Sunday, April 16, 2006
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Saturday Reminiscing
Good news on the woodpecker front... although I heard her screeching war cry from the trees outside, she decided to steer cleer of my vent Friday morning, and she only made a fleeting appearance this morning, pecking for about ten seconds before fleeing. What a relief... I've actually been getting some decent sleep in the early morning hours for a change.
I have a s**tload to do today, and it's 4 p.m., and I have nothing related to my schoolwork done yet. Instead, I have been scouring my apartment...
And... wrapping a baby shower gift (yes, another one), as well as spending approximately two hours hunched over my Virginia state tax forms trying to figure out if I qualify for a "net fixed date conformity modification" or a "fixed date conformity FAGI" (which I have been reading as "faggy," as I have no freaking clue what the hell it means). I finally decided that I didn't qualify for the first option, but my "FAGI" appears to be the same as my adjusted gross income from my form 1040, thus the "AGI" of the faggy.
When I Google image searched "faggy," Robert Smith's picture popped up (uhhh, just in case you don't know, he's the lead singer of "The Cure"). I loved them in my teen years, and he is not faggy either, well, except for that red lipstick he always wears.
But thinking about the Cure reminds me that I talked to Miguel for a while on the phone this morning about the always humorous subject of 1980s clothing -- you know... leg warmers, stirrup pants, side ponytails, Michael Jackson jackets, Club Beverly Hills, and so on.
As if growing up with 80s fashions wasn't bad enough, we discovered that we doubly suffered as a result of parents who refused to buy us brand name garments (I remember hearing something about "character building"), and we were often the victims of bad knock-offs... for example:
All of the cool kids had "Polo" shirts (with collars flipped up of course):
See that little horse logo up close on the right? That meant that you were cool.
However, Miguel's parents and my parents bought us "Hunt Club" shirts from JC Penney:
Almost like a "Polo" shirt, but the horse was facing the other direction, and it didn't have a rider. This was not so cool.
Similarly, "Keds" white canvas tennis shoes were supremely cool for girls, especially when worn without laces or with thick scrunchy socks:
However, I remember my dad found me a pair of "Keds"-look-alikes at People's drug store (now CVS). True, they did look a lot like Keds, but they had a pointier toe (not the cool rounded Keds front) and they were missing the requisite "Keds" blue tag on the back of the shoe, like this:
So I got a blue pen and colored a fake "Keds" rectangle on the back. I wonder if I actually fooled any myopic people?
And how about the old "Eastland" shoe? An equally cool alternative brand was "Sebago," where you had to curly-cue the laces on the sides of the shoes:
These were quite the rage. Unfortunately, my pair (sans brand name tag) were from Kinney.
Only at Christmas would I get to experience brand-name ecstasy, when my grandparents would send me Guess jeans, Forenza sweatshirts, and Outback Red blouses...
My grandma once took me to TJ Maxx and bought me a pair of jeans with this label on the back right pocket, and I assure you that I wore those things at least three times a week.
Lest I give my parents too hard a time (after all, my mother reads this blog and will certainly call me saying, "We didn't neglect you! You had lovely clothes!") or you begin to think I was Dolly Dorkykins in my adolescence, I will say that my parents did get me three different pairs of "real" Tretorns throughout junior high and high school that I absolutely loved:
I had this pair (plaid) as well as a pink pair and a royal blue pair.
Pause... Phone Ringing... Added note:
I just talked to my mom on the phone, and she says, "You were not a dork in high school, even if you didn't wear brand names. Your father and I just felt that it was materialistic, unnecessary, and expensive to get you those type of clothes. You always looked very cute and stylish!"
My response: "Yeah, in my Kinney and Thom McAn fake shoes, and my faux drugstore Keds with the hand drawn label. Sure, I was super cool."
My mom: "Would you rather that we had bought you those expensive clothes and not paid for college?"
Hmmm, OK, I'll shut up now.
I have a s**tload to do today, and it's 4 p.m., and I have nothing related to my schoolwork done yet. Instead, I have been scouring my apartment...
And... wrapping a baby shower gift (yes, another one), as well as spending approximately two hours hunched over my Virginia state tax forms trying to figure out if I qualify for a "net fixed date conformity modification" or a "fixed date conformity FAGI" (which I have been reading as "faggy," as I have no freaking clue what the hell it means). I finally decided that I didn't qualify for the first option, but my "FAGI" appears to be the same as my adjusted gross income from my form 1040, thus the "AGI" of the faggy.
When I Google image searched "faggy," Robert Smith's picture popped up (uhhh, just in case you don't know, he's the lead singer of "The Cure"). I loved them in my teen years, and he is not faggy either, well, except for that red lipstick he always wears.
But thinking about the Cure reminds me that I talked to Miguel for a while on the phone this morning about the always humorous subject of 1980s clothing -- you know... leg warmers, stirrup pants, side ponytails, Michael Jackson jackets, Club Beverly Hills, and so on.
As if growing up with 80s fashions wasn't bad enough, we discovered that we doubly suffered as a result of parents who refused to buy us brand name garments (I remember hearing something about "character building"), and we were often the victims of bad knock-offs... for example:
All of the cool kids had "Polo" shirts (with collars flipped up of course):
See that little horse logo up close on the right? That meant that you were cool.
However, Miguel's parents and my parents bought us "Hunt Club" shirts from JC Penney:
Almost like a "Polo" shirt, but the horse was facing the other direction, and it didn't have a rider. This was not so cool.
Similarly, "Keds" white canvas tennis shoes were supremely cool for girls, especially when worn without laces or with thick scrunchy socks:
However, I remember my dad found me a pair of "Keds"-look-alikes at People's drug store (now CVS). True, they did look a lot like Keds, but they had a pointier toe (not the cool rounded Keds front) and they were missing the requisite "Keds" blue tag on the back of the shoe, like this:
So I got a blue pen and colored a fake "Keds" rectangle on the back. I wonder if I actually fooled any myopic people?
And how about the old "Eastland" shoe? An equally cool alternative brand was "Sebago," where you had to curly-cue the laces on the sides of the shoes:
These were quite the rage. Unfortunately, my pair (sans brand name tag) were from Kinney.
Only at Christmas would I get to experience brand-name ecstasy, when my grandparents would send me Guess jeans, Forenza sweatshirts, and Outback Red blouses...
My grandma once took me to TJ Maxx and bought me a pair of jeans with this label on the back right pocket, and I assure you that I wore those things at least three times a week.
Lest I give my parents too hard a time (after all, my mother reads this blog and will certainly call me saying, "We didn't neglect you! You had lovely clothes!") or you begin to think I was Dolly Dorkykins in my adolescence, I will say that my parents did get me three different pairs of "real" Tretorns throughout junior high and high school that I absolutely loved:
I had this pair (plaid) as well as a pink pair and a royal blue pair.
Pause... Phone Ringing... Added note:
I just talked to my mom on the phone, and she says, "You were not a dork in high school, even if you didn't wear brand names. Your father and I just felt that it was materialistic, unnecessary, and expensive to get you those type of clothes. You always looked very cute and stylish!"
My response: "Yeah, in my Kinney and Thom McAn fake shoes, and my faux drugstore Keds with the hand drawn label. Sure, I was super cool."
My mom: "Would you rather that we had bought you those expensive clothes and not paid for college?"
Hmmm, OK, I'll shut up now.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Temporary Ceasefire?
It appears as though mental telepathy may have worked this morning in defeating my #1 enemy, "the woodpecker."
I woke in fear around 5:35 a.m. this morning, looking tentatively at my alarm clock to see how much longer I had until "the noise" started, and felt trepidation when I realized I only had about 30 minutes more to sleep. In preparation for the mini-jackhammer, I shoved my earplugs into my ears and fretfully dozed off, mentally willing the bird to stay as far away from me as possible.
Therefore, you can imagine that I was positively amazed when my alarm went off at 8:30 a.m. without me even once having heard a trace of the woodpecker.
For a few moments I thought maybe my landlord had actually done something about the vent pipe, but when I checked outside, I saw that it was still standing without anti-bird measures.
This means either:
a) my fierce mental powers thwarted "the dark force,"
b) the bird is dead (my personal hope),
or
c) the bird was gathering its strength today in preparation for an all-out assault planned for Friday morning
If this is the case, I really might need to take some military-style action a la George Peppard, as was suggested in response to my last "all-out war" blog entry:
Take this, BIRD!!!
And since I'm never beyond totally embarrassing myself, I thought I would give you a glimpse of me in "military mode":
I was actually trying to look tough and mean (ugly goes without saying) during "survival week" at boot camp in 1995. I have no idea what is going on with that ridiculous "dew rag" on my head or the mini-axe in my clasp, but I am quite certain that I look more like a "special needs" kid (or a dyke) than a warrior. Hmm, or do I look more like a white Aunt Jemima? Flapjacks anyone?
I woke in fear around 5:35 a.m. this morning, looking tentatively at my alarm clock to see how much longer I had until "the noise" started, and felt trepidation when I realized I only had about 30 minutes more to sleep. In preparation for the mini-jackhammer, I shoved my earplugs into my ears and fretfully dozed off, mentally willing the bird to stay as far away from me as possible.
Therefore, you can imagine that I was positively amazed when my alarm went off at 8:30 a.m. without me even once having heard a trace of the woodpecker.
For a few moments I thought maybe my landlord had actually done something about the vent pipe, but when I checked outside, I saw that it was still standing without anti-bird measures.
This means either:
a) my fierce mental powers thwarted "the dark force,"
b) the bird is dead (my personal hope),
or
c) the bird was gathering its strength today in preparation for an all-out assault planned for Friday morning
If this is the case, I really might need to take some military-style action a la George Peppard, as was suggested in response to my last "all-out war" blog entry:
Take this, BIRD!!!
And since I'm never beyond totally embarrassing myself, I thought I would give you a glimpse of me in "military mode":
I was actually trying to look tough and mean (ugly goes without saying) during "survival week" at boot camp in 1995. I have no idea what is going on with that ridiculous "dew rag" on my head or the mini-axe in my clasp, but I am quite certain that I look more like a "special needs" kid (or a dyke) than a warrior. Hmm, or do I look more like a white Aunt Jemima? Flapjacks anyone?
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
And the woodpecker saga continues...
I declare WAR on the piece of crap, idiot, moron, retard Gila Woodpecker who makes my life HELL every morning...
Today, it was non-stop brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.... (3-5 second pause) ... brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.... (me hitting the heat vent with my hand) ... (pause long enough for me to get into bed and close my eyes) ...... (tip tap of little talons perching on the metal cap of the pipe)... (me bracing for noise)... brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... (repeat above sequence) ....
From 6:11 a.m until 8:02 a.m., I suffered through this miserable and monotonous game. I definitely considered going outside and flailing rocks at its puny little imbecile head, but I knew it would just return after a few minutes as I re-nestled myself under my comforter. So instead, I called my apartment manager and had a conversation that sounded something like this:
Lynda: Hello?
Me: Yes, hello, Lynda. This is Kit in apartment 736. I have a bit of a strange question...
Lynda: (warily) Yes? (Thinking, "oh no, it's the girl in 736 again")
Me: Well, I have a bit of a problem with a woodpecker who seems to think that the extra long metal pipe sticking out of my apartment's roof is actually a silver cactus.
Lynda: (clearly skeptical) Um hmmmm...
Me: It sits on top of the pipe and drills its beak into the metal incessantly from 6am until 8am every morning for the past two weeks. And you know, I would not normally complain about something like this, but, you know, it's ummm, just really LOUD.
Lynda: Oh my. (Clearly thinking, "and all I'm getting is discounted rent to deal with this crap?")
Me: And, well, I don't like complaining about things, but umm, well, it's been two weeks now that this bird has woken me up at 6 a.m., and so I was wondering if Hoyt (our Shadoe Stevens/Arnold Schwarzenegger "Bluetooth" phone-wearing landlord) could maybe consider putting a block of wood or a piece of plastic or maybe even one of those fake owls on the pipe to keep the bird from doing this.
Lynda: OK...
Me: I mean, I would do it myself if I had a ladder, but I don't, and I just can't keep going on like this. Plus, really, the bird could also be causing damage to the vent pipe with all that pecking. (my tactic to get the landlord involved)
Lynda: Oh, absolutely. (sounds very fake) I'll call him right away and see what we can do.
Me: (groveling) Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.
Lynda: Sure. (thinking: "crazy broad") I'll give you a call as soon as I talk to Hoyt and figure out what he plans to do.
Hmmm, well, that was exactly 13 hours ago, and I haven't received a phone call back yet. If I'm getting dissed by Hoyt on this, I am going to have to take matters into my own hands. Oh my god, what does that mean? What will I do? I'm just dreading the 6 a.m. hour tomorrow...
My options:
1. Climb onto the roof somehow myself and set a trap for ignoramus bird. (Suggestions welcome for the trap).
2. Set off a smoke bomb and direct smoke up the heat vent and hope I don't get smoked out of my own apartment.
3. Buy a beebee gun at a local redneck gunshop and then lay in wait at 6 a.m. in the parking lot area for the bird.
4. Buy a hacksaw and cut down the vent pipe so it's not as tall as a saguaro cactus on the roof and will match the normal size of my neighbors' vent pipes.
5. Connect live electrical wiring through the heat vent and up the pipe, causing mass electrical shock to the bird when it lands on the pipe. Or better yet, just call the guys at "Birdbgone"...
6. Climb to the roof at 6 a.m. and slather super glue all over the top of the vent. Bird sticks, festers, and decays on vent, precluding any other woodpecker from following the routine.
I am open to further plots. Please help me in my one-woman vs. one-bird war...
Bring it on, Woodpecker...
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Groundhog's Day & Top Google Searches
My day today =
1. Woodpecker wake-up call
2. Earplug insertion (as if it helped)
3. Tossing & turning until admitting defeat
4. Coffee
5. Maury Povich DNA paternity testing on TV
6. Economics class
7. Laying at the pool with Lindsey (83F here today!)
8. Bike riding home
9. Eating Cold Stone Creamery "Germanchokolatkake" ice cream for lunch
10. Arabic homework...
11. Arabic homework...
12. Arabic homework...
(Yes, my life is turning into "Groundhog's Day"...)
However, let me share a bit of humor...
I signed up for an on-line statistics counter that shows how many hits per day my blog receives, and it also shows how people access my blog (ie: typed in, through another website, etc.). I have discovered that a fair number of people get to my blog accidentally from doing various Google searches.
Here are my top four favorite Google searches that random people have punched in, leading them mistakenly to my blog:
1. "rude brownie selling cookies" ---
2. "emily hughes and kansas beef" (WTF?) ---
3. "lowrider carshow bitches" ---
And the most popular, with at least one search per day, leading some poor bulimic or the mother of a child who has consumed a poisonous substance to my useless site...
4. "vomit inducers" ---
I am so proud to be listed on Google under this category... oh, and lowrider bitches too.
On that note, back to Arabic homework...
1. Woodpecker wake-up call
2. Earplug insertion (as if it helped)
3. Tossing & turning until admitting defeat
4. Coffee
5. Maury Povich DNA paternity testing on TV
6. Economics class
7. Laying at the pool with Lindsey (83F here today!)
8. Bike riding home
9. Eating Cold Stone Creamery "Germanchokolatkake" ice cream for lunch
10. Arabic homework...
11. Arabic homework...
12. Arabic homework...
(Yes, my life is turning into "Groundhog's Day"...)
However, let me share a bit of humor...
I signed up for an on-line statistics counter that shows how many hits per day my blog receives, and it also shows how people access my blog (ie: typed in, through another website, etc.). I have discovered that a fair number of people get to my blog accidentally from doing various Google searches.
Here are my top four favorite Google searches that random people have punched in, leading them mistakenly to my blog:
1. "rude brownie selling cookies" ---
2. "emily hughes and kansas beef" (WTF?) ---
3. "lowrider carshow bitches" ---
And the most popular, with at least one search per day, leading some poor bulimic or the mother of a child who has consumed a poisonous substance to my useless site...
4. "vomit inducers" ---
I am so proud to be listed on Google under this category... oh, and lowrider bitches too.
On that note, back to Arabic homework...
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Addiction of MySpace.com
Oh, help me... I have a new addiction. It is a website that I am sure many of you have heard of called "My Space" where musicians, celebrities and regular boring people like me have profiles. You collect "friends" who can send messages and make comments on your site. You can also listen to a lot of great music on your computer for free!
Very few of my friends have "My Space" profiles so I have become a bit of a low-level celebrity whore as well as a devoted fan of some of the most underrated bands out there (most of whom only a handful of people are even cognizant of and who never get played on the radio). So -- I'm supporting the "little man."
Anyway, here is the exciting news of the day in my "My Space" world:
1. Santino from Project Runway added me as one of his friends... as did Morrissey... as in "the" Morrissey.
2. My favorite electronic musician, Alexander, from the Norwegian band, Binaerpilot, actually sent me TWO comments today! (OMG...)
3. And best of all --- PUMKIN from that hilarious VH-1 reality show, "Flava of Love" also added me as a friend and sent me a personal comment! In the world of reality TV, this is fairly major...
Pumkin is famous for spitting in the face of the most horrendous bitchy woman ever on TV (named "New York") ... and I posted a clip of it on my webpage after declaring Pumkin my hero for doing what many of us wish we could actually do to terrible people.
Here is a full-sized version of the event...
When Miguel and I watched this finale episode on VH-1 over Spring Break, we were laughing so hard that I almost got the hiccups.
Well, if you want to check out my "My Space" profile, it's at www.myspace.com/chickytava. If you have a profile already (or want to create one after hearing about how fun it is!), add me as a friend and send me a comment so I don't look like such a sad celebrity stalker.
PS - It's also great fun for looking up old classmates (sorry, Mom... you're probably out of luck seeing that you're so old). Ha ha...
Very few of my friends have "My Space" profiles so I have become a bit of a low-level celebrity whore as well as a devoted fan of some of the most underrated bands out there (most of whom only a handful of people are even cognizant of and who never get played on the radio). So -- I'm supporting the "little man."
Anyway, here is the exciting news of the day in my "My Space" world:
1. Santino from Project Runway added me as one of his friends... as did Morrissey... as in "the" Morrissey.
2. My favorite electronic musician, Alexander, from the Norwegian band, Binaerpilot, actually sent me TWO comments today! (OMG...)
3. And best of all --- PUMKIN from that hilarious VH-1 reality show, "Flava of Love" also added me as a friend and sent me a personal comment! In the world of reality TV, this is fairly major...
Pumkin is famous for spitting in the face of the most horrendous bitchy woman ever on TV (named "New York") ... and I posted a clip of it on my webpage after declaring Pumkin my hero for doing what many of us wish we could actually do to terrible people.
Here is a full-sized version of the event...
When Miguel and I watched this finale episode on VH-1 over Spring Break, we were laughing so hard that I almost got the hiccups.
Well, if you want to check out my "My Space" profile, it's at www.myspace.com/chickytava. If you have a profile already (or want to create one after hearing about how fun it is!), add me as a friend and send me a comment so I don't look like such a sad celebrity stalker.
PS - It's also great fun for looking up old classmates (sorry, Mom... you're probably out of luck seeing that you're so old). Ha ha...
Sunday, April 09, 2006
My new winged nemesis...
I have a new winged nemesis, and it's not the zipper bird this time. Oh no, it's far worse...
I'm seriously ready to call out some professionals...
It's a new bird that has shown up in the past few weeks, and it puts the previously mentioned, highly annoying zipper bird in the "completely harmless" category.
Here's the new bird's bio:
Name: The Gila Woodpecker
Appearance:
A female: the color of dirt with an evil pointy beak.
Sounds like:
According to the website, "All About Birds," the Gila Woodpecker sounds like this: "Call a loud, raspy 'churr.' Also short 'pip' notes. Also drums."
Drums? Did someone say "drums"? Did anyone else know a bird could drum?
Maybe only woodpeckers can drum...
Click here to hear its rather unpleasant song.
My personal opinion?... Its song is pretty loud and obnoxious, but it's nothing compared the cacophony it creates with its damn beak...
More on this in a minute... but first --- an interesting fact from the website "All About Birds":
* The male Gila Woodpecker forages mainly on the trunk and main branches of saguaro cacti, while the female concentrates on the periphery and diseased areas.* (Sidenote: Yet another unfair example of mother nature's conspiracy against females.)
And now to the point:
A Gila woodpecker has been terrorizing me every morning before 7:00 a.m.
For the past six days, I have been awakened in the most ignoble manner, by what sounds very much like a jackhammer drilling through the metal vent in my roof. It literally scared me so much this morning (errr, a Sunday at 6:43 a.m.) that I sat bolt upright in bed out of shock from the noise.
It sounds like this: brrrrrrrrrrrrrr.... bbbbbbbbbbbrr... brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... and it's so loud that even my earplugs do nothing to stop the noise, and I have taken to wearing them every night before bed, just to make me feel like they might do something...
See the metal vent (attached to the heater next to my bed) poking out of the roof?:
That's where the little shit sits and drills into the metal.
I guess metal pipes (or maybe it's just my apartment) fall under the category: "periphery and diseased areas"... at least to a blind and apparently mentally challenged bird who is destroying her beak on man-made material and getting no food out of it whatsoever.
In case you were wondering, I know it's a female Gila Woodpecker because I was so pissed off yesterday that I went outside at the cusp of dawn to stare at my roof until the bird returned to begin hammering away again. I clapped my hands and agitatedly told it to scram, but the bird just might be deaf too, as it went right on pecking . This morning I pounded on my heater so the vibration would scare it away, but then it returned again right as I was falling back to sleep... as expected.
I know this is a minor concern compared to the terrible things going on in the world, but when I'm wishing for a bee-bee gun at 6:52 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I believe I have issues...
I'm seriously ready to call out some professionals...
It's a new bird that has shown up in the past few weeks, and it puts the previously mentioned, highly annoying zipper bird in the "completely harmless" category.
Here's the new bird's bio:
Name: The Gila Woodpecker
Appearance:
A female: the color of dirt with an evil pointy beak.
Sounds like:
According to the website, "All About Birds," the Gila Woodpecker sounds like this: "Call a loud, raspy 'churr.' Also short 'pip' notes. Also drums."
Drums? Did someone say "drums"? Did anyone else know a bird could drum?
Maybe only woodpeckers can drum...
Click here to hear its rather unpleasant song.
My personal opinion?... Its song is pretty loud and obnoxious, but it's nothing compared the cacophony it creates with its damn beak...
More on this in a minute... but first --- an interesting fact from the website "All About Birds":
* The male Gila Woodpecker forages mainly on the trunk and main branches of saguaro cacti, while the female concentrates on the periphery and diseased areas.* (Sidenote: Yet another unfair example of mother nature's conspiracy against females.)
And now to the point:
A Gila woodpecker has been terrorizing me every morning before 7:00 a.m.
For the past six days, I have been awakened in the most ignoble manner, by what sounds very much like a jackhammer drilling through the metal vent in my roof. It literally scared me so much this morning (errr, a Sunday at 6:43 a.m.) that I sat bolt upright in bed out of shock from the noise.
It sounds like this: brrrrrrrrrrrrrr.... bbbbbbbbbbbrr... brrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... and it's so loud that even my earplugs do nothing to stop the noise, and I have taken to wearing them every night before bed, just to make me feel like they might do something...
See the metal vent (attached to the heater next to my bed) poking out of the roof?:
That's where the little shit sits and drills into the metal.
I guess metal pipes (or maybe it's just my apartment) fall under the category: "periphery and diseased areas"... at least to a blind and apparently mentally challenged bird who is destroying her beak on man-made material and getting no food out of it whatsoever.
In case you were wondering, I know it's a female Gila Woodpecker because I was so pissed off yesterday that I went outside at the cusp of dawn to stare at my roof until the bird returned to begin hammering away again. I clapped my hands and agitatedly told it to scram, but the bird just might be deaf too, as it went right on pecking . This morning I pounded on my heater so the vibration would scare it away, but then it returned again right as I was falling back to sleep... as expected.
I know this is a minor concern compared to the terrible things going on in the world, but when I'm wishing for a bee-bee gun at 6:52 a.m. on a Sunday morning, I believe I have issues...
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Pedicures and Greyhounds
I had a big day yesterday...
First, I went and got a pedicure after Arabic class:
I went to the salon down the street from my graduate department's office. I don't know why I was surprised to see the all-Vietnamese staff there, but for some reason I was... probably because I haven't seen any other Vietnamese people in all of Tucson. However, it was a nail salon so I suppose I should have expected it.
Anyway, I got the only male attendant in the house, which made me feel particularly anxious about my positively disgusting looking feet. I hadn't gotten a pedicure in about nine months, and I've been wearing a lot of sandal-type shoes, exposing my feet to the elements. It's an understatement to say that they weren't looking very hot.
For those of you who know me well, you know that I am already paranoid about my nobbly, bunionated feet (dubbed by Miguel as "the Velociraptors"):
Not to mention, my home-painted polish job was half-way scraped off, and my heels looked like cracked leather. Making matters worse, I didn't bother shaving my legs that morning (ummm, or the morning before that either) so the poor man probably had rug burn after massaging my German-esque, stubble-covered lower legs that must have felt like pig bristle and looked something like this:
Therefore, I felt particularly paranoid every time my male pedicurist turned and spoke Vietnamese with his co-workers, who I believe looked over at my feet/legs and then laughed in derision. I felt very much like Elaine in that episode of Seinfeld where she is sure that the Korean salon workers are talking about her...
Anyway, I did finally walk out of the salon with much better looking peds... now prettified with some lovely hot pink polish.
Despite my "5 o'clock shadow" legs, I felt that an afternoon at the pool was in order and headed over to spend a couple of hours soaking up the sun (with 45 SPF sunblock, mind you) and swimming laps. After procuring a comfy lounge chair, I opened up a text book and attempted to read but actually spent most of my time watching the 20-something, testosterone laden boys oogle at the overly-tanned West Coast tarts who were baking themselves in baby oil a la George Hamilton...
Oh, if I could only get as tan as this!
Here's the pool on a quieter day:
However, it turns into a meat market on warm days like yesterday.
Lindsey came and joined me for a while, and then we decided to each go home, clean up and then meet up later to have Mexican food at a place called Micha's in south Tucson.
After some delicious enchiladas, we started our drive home... but then something caught my eye as we were passing it... The Tucson Greyhound Race Park, which appeared to be in full swing.
Casting my animal welfare concerns aside, I suggested that we check the track out and see what it was all about. We pulled into the fairly empty lot and made our way into the rather deserted looking gambling area. The only customers appeared to be beer-bellied older gents puffing on cigarettes and swilling Budweiser at the depressing snack bar and pub area while watching simulcast racing events at other tracks.
We headed outside, hoping to find something less Prozac-inducing than the "grandstand" area and found the dogs being paraded out on the track by Mexican teenage employees before the next race. We checked the Greyhounds out, hoping to pick a winner based on body type and signs of good health, but they all looked pretty malnourished and were wearing large muzzles that made it difficult to see their faces clearly.
The muzzles.
The dog I picked in the first race (which looked small & sleek) came in dead last, which didn't increase my confidence level regarding my ability to pick a fast animal.
However, we decided to bet on one more race, and I chose a dog with very large balls to "place" (come in first or second) because he looked like he had extra testosterone compared to the others. Of course, just my luck, this dog came in third place --- so I won nothing and walked away $5.00 in the hole. Lindsey also lost her bet. Given our pathetic "track record" (haha), we decided to quit before we lost more money we didn't have to spend.
I suppose it serves us (or primarily me, since I was the instigator) right since, according to the Humane Society, we shouldn't have been attending the greyhound races at all...
Oh well, I figure I am doomed to hell anyway...
First, I went and got a pedicure after Arabic class:
I went to the salon down the street from my graduate department's office. I don't know why I was surprised to see the all-Vietnamese staff there, but for some reason I was... probably because I haven't seen any other Vietnamese people in all of Tucson. However, it was a nail salon so I suppose I should have expected it.
Anyway, I got the only male attendant in the house, which made me feel particularly anxious about my positively disgusting looking feet. I hadn't gotten a pedicure in about nine months, and I've been wearing a lot of sandal-type shoes, exposing my feet to the elements. It's an understatement to say that they weren't looking very hot.
For those of you who know me well, you know that I am already paranoid about my nobbly, bunionated feet (dubbed by Miguel as "the Velociraptors"):
Not to mention, my home-painted polish job was half-way scraped off, and my heels looked like cracked leather. Making matters worse, I didn't bother shaving my legs that morning (ummm, or the morning before that either) so the poor man probably had rug burn after massaging my German-esque, stubble-covered lower legs that must have felt like pig bristle and looked something like this:
Therefore, I felt particularly paranoid every time my male pedicurist turned and spoke Vietnamese with his co-workers, who I believe looked over at my feet/legs and then laughed in derision. I felt very much like Elaine in that episode of Seinfeld where she is sure that the Korean salon workers are talking about her...
Anyway, I did finally walk out of the salon with much better looking peds... now prettified with some lovely hot pink polish.
Despite my "5 o'clock shadow" legs, I felt that an afternoon at the pool was in order and headed over to spend a couple of hours soaking up the sun (with 45 SPF sunblock, mind you) and swimming laps. After procuring a comfy lounge chair, I opened up a text book and attempted to read but actually spent most of my time watching the 20-something, testosterone laden boys oogle at the overly-tanned West Coast tarts who were baking themselves in baby oil a la George Hamilton...
Oh, if I could only get as tan as this!
Here's the pool on a quieter day:
However, it turns into a meat market on warm days like yesterday.
Lindsey came and joined me for a while, and then we decided to each go home, clean up and then meet up later to have Mexican food at a place called Micha's in south Tucson.
After some delicious enchiladas, we started our drive home... but then something caught my eye as we were passing it... The Tucson Greyhound Race Park, which appeared to be in full swing.
Casting my animal welfare concerns aside, I suggested that we check the track out and see what it was all about. We pulled into the fairly empty lot and made our way into the rather deserted looking gambling area. The only customers appeared to be beer-bellied older gents puffing on cigarettes and swilling Budweiser at the depressing snack bar and pub area while watching simulcast racing events at other tracks.
We headed outside, hoping to find something less Prozac-inducing than the "grandstand" area and found the dogs being paraded out on the track by Mexican teenage employees before the next race. We checked the Greyhounds out, hoping to pick a winner based on body type and signs of good health, but they all looked pretty malnourished and were wearing large muzzles that made it difficult to see their faces clearly.
The muzzles.
The dog I picked in the first race (which looked small & sleek) came in dead last, which didn't increase my confidence level regarding my ability to pick a fast animal.
However, we decided to bet on one more race, and I chose a dog with very large balls to "place" (come in first or second) because he looked like he had extra testosterone compared to the others. Of course, just my luck, this dog came in third place --- so I won nothing and walked away $5.00 in the hole. Lindsey also lost her bet. Given our pathetic "track record" (haha), we decided to quit before we lost more money we didn't have to spend.
I suppose it serves us (or primarily me, since I was the instigator) right since, according to the Humane Society, we shouldn't have been attending the greyhound races at all...
Oh well, I figure I am doomed to hell anyway...
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Kenny G., the Taxpayer Torturer
Here is what is obsessing and vexing me lately... my HATEFUL TAXES! I've mastered the federal taxes, but now I'm living a state tax nightmare, thanks to the inept civil servants that form the bureaucratic pit also known as the U.S. State Department. The incompetent nimrod that was supposed to have submitted my "change of address tax code" when I moved from DC to Virginia at the beginning of 2005 never turned my paperwork into the accounting department. So... what is on my W-2?!? Oh, yes, DC tax payments for six full months that never should have been paid. Now I'm trying to get a refund from DC, an extension and/or an amended return for Virginia, with no help whatsoever from the State Department's top-notch federal employees in trying to get a corrected W-2.
The point of this whole story, aside from me getting angry just typing it out (I'm considering this venting to be therapeutic), is that I have been on my cell phone for hours at a time, trying to talk to state tax customer service representatives in DC and Virginia to figure out what in the hell I am supposed to do about my state tax payments. Lest you believe I have actually been speaking to anyone on my cell phone, let me correct your thinking ... I have been sitting ON HOLD on my cell phone, waiting to connect to a human voice.
And here is what I have discovered... both Virginia AND the District provide their tax callers with the same music... can you guess what that music is?
It is none other than the most god awful, ear drum burning, shrill and screechingly irritating music ever to be heard on planet Earth... also known as the "music" of KENNY G.
Kenny G., I wish to BANISH THEE!!!!!!!!!!!
Even the crazy new Iranian president was smart enough to ban Kenny G.'s music from ever playing over Iranian airwaves again... (Seriously!! Read about it here.)
So listen up, VA and DC state tax officiators... I know that using Kenny G. music is a clever tactic to coerce many of your citizens off the phones immediately so you can free your customer service employees from having to answer so many stupid tax questions, but really, forcing your loyal subjects (who don't have the option to hang up) to listen to a shrieking soprano saxophone played by a curly-headed nob for over 30 minutes is just not right. Many of us are already in a state of upset over our tax problems, and Kenny G. is only making an ugly situation worse. Do you think I'm in a better mood after listening to him butcher "Careless Whisper" and scooby-doodle all over the musical scale ad nauseum for half an hour? No, I'm not.
It is truly torture for the tortured... hmmm, fitting, I suppose.
The point of this whole story, aside from me getting angry just typing it out (I'm considering this venting to be therapeutic), is that I have been on my cell phone for hours at a time, trying to talk to state tax customer service representatives in DC and Virginia to figure out what in the hell I am supposed to do about my state tax payments. Lest you believe I have actually been speaking to anyone on my cell phone, let me correct your thinking ... I have been sitting ON HOLD on my cell phone, waiting to connect to a human voice.
And here is what I have discovered... both Virginia AND the District provide their tax callers with the same music... can you guess what that music is?
It is none other than the most god awful, ear drum burning, shrill and screechingly irritating music ever to be heard on planet Earth... also known as the "music" of KENNY G.
Kenny G., I wish to BANISH THEE!!!!!!!!!!!
Even the crazy new Iranian president was smart enough to ban Kenny G.'s music from ever playing over Iranian airwaves again... (Seriously!! Read about it here.)
So listen up, VA and DC state tax officiators... I know that using Kenny G. music is a clever tactic to coerce many of your citizens off the phones immediately so you can free your customer service employees from having to answer so many stupid tax questions, but really, forcing your loyal subjects (who don't have the option to hang up) to listen to a shrieking soprano saxophone played by a curly-headed nob for over 30 minutes is just not right. Many of us are already in a state of upset over our tax problems, and Kenny G. is only making an ugly situation worse. Do you think I'm in a better mood after listening to him butcher "Careless Whisper" and scooby-doodle all over the musical scale ad nauseum for half an hour? No, I'm not.
It is truly torture for the tortured... hmmm, fitting, I suppose.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
I'm a Winner!
Here's what I have to say tonight:
That's right... I didn't mention it before, but I was a participant in the Southern Arizona Language Fair last Saturday morning and recited the poem "Hub Taht El-Matar" ("Love Under the Rain") for a small panel of judges:
I haven't quite figured out why yet, but Arabs
just love this carnival-style airbrushed art...
I did OK on the recitation, although my brain froze about two-thirds of the way through, and there was a very long and awkward pause as I stared searchingly into the judge's pitying eyes. However, I recovered and made my way through the rest of the text (73 words long to be exact... which runs about 115 seconds with dramatic pauses). Anyway, I found out today that I received an "excellent" rating, which is the second best scoring category. It also gives me more extra credit points for class. That's the important bit.
I even got a ribbon, which is now posted prominently on my refrigerator door. However, frankly I'm a little ticked I didn't get a tiara or a sash, like this little princess on the left:
I think this child has been sipping one too many
pre-pageant mint julips. I'm rather disturbed by the
smeary magenta lipstick, and the fact that she can't
keep the crown on her own head. Hmmm... so similar
to the wasted puppet next to her...
Personally, I thought the world of child pageants met its demise with the JonBenet scandal, but apparently not in the S-O-U-T-H... if you want to gasp in horror like I did, look at these two frightening links (I'm not sure which is scarier... the photos of the mini-Tammy Faye Bakkers or the nightmarish music creating "ambience" for each site.):
Southern Beauties and Beaus Pageant
Mississippi Pageants... Mardi Gras Winners
In the words of Devo, "It's pretty scary..."
That's right... I didn't mention it before, but I was a participant in the Southern Arizona Language Fair last Saturday morning and recited the poem "Hub Taht El-Matar" ("Love Under the Rain") for a small panel of judges:
I haven't quite figured out why yet, but Arabs
just love this carnival-style airbrushed art...
I did OK on the recitation, although my brain froze about two-thirds of the way through, and there was a very long and awkward pause as I stared searchingly into the judge's pitying eyes. However, I recovered and made my way through the rest of the text (73 words long to be exact... which runs about 115 seconds with dramatic pauses). Anyway, I found out today that I received an "excellent" rating, which is the second best scoring category. It also gives me more extra credit points for class. That's the important bit.
I even got a ribbon, which is now posted prominently on my refrigerator door. However, frankly I'm a little ticked I didn't get a tiara or a sash, like this little princess on the left:
I think this child has been sipping one too many
pre-pageant mint julips. I'm rather disturbed by the
smeary magenta lipstick, and the fact that she can't
keep the crown on her own head. Hmmm... so similar
to the wasted puppet next to her...
Personally, I thought the world of child pageants met its demise with the JonBenet scandal, but apparently not in the S-O-U-T-H... if you want to gasp in horror like I did, look at these two frightening links (I'm not sure which is scarier... the photos of the mini-Tammy Faye Bakkers or the nightmarish music creating "ambience" for each site.):
Southern Beauties and Beaus Pageant
Mississippi Pageants... Mardi Gras Winners
In the words of Devo, "It's pretty scary..."
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Carson, B-Day Ideas, and The Captain's Chair
First and foremost, my best friend Jo had her baby boy last Friday, and her husband finally sent me a picture I could post. So I just want to say "WELCOME" to little Carson William Forkner, born on Friday, March 31 at 5:00pm via C-Section after Jo spent more than 21 hours in epidural-less labor with him, including two hours on the delivery table (hello, OUCH) due to a last minute blood condition she developed.
But thankfully, it all turned out all right... so CONGRATS JO-JO AND MARK!!!
Here is the little guy, my adopted nephew:
As you can tell by his shirt, this is definitely
my best friend's child... love you, Jojo!!
Moving on to non-infant topics, I thought I would throw out a few birthday ideas, particularly for my exceedingly stressed-out and overly-scheduled brother, who harangues me every year about giving him a list of gifts I would like for Christmas and my birthday. He is definitely the kind of guy that needs firm direction in gift giving, as he doesn't like to "waste" time scouring around for the perfect gift.
---> 
So, Taylor (as if you can ever find time to look at my blog), here are a few ideas so far:
1. The book "Prep" by Curtis Sittenfeld
2. Binoculars -- for concerts, trips to the Grand Canyon, spying on my neighbors, etc.
3. My own yoga mat (the ones at the studio smell like dirty feet)
4. Gift certificates to anywhere I regularly shop (Banana Republic, Gucci, Armani, Target, Barneys New York)
5. "Sex and the City" Vols. 5 and 6
6. If I think of anything else, I'll just e-mail it to you and hope you find time to read it.
Finally, I made a purchase yesterday. I bought a "Captain's Chair." After months of suffering on my crappy piece of junk plastic IKEA chair from Hell, I finally splurged and went big. This is indeed, the mother of all "Captain's Chairs." Leather, multi-adjustable swivel and tilt functions, and highly ergonomic. Indeed, if office chairs were akin to charitable organizations, I would be sitting in "the Mother Teresa."
Last night, as I sat comfortably nestled upon my soft black cow's skin chair in front of my computer, I could actually swivel the seat ala Star Trek (as opposed to craning my head) and recline slightly to watch the new NBC game show program, "Deal or No Deal," that was on my TV across the room, which made me feel a bit regal -- and also just a bit like Dr. Evil...
Is it wrong to place a picture of Dr. Evil
so close to Mother Teresea?
As for "Deal or No Deal," I want to say thanks to my friend, Laura, for suggesting that I waste an hour and a half of my night watching Howie Mandel attempt to reincarnate Regis Philbin's schtik on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?". OK, OK, it's true... I was mildly entertained by the contestants, especially the Tennessee cheerleader who wanted to use her winnings to "start a family" (??? -- sperm bank fees?) because her cheap husband put too much of their income into savings... I mean, what a dummy he is! Saving money?!? Pshawww!
My, how times -- and game show hosts -- have changed. I'm sorry, but
no one can ever replace my Wink Martindale -- especially someone with
a natty little goatee, Buster the Crab shirt, and Monica Lewinsky beret.
But back to "the chair" --- truth be known, I bought it on Craigslist from a teacher moving to Belize. She sold it to me for less than a third of what she paid for it, and it's in perfect, pristine, and immaculate condition, just like, hmmm... Mother Teresa...
Check this sweet little baby out:
FYI: This sterile looking photo was not
taken in my lovingly cluttered apartment.
Ahhh... hello, comfort...
But thankfully, it all turned out all right... so CONGRATS JO-JO AND MARK!!!
Here is the little guy, my adopted nephew:
As you can tell by his shirt, this is definitely
my best friend's child... love you, Jojo!!
Moving on to non-infant topics, I thought I would throw out a few birthday ideas, particularly for my exceedingly stressed-out and overly-scheduled brother, who harangues me every year about giving him a list of gifts I would like for Christmas and my birthday. He is definitely the kind of guy that needs firm direction in gift giving, as he doesn't like to "waste" time scouring around for the perfect gift.
---> 
So, Taylor (as if you can ever find time to look at my blog), here are a few ideas so far:
1. The book "Prep" by Curtis Sittenfeld
2. Binoculars -- for concerts, trips to the Grand Canyon, spying on my neighbors, etc.
3. My own yoga mat (the ones at the studio smell like dirty feet)
4. Gift certificates to anywhere I regularly shop (Banana Republic, Gucci, Armani, Target, Barneys New York)
5. "Sex and the City" Vols. 5 and 6
6. If I think of anything else, I'll just e-mail it to you and hope you find time to read it.
Finally, I made a purchase yesterday. I bought a "Captain's Chair." After months of suffering on my crappy piece of junk plastic IKEA chair from Hell, I finally splurged and went big. This is indeed, the mother of all "Captain's Chairs." Leather, multi-adjustable swivel and tilt functions, and highly ergonomic. Indeed, if office chairs were akin to charitable organizations, I would be sitting in "the Mother Teresa."
Last night, as I sat comfortably nestled upon my soft black cow's skin chair in front of my computer, I could actually swivel the seat ala Star Trek (as opposed to craning my head) and recline slightly to watch the new NBC game show program, "Deal or No Deal," that was on my TV across the room, which made me feel a bit regal -- and also just a bit like Dr. Evil...
Is it wrong to place a picture of Dr. Evil
so close to Mother Teresea?
As for "Deal or No Deal," I want to say thanks to my friend, Laura, for suggesting that I waste an hour and a half of my night watching Howie Mandel attempt to reincarnate Regis Philbin's schtik on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?". OK, OK, it's true... I was mildly entertained by the contestants, especially the Tennessee cheerleader who wanted to use her winnings to "start a family" (??? -- sperm bank fees?) because her cheap husband put too much of their income into savings... I mean, what a dummy he is! Saving money?!? Pshawww!
My, how times -- and game show hosts -- have changed. I'm sorry, but
no one can ever replace my Wink Martindale -- especially someone with
a natty little goatee, Buster the Crab shirt, and Monica Lewinsky beret.
But back to "the chair" --- truth be known, I bought it on Craigslist from a teacher moving to Belize. She sold it to me for less than a third of what she paid for it, and it's in perfect, pristine, and immaculate condition, just like, hmmm... Mother Teresa...
Check this sweet little baby out:
FYI: This sterile looking photo was not
taken in my lovingly cluttered apartment.
Ahhh... hello, comfort...
Monday, April 03, 2006
Stop the Bluetooth Cell Phone Idiocy!
My landlord came prowling around my apartment complex yesterday. I think he was showing some of the available units to prospective renters. Peeking out the side of my curtained window, I spotted my landlord posting a sign in front of our building, advertising the apartments for rent.I quickly threw on a more decent looking outfit than my pajamas and hurried out to discuss with him an issue I have been having with a vent above my stove. It appears as though the vent, which is really not a vent at all (as there is no switch), is actually just a big hole opening up to the sky above, protected only by the thinnest and flimsiest wire gauze filter. The filter seems to be at least ten years old, and it's no longer serving its purpose in the least, which I assume is to be keeping dust and leaves from blowing down into my kitchen. Thus, I have quite a bit of air debris accumulating on a daily basis on top of my archaic stove.
The first thing I noticed upon getting closer to my landlord was that he was wearing one of those inane and ridiculous "Bluetooth" cell phones on his ear. How freaking stupid looking are those things?
I mean, honestly, do you get so many calls per day that you want to wear your phone on your ear all the time, even if you're not actually talking to anyone? It looks utterly moronic, and it just can't be very comfortable...
If you're not a full-time secretary or receptionist fielding at least a call a minute, or driving around in your car talking on the phone, I strongly oppose the wearing of Bluetooth cellular phones. Not only does it look really lame, but people who wear them round-the-clock generally have an air of self-importance I just don't like.
By the way, this includes my Shadoe Stevens-looking landlord, who actually had the nerve to ask me, "What do you want me to do about it?", after I told him about the kitchen vent. Ummm, what do you think, Mr. Important?
He looks like Shadoe, but with Arnold Schwarzenegger's
mouth and teeth...
So heed my advice, non-receptionists and non-drivers... don't walk around the airport, the mall, an apartment complex, a school campus, or streets near your office building wearing one of these while not actually talking to anyone.
You will just annoy intolerant people like me...
I mean, really, it looks like he's glued an anal probe to his ear...
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