leave, she'll return in a month. Every month. For many, many years to come. I'm afraid. I'm afraid of things she'd do to me, my friends and family, my co-workers, every one. What will she do while she has control? Will she ruin my life? Do things I'll regret forever?

HELP ME!

She died for your sins.

Scurvy

I'm thinking that I need my own cereal brand.

I'm thinking of naming it Scurvy. The bits of cereal would be lime green, and it would turn the milk lemon yellow. If eaten with a glass of orange juice, one could get 10,000% of your suggested vitamin C.

*Photoshopped from a picture loving stolen from cerealfreak.com

You're so vain. You probably think this post is about you.

Vietnam War Barbie

Mattel, the makers of Barbie, have produced many versions of veterinarian dolls over the decades. But why do they insist on labeling her as a "Pet Vet"?

Do marketers fear that consumers will mistake what a "Vet" is? Are parents worrying about their children playing with a doll that, due to traumatic events from the Vietnam War, suffers from flashbacks, guilt, hyper-vigilance, and unpredictable outbursts of anger that prevent Barbie from holding down a job and supporting herself financially? A doll that is forced out to live on the streets, making the therapy and medication she desperately needs that much harder for her to get?!


That seems like discrimination against the disabled to me.

Oh, and Happy Birthday Opera Mom. I bet you can't guess what your birthday present is!

You guessed homeless Barbie? Damn, I suppose you've proved me wrong, you can guess.

High on life!

Dear Me,

I know that you're still not use to the dang daylight savings time change. However you keep trying to open your car with your office's security badge. You also frequently attempt to unlock the front door of your apartment with your car's electronic key. Your neighbors and co-workers think you're high. Maybe a color coded system is in order?

Love you anyway,
Me

Completely original post. I totally don't repost this every year with just a few new pictures.

People who don't have to worry about being pinched on St. Patrick's Day.

Kermit

Charlton Heston

The Matrix family from Reboot! I miss that show....

Even though he's wearing purple, which clashes...

The Incredible Hulk

Jolly Green Giant

Yoda

Shrek

Gumby

Wicked Witch of the West (Elphaba) and anyone who lives in the Emerald City

Godzilla. No one pinches Godzilla.

Michelangelo, Leonardo, Raphael and Donatello (but not Splinter)

Cthulhu (like you'd try to pinch him if he wasn't green)

I would be so happy, I'd pee.

Dear Hollywood,

I've heard it said that you are out of ideas. I don't really believe that, however I do acknowledge that you've been making a lot of remakes lately. There's nothing necessarily wrong with that. It can be a great way to make money, and there are several remakes that I like better than the original.

That being said, I ask for a favor. I beg, I plead, I implore! Please remake The Last Unicorn. I loved this movie as a small child (Of course I did, I was a girl, and it was about a unicorn, you don't have to be a genius to guess that was going to happen.), and as an adult I don't believe that the great story was given the chance it deserved. Much of the animation was horrible, and holy shit, did they seriously let Mia Farrow sing?!* It's like the original film makers set their creation up for failure. I don't care if it's another animation (and let's be honest, an anime version could be amazing), computer generated, live action, claymation, a mixture of some or all... it could even be in... dare I say it... 3D.

C'mon, make the little girl in all of us, happy.
Jane

*Not that Jeff Bridges was much better.

Happy Pi Day Everybody!

Going to the grocery store hungry is usually a bad idea.

Unless is Pi Day! Then it's totally acceptable to buy stacks and stacks of pie. Even if you end up with twelve pies and an odd tray of brownies*, despite the fact that there are only two of you attending the Pi Day party. You may end up eating leftover pie for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next week. But what's wrong with that?

*And who the fuck brought the brownies to my Pi Party?

While watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles..

Conversation heard from my home between Mr J and me.

Mr J: "What?! This is crazy. A group of super powered heroes couldn't save the world, but four ordinary turtles that know karate can?"

Suicidal Jane: "Does the fact that they know karate make them not-ordinary?"

Mr J: "No, all turtles know karate."

Oh.

The world confuses me most days.

Dear Samsung,

I've noticed that you recently have started an advertising campaign partnering you with the 2010 Winter Olympics. That's groovy, and I'm sure the idea is a great one. However airing your commercial on a network that isn't airing the games, means you're advertising to people who aren't watching them. People who don't give a shit about the Olympics.

Does this seem like a valuable investment?

Just sayin',
Jane

P.S. Visa and McDonald's, this goes for you as well.

What is my city coming to?!

Everyone thinks that the drivers in their town/city/village/commune are the worst drivers in the world. Whenever someone would complain to me about how horrible the drivers are, I would counter with the drivers in Paris. On a brief visit to Paris with my family, we saw people driving on the sidewalk, sidewalks full of pedestrians. The cars would honk their horns to get people out of the way, as if they obviously had the right to be there and what did the pedestrians think they were doing there, in the cars' way.

But today I saw a yellow and black mustang driving on the sidewalk, here in my beloved city of Albuquerque..... all I can think of to say, "Care for a baguette?"

Google made me smarty-pants.

Someone once told me that if you pick up a cow, every day, starting from the day it's born, you'd be able to lift it when it's full grown. I believed it, and was then mocked, (mocked I tell you!) for years for being so gullible. 

Gullible? "Why?", I thought. It made sense to me, slowly you'd build up your strength, until presto, you can lift an adult cow. Plus, the cow would get use to you picking it up everyday, so after it's calf-hood it would come to expect this every day. I bet it wouldn't even struggle after a while. 

Today, the topic came up again. I asked Mr. J to explain it to me. (Because none of those of laughed at me were ever willing to.) He told me the average cow weighs several thousand pounds, and that the human body, no matter how well trained, is incapable of lifting such an amount. 

Thanks to WikiAnswers I am thrilled to tell you, Mr J is a liar. The world record for weight lifting is a whopping 1250 pounds. The weight of an average cow? Depending on the breed, anywhere from 600 to 3000 pounds. As long as the cow wasn't one of the largest breeds, you totally could pick it up after a few years of conditioning.

Who's gullible NOW?

Free comedy gold

What would happen if a young Mormon, going door-to-door to spread the good word, were to knock on a door of a Jehovah's Witness?

I think that would make a great skit on a comedy show.

Facebook won't let me throw me syphilis at people, I have to settle for sheep.

This year just keeps sucking more and more. And as the vaccumm continues, I keep reminding myself that there are great things in my life. Family, friends, friends I consider family, readers, caponies...

However, if through some freak accident they all went away, I think I would become a super sexy, super evil villain. Since I would be so villainous, I'd use my super sexy and evil-ness to spread syphilis to every hot man and hot woman alive.

Mr J just told me that was hot, and that he'd totally let me give him syphilis. I think he misses the point.

Dreams of Playing Music

I don't think it's a secret, I love radio! I have been known to start fan clubs dedicated to my favorite DJ's and radio personalities, go to radio remotes just to hang with said DJ's, I'm always listening to the radio, singing along with the radio, and frequently when I'm not listening to it, I'm telling friends and family what I just heard on the radio. It's my source for news, weather, gossip, interesting tidbits and occasionally relationship advice**.

That being said, or written would be a more appropriate phrase, I have a recurring dream involving the radio. 

I'm an intern working at a radio station. I'm an intern among many, on my first day, being shown around the radio station building. Our tour is near the end and our guide is about to lead us into the final studio, where a famous radio personality is just wrapping up his show. (The famous personality varies, it's either Bobby Box, or Casey Kasem. I can not stand either one of them, both in the dream and real life. Their voices threaten to make my ear bleed, and give me mono.) Excited to meet a "pro" in the "biz" all of us interns huddle around the door to the studio as it opens. And inside is.... my father. Upon my discovery that my father has been leading a secret life as a radio legend, I ask him why, why has he never told me? All he responds is that he wanted me to make my own way in the radio industry and not to ride on his coat tails. 

So since I keep having this dream, I'm starting to wonder.. what does this mean? Is the fact that my father is representing these two men that I can't stand mean I have "daddy issues"? Since I continue to dream about this, should I peruse a career in radio? Would anyone want to hear my Minnie Mouse voice on the radio? Is my subconsciousness trying to tell me something? Has my father really been leading a double life? If so, why can't I ride his coat tails to success? It's only fair after he's been lying to me for twenty-two years! 

*Tell me your car isn't really just an expensive karaoke machine and I'll call you a liar.

**Though, not always good advice.

The Universe looked me square in the eye and said "Fuck you Suicidal Jane"

Today sucked. No specific reasons, just all around, mopey-ucky-suck-i-ness. Then I discovered that the universe was just making me pay for a blessing it was about give me, because I'd open my e-mail and saw this:

I realized that it's in the UK... and I am not. Fuck you too Universe, fuck you too.