S: Entropic Sauce

Fantarding Over Pete Yorn Pays Off, Again.

2010-03-23T10:36:00.018-05:00

When I was new to Twitter I was immediately drawn to the idea of hearing what goes on in the brain pan of my favorite musicians. I can't think of a better way to be connected to some of my favorite people on the planet, well, except for maybe for their cell phone numbers and long, uninterrupted chats about their musical inspirations...but hell, we all know that's never going to happen. (By the way, Dave Matthews, you've neglected your Twitter far too long now.)

Imagine, however, my unadulterated joy when Pete Yorn followed me back in my early days of Twitter. Pete. Yorn. Dear God, I still have to fan myself whenever I think of that day. I thought it was a joke at first, or a Twitter error. I mean, really, why on earth would Pete Yorn follow me? It's because he's cool as shit, that's why. Pete Yorn actually mixes it up with his fans. His willingness to follow his fans furthers my belief that Pete is one cool cat who's down to earth despite some of the industry circles he swirls in. Pete Yorn is made of win. Dipped in awesome sauce. With a cherry on top.

To my dismay, the other day I noticed that Pete was no longer following me. My immediate reaction? I fantarded too much and crossed over to creepy stalkerdom. But then I realized he stopped following everyone except for a select few. I felt better for a split second, but still mourned the loss of my fan connection to Pete. You see, last May, because of following Pete on Twitter, I won two tickets to Coldplay and Pete Yorn in Pittsburgh from none other than Pete Yorn himself. I have the screen shot of my Twitter DMs to prove it! (Hey man, don't be a dream crusher, I know the messages probably came from one of his assistants)

(note in my excitement I said the June 30th show instead of the May 30th show, because June 30th is my birthday and I couldn't imagine a better birthday present than to see Pete Yorn and Coldplay - but no, I had to get all retarded and get the date wrong. Sigh. Smooth Jules, smooth.)

And our seats weren't on the lawn either > 3rd row! I think I actually felt Chris Martin's sweat drip on me. This was a dream come true for me and my Coldplay fantard sister. And shortly after, I won tickets from 91.3 the Summit in Akron to see Pete at the House of Blues in Cleveland, again, through Twitter. I was on a Pete Yorn high for weeks.

So you can imagine my disappointment when Pete stopped following his fans. But last night, Pete tweeted that he was receiving too much spam and needed to make some changes and would be following his fans again soon. Ok, I admit it. I'm not above begging and groveling. I made one tweet to further my follow back cause - a lame attempt because I was too afraid of coming off as the crackpot we all know and love. And guess what? Pete Yorn followed me back. *fans self one more time*

Last night, I was one of 30 people Pete Yorn was following, out of the 1,225,107 people who currently follow him. Holy frijoles.

I am ridiculed on a pretty regular basis by my friends about my fantard ways. Meh, I suppose I should care, but I really don't. My fantarding is only used for good, never evil. If I like a band's music, I'm going to feverishly promote them because typically my friends share my taste in music, plus I like to get on their nerves. *points at Dave* Fantarding and my cunning wit are some of my most enduring qualities. *eye roll*

See how fantarding paid off for me again? I'm just one tweet away from connecting with someone I genuinely admire for his contributions to my musical cosmos.

Now, if I could only think of something intelligent to say. Maybe I'll just start with a simple thank you. *tries to contain girly squeal* Sorry.

Unhealthy Fears

2009-12-08T14:52:00.004-05:00

I think the last time I posted with any enthusiasm on this blog was when I was dealing with a mouse issue about a year ago. Well guess what, boys and girls? Those damn mice are back and I'm completely squicked out.

As I've detailed on this blog before, I have an unhealthy fear of spiders and now I'm developing one with mice. And fortunately for me, we don't have any snakes in my area or near my house, or I'd have an unhealthy fear of them too. When I was a child, up until the age of 6, we lived in a century old farm house. The farm land surrounding the house was being developed by suburban sprawl. As a result, the snakes who resided in the area, were forced to move to new locales. Enter our house. Every spring, when the rains were frequent, my mother would start to panic. Like my unhealthy fear of spiders, my mom has an unhealthy fear of snakes. When a storm was approaching, she'd start smoking even more than usual, which was an incredible feat. If should could smoke three at time, she would have. Nerves forced her to keep busy with anything, mainly cigs, because she knew what was about to transpire.

My parents weren't exactly poor, but they chose to live in this old house so they could save enough money to build their dream home. And they eventually did, we moved into a brand spankin' new house when I was six. But before that, my mom had to endure the wrath of the black snakes every spring and summer while residing in the house at 415 E. Main St. See, when it rained, the snakes needed somewhere to find shelter. They would start slithering out of the fields, across our lawn and down in between the foundation of our house and the ground. Yes, snakes as in plural, as in many. I would sit at the window and watch them come. Dozens. It was like a horror film. And my mother, sometimes, would turn white as a ghost and pass out from fear. I'd have to drag her to the living room where I was instructed to lift her feet up on the couch until she came to. And when she did, she'd instruct my brother to "get the hoe." Now, my brother was probably 9 or 10 at the time and his job was to go outside in the rain and either chop the snakes' heads off or use the hoe to move them to other locations.

I'm not shitting you. This was a pretty regular occurrence. Today, my brother also is severely squicked out over snakes. Can you blame him? But back to my story. See, the snakes would find their way down into the foundation, and INTO THE WALLS OF OUR HOUSE. This old farmhouse had a dirt basement. When my mom would lock herself out of the house, she'd open one of the basement windows and drop me through it because I was the only one who could fit. I'd then have to stumble through the dark (trying not to think about snakes) to the steps where I'd run up as fast as I could to unlock the door. Then it would take me about 3 hours to recover from the horror of the basement. I'm sure my brother had to take a day or two to recover from the snake slaughter.

My mom used to tell me stories of how she would lay in bed and listen to the snakes slither through the walls. This must have drove her crazy. Some of the faint memories I have of my mom before I turned 7 make sense now. Fear does crazy things to you.

And now, the mice are back in our present day ghetto house. Even with the cats. So finally we called an exterminator. He came out and inspected our house. Mice have been discovered in our attic and basement. Oh my God, we're filthy! So lately, I haven't been able to sleep without the aid of some sort of sleep medication. I lay there thinking about the mice on the other side of the wall. What if they find their way into my room? What if they're crawling on my son? Oh I can't even imagine the horrors! I wake up nightly with visions of them crawling on my ceiling above my bed.

I come by this honestly. My poor mother. How she overcame that is beyond me. My poor brother. He had to hack away at large black snakes at the young age of 9. Good gravy. And me? I had to be squeezed through a small window, dropped 4-5 feet into a dank, smelly basement, riddled with cobwebs and God knows what else. My unhealthy fears of pests, however ridiculous, somehow seem justified.

Eggs are fryin' up in the brain pan

2009-06-10T08:40:00.004-05:00

I've been missing my blog. She's been a good friend to me over the past several years and lately, I've been dissing her like a bad case of herpes. It's time to rekindle my love affair with the voices in my head and get them posted for the whole world to ignore.

In short moments of lucidity, I catch fleeting glimpses of topics that must be discussed. Fantarding fairytales. International Delight's Chocolate Raspberry Creamer. Cramps.

Right now, though, I must put those Pulitzer worthy topics to rest and focus on the task at hand. The J-O-B. But fret not my faithful two readers (counting myself), I will be back to blog sometime in the next decade. And that's no lie.

Mmmm, going to warm up my coffee. I love the coffee pixies who sprinkle me with their caffeine fairy dust.

I Want a Bunny Body Slam

2009-02-27T16:18:00.002-05:00

This video makes me giggle. Bring it, Bunny Wabbit.

In other news, all work and no play make Julie a very dull girl. Yes, this has been said numerous times on this blog. I'm such a slave to time.

Speaking of slave, I want to share this little, what should I call it? I guess quip is appropriate. Someone I know has the last name of Lavery. Her first initial is S. She has a vanity plate on her car. You know where I'm going with this. Her license plate says SLAVERY. And she's white.

Can you imagine the looks she receives while tooling around in her fancy car, all white and shit? I know she means absolutely nothing derogatory by it, and I've often wondered if she's even figured out the implications, but nonetheless, I get a charge out of it every time I see her in her car.

People make me laugh.

Seriously, I want to blog. I really do.

2009-02-26T07:32:00.007-05:00

For some of you, you know what I'm dealing with at the J-O-B. The work world is clearly spinning off its axis. I have so many comments, ideas and rants running through my split pea brain but I'm unable to release them. I must hold my head high and plow forward. So today, instead of blogging like I want to, I must focus on the task at hand and muddle through.

As I sit here pecking away on the laptop, I look longingly at Jagger, the Slasher Cat, sleeping blissfully, half on the table, half on the window sill, with his head nuzzled into the corner of the window. He looks so peaceful.

If I went into the office today and nuzzled my head into a ~~nonexistent~~ window, would I look so peaceful? Um, no. I'd end up being fitted for the latest in straight jacket fashion.

Right now, the comfort of canvas and buckles sounds like a fabulous vacation destination.

Fourteen Perfect Words for the Fourteenth Day of February.

2009-02-13T21:49:00.002-05:00

Joonya is sick. Now where's my WTF blanket?

2009-02-05T20:13:00.003-05:00

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

"...viewing scrambled porn..." The more I watch it, the harder I laugh.

My Blog is a Crapfest. Blame Facebook.

2009-02-03T20:54:00.006-05:00

Why, oh why, does Facebook have to be such a time suck? Between my reading blogs, posting on the many forums I belong to, that thing I call a job, and of course, my beloved family, how in the hell am I supposed to keep up on Facebook?

By me adding my maiden name to my nomenclature, old friends from high school have started coming out of the woodwork. Catching up with people from 22 years ago takes a lot of time.

Even though it drains my time, I love it. I never ventured deeply into the abyss that is MySpace. I just couldn't handle all the blinking and glitter. I much prefer the clean lines of Facebook, sans all the buttons, flair, drinks, green patches, etc. that inundate my Requests. I'm continuously "ignoring all" requests, except friend requests, and if that makes me a Facebookbitch, then so be it. It's a tiara I'll wear proudly.

So there you have it. I whined about not having time. Imagine that. Those who know me know that I'm a classic pisser and moaner, and it's ALWAYS about time.

Paolo Nutini: Dave's Studio Blog

2009-01-30T13:24:00.010-05:00

If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I enjoy the funny. Whether it be photos, the written word or a performed shtick, I love to laugh. I have the utmost respect for people who can be verbally descriptive and hilarious at the same time. It's an art form. They humble me. The interwebs is the best place to discover untapped written talent. Enter the blog.

Sidebar: I'm grazing from a baggie of reheated Tostino's Pizza Rolls that were originally baked properly two days ago. For future reference, I would not recommend this for lunch.

So earlier today, my favorite Californian, Robin, sent me a link to Dave's Studio Blog. Dave Nelson apparently is a member of Paolo Nutini's camp and will be blogging about the ongoings from inside the studio. His blog launched today from Paolo Nutini's official site and Robin thought that I would enjoy it. She was right.

I dig Paolo's music, but I don't follow his site routinely. I have friends like Robin to do that for me. She filters me juicy nuggets that she'll know I'll find interesting, like Dave's Studio Blog. This blog is something I will continue to read because he's all kinds of hilarious. Take, for instance, this little morsel, captioned underneath a picture of Paolo at the studio control board:

Here is Paolo fresh (if a little shaken) from a journey into the very heart of darkness from which he barely survived and only his quick-witted mind and agile ballerina feet kept him from meeting his maker. He has refused to go into details about his ordeal saying only that it stemmed from an argument with a shaman about Quantum Leap. His hand was stuck to his chin for 72 hours.

How full of hilarity is that?

I won't continue to fawn over Dave's comedic charm, I'll let him do that for himself. Enjoy, my faithful readers. All two of you.

Of Montreal - An Eluardian Instance

2009-01-29T10:18:00.001-05:00

I'm loving this song. And yearning for summer. Bring on the funky sunglasses.

Of Montreal ~ An Eluardian Instance (2008) Dir: Jesse Ewles from jesse ewles on Vimeo.

The above embed is all I can muster now.

Out.

Subwoofer Cat

2009-01-22T12:59:00.001-05:00

I laughed so hard watching this clip that I snorted a little snot bubble. Cats are just so damn funny.

Hey toilet! Here's 200 bucks! Flush away! And take my trust with it!

2009-01-13T19:15:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, I hated being a parent. Yesterday, I turned into my mother. Oh God! Did you hear that? I TURNED INTO MY MOTHER!

My 10 year old son, Joonya, lost his new iPod. I discovered this little fact yesterday morning before sending him off to school. My last words to him as he walked out the door were, "Joonya! You're a %$@!* liar!" Nice, eh? Let me back up.

This year, we were at a crossroads as to what to buy Joonya for Christmas. He's at that age where he's pretty much outgrown toys, and he's not really into gaming, so finding stuff for him was difficult. He's a sports kid. Plus he's an only child so he gets really everything he wants, within reason. And fortunately for us, he doesn't really want much. We have a small fortune invested in sports equipment, and he's happy with that. Well I had the brilliant idea to buy him the 4th generation iPod Nano. DaHubs thought I was a little crazy, but is it any crazier than buying him a $200 baseball bat that he'll outgrow in two years? (which we did last summer) Uh, not really.

So the iPod was a major hit this year. Joonya was so surprised, and he took it with him on our after-Christmas road trip. The car trip was whine-free! Bingo! I made one very distinct ground rule regarding the iPod. IT DOES NOT GO TO SCHOOL. Period. End of discussion. I know my son. I know his level of responsibility with small electronics. It stays home or in the car on longer trips.

The little shit snuck it out of the house in his backpack and lost it. He had it less than 3 weeks, and it's gone, gone, gone. Gone, baby, gone. I was so pissed off, words cannot describe how livid I was. But the thing was, I wasn't mad about the money, I was mad that he lied to me. And snuck it out of the house. And did EXACTLY what I knew he would do. LOSE IT.

So yesterday morning was hell on earth. I'm sure he went to school wondering who that lunatic was inside his mother's body. See mention above of how I turned into my mother. It was like an out of body experience. When he got home from school, we had a long chat about what he had done. I stewed and worried all day at work, just ask the Camarilla hooers who had to listen to me whine all day.

I decided that he would determine his punishment, hoping that his version would be far worse than mine. I was right, he did come up with something much worse, and we agreed upon his punishment. He's working off the money. Taking it out of his bank account teaches him nothing because I'm padding his account directly with my paycheck, so he has to work it off. He's also grounded for a lengthy time which means no ice skating or hockey with the boys down the street. Ouch. The minute he backtalks or whines about his punishment, the all-star basketball team will be taken away. That's my leverage. With Joonya, sports participation is always the leverage.

If the iPod is found, which I know is highly unlikely, he won't be getting it back. Lesson learned. For both of us.

Parenting isn't hard. Good parenting is.

The Best Cartoon Ever

2009-01-11T14:20:00.004-05:00

Today I posted this video on the thread I haunt daily because it fit with the topic at hand. I just love this cartoon. Remember back in the late 80s, early 90s when the bombastic helicopter parents decided that Bugs Bunny cartoons were too violent for helmet wearing-child consumption? Are you effing kidding me? These toons were classically funny.

I heart the abominable snowman. And George. "I ain't no bunny wabbit!"

Albukuh"kay" - bwah ha ha ha ha.

Pissing and Moaning

2009-01-11T12:10:00.008-05:00

Ugh. It's Sunday, the day that I usually clean our pigsty and cook a decent meal, pretty much the only one of the week. I'm so easily agitated today, and I'm not sure why. Here's a list of the reasons why I might be bitchy, but in the end, the final answer is that I'm a bitch hog, pure and simple.

1. The house is a mess. Always. There are only three of us here, why on God's green Earth do we make such a mess? It's not like we live in a huge house either. It's a small 40's style 3 bedroom, 2 bath war-era bungalow. No wonder the mice have found our Garbage House their own private little utopia. We can't keep it clean to save our lives.

2. My hillbilly Christmas tree is still up. It's Jan. 11th. Well, it's not like I've turned the lights on past Jan. 2. That makes it acceptable, right? In my effed up little world, it makes sense. I have to disengage the tree today, something I'm clearly avoiding. I'm staring at it right now, flipping it the bird.

ETA at 3:43 p.m.: The tree is down, safely duct taped inside it's brown box coffin down in the basement for another year.

3. My dumbass decision to attempt to skip my period. I've been on the pill for a really long time and never attempted this before until last week. Supposedly you can skip your period by starting a new pack of pills instead of waiting until the following week after your period starts. Since we were going on vacation during the week of my scheduled period, I didn't want the hassle so I decided this would be a good time to tempt fate. It didn't work out so well for me. Aunt Flo didn't arrive as scheduled, but she showed up with a vengeance 3 days later. Of course, I wasn't prepared so we had to make an unscheduled stop at the local Gas-n-Sip to load up on feminine hygiene products. There's something squicky about buying Tampax from a podunk gas station. Anyway, I'm all out of whack. I haven't stopped leaking gloopy black gunk since, it's been about 10 days now. Oh shut it, if you're a girl, you understand. If you're a guy, grow a set. It's biology, get over it. Even the hottest chicks out there leak gloopy black gunk.

4. I hate the crap that is on the mainstream radio today. My favorite local indie station does some odd Sunday programming, usually in Spanish, and I don't understand anything they are playing. So I'm forced to listen to the drivel that is being mass produced by mega radio conglomerates. My area has shitty radio. Oh, and that I'm old school. I still like listening to the radio. My iPod is choice and all, but while I'm moving around the house cleaning, I don't want anything attached to me. With my luck, my iPod would fall off my person and land in the stank toilet that I'm attempting to clean.

ETA: Hate me some Britney, Rhianna and Cook. Sorry. I try to like them, I just don't.

5. Gray hair. I've made it to age 40 before having to color my hair to hide the gray. But lately, this is getting me down. Realization has set in that I'm not 21 anymore. (Please, if someone knows the whereabouts of my 21-year old body, please, I beg you, send it back to me.) My hair is a really dark brown so the gray shows like a beacon. Bah.

6. Procrastination. I am the queen. That. is. all.

7. Sean Puffy P. Diddy or just Diddy Combs. Do the world a favor and pick a name, k? Thx. That's always bugged the shit out of me.

Ok, procrastinating done for the moment. Must get back to the wonderland that is JMR's flop house.

Stuart Little doesn't live here. His cousin, Eddy, does.

2009-01-09T21:21:00.004-05:00

Good criminy! Mouse update.

More innards and blood on the kitchen floor. Dead mouse in the trap. That's three rodents in my house. THREE. I don't live in Garbage House 5. WTF? Mice? My house? WHY?

I'm seriously creeped out by this mouse thing. I'm ready to pack up and move.

And in other JMR news, it's snowing. A lot. And I feel like I've been repeatedly punched in the stomach about 29 times. Time to call it a night.

And maybe a day tomorrow.

Mickey and Minnie, I'm not a fan. Please go away.

2009-01-06T11:51:00.003-05:00

I'm taking a break from work to vent about a little problem I'm having. Also, I've shirked my blogging so it's time to get back to business. Lunch break well spent.

Backing up to a couple of weeks before Christmas, I found the innards of small creature on my living room throw rug. Hmmpf, nice. Critter innards. Lovely. I assumed that our slasher cat, Jagger, brought in his little prize from outdoors and proceeded to eat in on my living room rug. Why do cats insist on doing this? But I digress. That happened on a Friday, I think. So Sunday morning I shuffle down to the kitchen to get the coffee started and there awaits, in the middle of the floor, half a mouse. Half. *cue the eye roll and disgust*

So now I'm wondering how Jags is able to fool us humans by bringing in his little treasures. How do we keep missing this...unless...oh no. No, no, no...we do not have mice. Not. an. option.

Move forward to Christmas morning. The obliteration of presents is over. Coffee has been consumed. It's time to shower and get on the road to visit with family. As I'm cruising through the kitchen, a little movement catches my eye, under the baker's rack. Whoa, what was that? I stop, spin and stare. Sure as shit, a little gray mouse is popping his little head through the white cold-air return vent under the baker's rack. Holy shit! Of course, like any middle aged suburban wife, I screamed like an idiot for my husband, as if he could magically stretch his arm across the room (picture Stretch Armstrong), grab hold of the little rodent, plop his little ass out of the vent, and proceed to remove him to the great outdoors. No, oh no, removal of said mouse requires blueprints, options, consultants, traps and beer. (for me)

See, the thing is, we're leaving for the day. The following day we have a gabillion things to do. Then the next morning we're leaving for a 7 day vacation. How do we fit in mouse removal? Dilemmas, dilemmas.

Apparently our little friends have hit the motherlode, leisurely helping themselves to the cat food that is stationed close by. Ballsy, if you ask me. I mean, Slasher Cat already took one of them out, you'd think that would have been a lesson to them, but noooooo. They're going to push their luck. I guess the lure of free cat food has more appeal than life. Again, ballsy little fuckers.

So I tell DaHubs to cover the vent and I move the cat food to another part of the kitchen. But instead, we decide on covering the majority of the vent, leaving a small little escape, leave the catfood close by, and buy a "humane trap." Only, we forget to tell our neighbor that's what we do. She's going to be taking care of our cats while we're away, and is aware of our mouse problem. Because we were in a hurry to leave, we forgot to mention that we left a trap. She walks in and sees that we covered the vent, assuming the entire vent is covered. She doesn't see the trap.

So to stop this Tolstoy novel, I'll move to the quick. We get home to a faint foul odor in our kitchen. The trap has moved several feet from where we left it. The humane trap has mouse poop in it, but no mouse. The neighbor said about 2 days after we left, there was a terrible odor in our kitchen. She assumes that the mouse is stuck in the closed vent, expired and rotting. So did the mouse escape his humane trap? Did Jags fish him out and kill him? WHERE THE HELL IS THIS MOUSE?

I still don't know if he's dead. I'm not happy in my kitchen. I'm fixated on the corner of my kitchen that has the vent. I'm a little creeped out.

And to add salt to my wound, for the second time in the last 6 months here at the office, we have a mouse. Last time the little bastard shit in my coffee cup. Now he's running amok helping himself to stashed peanut butter crackers and oatmeal packets.

Will this mouse madness ever end?

Favorite Pants

2008-11-12T20:36:00.003-05:00

All of you Castro hooers are going to assume I'm talking about the enshrined Castro pants, but I'm not. I'm actually talking about my pants and their awesomeness. It's November and I finally put the shorts away, probably a solid two months too late, but only because we were blessed with some unseasonably warm weather during our autumnal splendor and I got an extra run out of my shorts.

I had to suck it up and pull out the long pants. I hate all my jeans. Just hate them. I can't ever find jeans to fit my disproportionate "egg on legs" body. Sure they may appear to fit, but they are either miles too long or too short, or too stretchy and the crotch ends up hanging down to my knees by the end of the day. I've been suffering through my sucky jeans for the last few weeks until I had to dig through my closet in search of a top that had longer sleeves because we've finally hit the freezing mark.

There tucked between an old sweatshirt and a suit jacket were my favorite pants. My friends call them my "teenager" pants because they are too long and the ends have started to fray and split since they drag on the ground under my shoes. They are khakis that have some stretch and the fabric is uber light and soft. I may look like a piece of teenage shit in them, but I'm super comfortable piece of teenage shit. I could wear them every single day. It's silk on my ass.

As I covet my favorite pair of pants, I'm faced with the realization that I must go shopping so that I don't end up on "What Not to Wear" on TLC. As much as I love Stacey and Clinton, I don't want them digging through my overstuffed closet pulling out my dumpy clothes, while making snarky comments on national TV. I know what not to wear, yet I still do it because I'm all about the comfort. We might have a throwdown if they tried to put my favorite pants into their metal-for-effect trashcan. And for the record, who still uses metal hangers?

So here's to my favorite pants. May you get me through another winter season without falling apart.

S: Entropic Sauce - What the Hell Does That Mean?

2008-11-10T01:50:00.004-05:00

So when I started this blog several years ago, I wanted to give it a really kick ass name. JMR's Blog was so blasé and boring. Mine needed sizzle. Pizazz. Bring on da funk, bring on da noise, y'know?

I spent hours scouring the net for really cool names and found myself drawn to the word entropy - a doctrine of inevitable social decline and degeneration. Hmmm, yep, that's me, socially declining by the minute and a complete degenerate. In statistical mechanics, which I know nothing about, entropy's symbol is S, meaning a measure of the randomness of the microscopic constituents of a thermodynamic system. Keyword here: randomness.

Add in a little mind gravy and S: Entropic Sauce was born. Random, declining blather that consumes my mind in which I absolutely refuse to drown in. It's a constant battle.

And I keep dripping gravy on my clean tablecloth. Damnit!

She's Alive! She's Alive!

2008-11-09T23:22:00.005-05:00

Holy frijoles, I've been away for over two years! Sure I made a lame attempt in 2007 to resurrect this blog, but notice how well that worked out for me.

It's time to return to the lunacy. I've missed it. I realize that it's a good medium for me to vent my frustrations, to make fun of others and to be a complete waste of Blogger's server space. I'm gunning to become a Nobel Laureate and a real pain in the ass at the same time.

In my upcoming entries, expect short tales of what I've been up to during my two year hiatus. I finally got that job I was hoping to get and it only took 4 years. You'll learn of my new interests and friends, and I'm sure I'll continue to bore you with mundane observations of my life as a wife, mother and slave to the paycheck.

I know. Your loins are tingling in anticipation.

It's time to resurrect this thing

2007-06-20T15:06:00.000-05:00

I need to get back into the world of blogging. That's all I have to say. Stay tuned.

The 411 on my whereabouts...

2006-07-13T08:42:00.001-05:00

Myself and the fam are flying out Friday morning for Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.

In other news, all work and no play makes JMR a very dull girl. Let's hope this well-deserved vacation breaks the dull and boring cycle.

Happy coconuts, everyone.

2006-06-29T16:17:00.000-05:00

3/4 Freaks

2006-06-06T14:39:00.000-05:00

A-Bomb is traveling the yellow brick road in search of the Emerald City. Our posse here at work was known as the Four Freaks, or Freaques de Quatre, if you're feeling Francais. C-Lo left us in January for the Emerald City, only to return to us after 5 short months. Apparently, the Emerald City ain't so emerald. A-Bomb's last day was Friday. The only thing that's keeping me and Techtard sane is that we traded one Freak for another. We had ONE DAY, June 1, where the four freaks were all together once again, and that lasted about 2 hours. The freakdom will never be the same.

So yeah, I mourn the loss of a freak. We had a good thing going. And I hope we drag out the search process to replace A-Bomb. Maybe he'll take a U-turn on the yellow brick road.

Out of Blogmission

2006-06-06T08:01:00.001-05:00

Here's an update on the going-ons around here and there and so forth.

Spent Memorial Day Weekend in Chicago. The city kicks ass, people. Serious ass. Cleveland needs to take notes. Lake Erie needs a good cleaning. Loved Chicago, can't wait to go back.

Baseball for 7 and 8 year-olds is major drama. Too much drama. Cripes.

Work, once again, is killing me. Too much to do and never enough time to do it. Vacation is scheduled for next week, beginning June 12, and I'm desperately trying to get everything done before I take off. To do nothing at home. Whoop.

Alright, that about sums it up. The shit keeps hitting the fan and I can't duck fast enough.

Later.

Someone Bib Me

2006-05-15T14:34:00.000-05:00

Cripes.

I'm sitting in my office behind closed doors waiting for my shirt to dry. I can't eat anything without it dripping onto my shirt (aka shelf.)

It's a CURSE!

World's Smallest Political Quiz

2006-05-10T11:20:00.000-05:00

For shits and giggles, check this out.

www.theadvocates.org/quiz.html

Looks like I'm a solid libertarian. I thought for sure I'd be more of a centrist since I'm so wishy-washy on my views. Definitely not a conservative. Definitely not. No, no, no. I make left turns only.

WWJD?

2006-05-10T08:07:00.001-05:00

No, not Jesus, what would Jim do? Jim, as in Jim Morrison.

I'm talking about Rapture Riders, a remixed, mash-up project by self-proclaimed producer, DJ and remixer, Mark Vidler, from across the pond. I heard this for the first time this morning as I was transporting Joonya to school. My favorite college-like radio station, 91.3 The Summit, was playing it. I apologize if this is old news, but it threw me.

You can hear the song here.

Two reactions. First, I instantly cooed and said, "Yeah, Rapture! I haven't heard this in a long time!" Then I paused and thought, "Hey wait, there's a dance beat. Holy frijoles! That's the Doors! It's Riders on the Storm!"

Meanwhile, Joonya is bopping his head up and down to the beat, rockin' out. As I was singing along to Blondie's breakthrough rap, he says, "Mom, do you know this song?" I laughed and said yes, and explained how it's a remix of two classics, or as he likes to remind us of time and again, old-fashioned songs. He then says that he really likes the song and wants to hear it more. Reaction number two: I was pleased. But why?

I can't imagine what Jim would think. Is he reeling in his Paris grave because they've turned his music into dance club drivel? (Is he even in that grave? lol) Were the remaining members of the Doors consulted?

Sidebar: I have (or had) Ray Manzarek's home phone number. Yes I do (did). And I would call. And hang up. (laugh) My first job out of college was working for a very well known finance conglomerate and I collected on private label credit cards. The store I collected on was well-known on the east and west coasts, mostly in NYC and LA. During slow times, I looked up famous people's credit accounts. I knew exactly how many bras his wife bought, which was a lot, and that he liked a certain designer when shopping for clothes. I was in awe at what he and his wifed charged every month. Royalties are a good thing, my friends. Maybe I should call him and ask him what he thinks.

Chris Stein, co-leader of Blondie, eventually got involved and got the track cleared for a legal, official release. (cha-ching!) In any case, today, I'm conflicted. I liked the song, I think. I'm slave to the beat. Two classics are unionized and resurrected for a new generation to dig. On so many levels this marriage is wrong, but on the flipside, the old becomes new again.

Have I spat on the grave of Jim Morrison?

Mitch All Together

2006-05-05T13:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, while doing some very menial work, I had the pleasure of listening to contempory comic, Mitch Hedberg, and his CD titled "Mitch All Together." Techtard brought this to me a few weeks ago and said that I should listen because it's right up my alley, and indeed, she was right. I've only known of Mitch through Techtard, mostly because of his untimely death. I understand now why it was such a sad day for his fans. I don't keep up much with the comic circuit, mainly because I'm in bed by 9 or 10 p.m. and miss all of the late night talk shows. In Mitch's case, better late than never.

So yesterday I decided that I'd listen while passing the time, folding and stapling a print project. He had me in stitches. His delivery is outstanding. His observations of the obvious are subtle and wry. Here are some of my favorite lines, compliments of his many fans on the Internet.

You know that Pepperidge Farm bread, that stuff is fancy. That stuff is wrapped twice. You open it, and then it still ain't open. That's why I don't buy it. I don't need another step between me and toast.
This product that was on TV was available for four easy payments of $19.95. I would like a product that was available for three easy payments and one complicated payment. We can't tell you which payment it is, but one of these payments is going to be hard.
I don't own a cell phone or a pager. I just hang around everyone I know, all the time. If someone needs to get a hold of me they just say, "Mitch," and I say, "What," and turn my head slightly.
I was at this casino minding my own business, and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.
If you had a friend who was a tightrope walker, and you were walking down a sidewalk, and he fell, that would be completely unacceptable.
I had a velcro wallet in a casino. That sound annoyed the hell out of me. Whenever I lost money, and I opened the wallet, it was like the sound of my addiction.
I wish I could play Little League now. I'd be way better than before.
I like buying snacks from a vending machine because food is better when it falls. Sometimes at the grocery, I'll drop a candy bar so that it will achieve its maximum flavor potential.
I like rice. Rice is great if you're hungry and want 2,000 of something.
I hate turkeys. If you stand in the meat section at the grocery store long enough, you start to get mad at turkeys. There's turkey ham, turkey bologna, turkey pastrami. Someone needs to tell the turkey, "Man, just be yourself."
My friend said to me "You know what I like? Mashed potatoes." I was like, "Dude, you gotta give me time to guess. If you're going to quiz me, you must put a pause in there."
I get the Reese's candy bar. If you read it, there's an apostrophe. The candy bar is his. I did not know that. Next time you're eating a Reese's and some guy named Reese comes up to you and says, "Let me have that," you better give it to him. "I'm sorry Reece, I didn't think I would ever run into you."
Ya know, I order a club sandwich all the time. And I'm not even a member. I don't know how I get away with it.
"I like my sandwiches with three pieces of bread."
"So do I. "
"Let's form a club."
"Okay, but we're gonna need more stipulation."
"Yes we do."
"Instead of cutting it once, lets cut it again."
"Yeah, four triangles. "
"And we shall dump chips in the middle. Let me ask you something, how do you feel about frilly toothpicks?"
"I'm for them."

Married to an Old Bat

2006-05-03T13:19:00.001-05:00

Joonya comes home with an assignment from school. He is to ask me a series of questions for a supposed Mother's Day project. The three of us sit down at the table and he proceeds to ask me his questions while my husband interjects his smart-ass comments after all of my answers.

Where was I born: NE Ohio [hillbilly nation]
Profession: Higher ed marketing
How old am I: 37, I'll be 38 in June [snicker] (he's 2 years younger than me)
Favorite color: Yellow [Yellow? Isn't that what old ladies like?]
Favorite TV Show: That's easy, The West Wing [eye roll]
Favorite things to do: Play baseball with Joonya, cuddle with Joonya [more eye rolling]
Things I don't like: Folding clothes [nodding in agreement]
Favorite song: Miracles by Jefferson Starship [full-blown laughter] (yes, it came out in 1975)

Meanwhile, Joonya is complaining if I give longer than a two-word answer because he doesn't want to write it all down. I'm so looking forward to this Mother's Day project from Joonya.

Apparently I'm old. It's an ongoing joke between DaHubs and I, but lately I'm beginning to see (and feel) that I am getting old.

For example, I can't wait for menopause. I am so over this period thing. I'm ready for it to be done. And I look forward to hormone replacement therapy. I always wanted a mustache and matching sideburns.

Update: May 4
I dig the above picture of my post title, Old Bat. I can only hope that when I'm homeless and destitute that I have the moxie to wear killer duds and smoke only best $1.15 cigars. Y'all should know that. She's got it goin' on.

JMR = Schmuck

2006-05-02T17:44:00.001-05:00

I am a schmuck.

I had one of those days that just went horribly wrong from the get go. On one hand, I spoke my mind and for a change, that felt pretty good. That's schmuck scenario #1. Truth can be powerful. Truth can also be humbling. But still, I'm left feeling like a schmuck.

Schmuck scenario #2 involves my pathetic need for attention, even when it's not warranted. Why I do this is beyond me. I like to be included, even when I have no business being there. I'm like the kid trying to be included in a conversation who blurts things out that make little sense to those involved, yet I feel as though I'm the coolest person around. No, JMR, you're a schmuck.

I'm owning up to my schmuckness.

If you're reading this and thinking, "Oh yeah, I know what she's talking about. I know her schmuckness," I apologize for my schmuck-like ways. I will try to do better.

Being a schmuck is no fun.

The Final West Wings

2006-05-01T13:24:00.000-05:00

It's no secret that my favorite show on TV is The West Wing. My parents would be so disappointed to know that I favor the democratic party far more than the republican party. I hide this fact from them. I'm a closet democrat. I think GW is a moron and sadly, my parents idolize him. It's a good thing we live 60 miles apart. Since my dad's retirement, he's become more and more of a staunch republican and to my despair, listening to him spew on and on is worse than listening to Rush Limbaugh. And yes, Fox News is on 24/7 at their house. Bah.

I'm saddened to know that this is the last season for The West Wing. It's become a staple in my television diet for six years. I was heart broken when John Spencer died (Leo McGarry) and was somewhat disappointed that there wasn't more done in the show to celebrate his character. I think Sorkin and Co. did the best they could with the story line considering McGarry died at the height of the Santos-Vinick campaign, but still, I sulk. I don't want the show to end.

So that's all I have to say today. There are only two more episodes left. The West Wing's ending is right up there with the final episodes of Seinfeld, Cheers and Frazier. It was a good run, and it will be missed.

Sidebar: By the way, I voted this morning for our school levy. When asked my party, I said nonpartisan. In my heart, I'm a democrat, yet, because of my upbringing, I can't admit I play for the other side. Sigh.

I Work for Techtard

2006-04-27T13:40:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I can't believe I work for this woman.

I've entertained you before with tales of Techtard, affectionately known as my boss. She is, by all means, a TECHTARD. I haven't told a good Techtard story in a while and she lavished me with a doozie yesterday and I must share the wealth.

(for another great tale from Techtard, visit Guac Rocks!)

First and foremost, Techtard and I are a couple of sick freaks. We can hold our own with the guys, hands down. Nothing is too gross or off-limits for us. You name it, we've probably done it. Sick. Simply sick.

So the other night, Techtard is working late running some print jobs for an upcoming dinner we've got going on. She is struck with the sudden urge, to put it mildly, expel number two from her lower region. After clenching her ass and shuffling to the restroom, she takes care of business and returns to the office.

As she's fluttering about from her desk to the printer, she keeps feeling something wet on the back of her legs. Shocked, she wonders to herself if she by chance didn't do a stellar job in "cleaning up after the aforementioned removal of waste products." Since it's now dark out and she's afraid of someone seeing in her windows, she proceeds to go out into our soft seating area to remove her pants and do an "inspection" of her nether region.

She had managed to tuck a rather long wet piece of toilet paper into the back of her pants, allowing it to dangle around the backs of her knees, while passing a professor waiting to get on the elevator, whom she is sure saw her lovely surprise.

Let me say this again. I work for this woman.

No Title Necessary

2006-04-27T13:14:00.000-05:00

Snarley Red Eye

2006-04-25T08:08:00.001-05:00

I've been harping about this for a week now with my husband.

We've got to get organized.
We've got to manage our time better.
We've got to slow down.

I constantly feel like I'm in a hurry. Gotta get here, gotta get there. I feel the same way at work. I feel like I'm always on the go and that nothing is getting done the way it should be. I neglect this and that until I realize that it wasn't the smartest thing to do. I'm overprogrammed.

And these are things we try to instill in our new freshmen. Manage your time. Let some things go so that you have more time to study. Don't overextend. You only have 24 hours in a day.

I'm a slave to time. It's a simple as that.

So this morning, as I was running 10 minutes late getting myself ready and barking orders so that Joonya gets ready, I had a hairspray malfunction. The Biolage hairspray bottle's little pumper got clogged and I got a straight shot of spray right into my left eye. I went down. I got so mad that my immediate reaction was to throw the bottle into the wall but when struck with the initial blast, I dropped it, and then couldn't see it to throw it! It hurt like hell. And once the pain started to subside, I could see the damage. As I pryed my eyelid apart, my eye was so red it looked like I had been on a pot smoking bender for six days. It still stings as I sit here.

Because, once again, I was in a hurry. Well, indirectly. Had I not been running late, I would have followed my normal hair/make-up routine, but because I decided to take shortcuts during the process, I ended up hating the end result so I took MORE time trying to primp and improve, resulting in me pulling out the Biolage bottle that I rarely use, clogged and all, and taking one in the eye.

Not an Original Thought to be Found

2006-04-20T11:46:00.001-05:00

Arrrgh, I'm nothing short of a two-bit pirate.

I haven't blogged in a while because I've been busy with work and my son's baseball team. My husband is coaching and I've been out there helping the kids as well. It's good for this old body to be swinging a bat and catching a ball. The first few days I was a tad sore, but the initial shock has since worn off my body.

As far as blogging goes, the only thing I've done is peruse the usual suspects, and once again, Stray Dog has something worth stealing. Back in the day, I was a huge fan of South Park but haven't been too faithful lately. Well, not in the last few years. That really doesn't constitute lately. Essentially I suck as a fan. Let's just say I have an appreciation for the show.

So when I saw Dan's post about creating the Stray Dog South Park character, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to create the JMR South Park character.

She looks a little something like this.

Of course, I must give kudos where kudos are due. I'm always a fan of the creative creatures who come up with fabulous stuff like this.

Get your own South Park character at PLANEARIUM.

Too Fabulous for Words

2006-04-11T11:23:00.001-05:00

Every two to three months I indulge. One of my favorite things on this planet is a small Gionino's cheese pizza. Nothing fancy, just plain cheese. Gionino's makes the best pie in these parts, especially when it's fresh from the oven. My palette's nirvana.

Today I'm indulging. I asked my coworkers if they wanted to partake but I didn't find any takers. So it's me, myself and I with this fabulous saucy creation.

A couple of weekends ago we hosted a skating party for Joonya's 8th birthday. We rented the local skate center for 2 hours and invited hoards of people. Many came. It was a good time for all. Kids who never skated, parents who haven't skated in decades - we all had fun. I ordered za from my friends at Gioninos and they pulled through for me, even opening the shop early on a Sunday to accommodate my order. I ordered extra with the hope that I'd have lots of leftovers to carry me through the early part of the work week. I was wrong. There was nothing left. Everyone marveled at how good the pizza was.

You're probably wondering why I'm going on and on about a local pizza joint. That's a good question. I've been kicking around the idea of writing about products I like and dislike, especially after seeing the dollars that are spent on some marketing campaigns. My undergrad is in marketing and I'm always checking out what companies are doing with their products and how they appeal to the masses.

But like I said, I'm still kicking it around. That might require me to blog more than once a century.

Opening Day Recap

2006-04-08T11:58:00.001-05:00

It's Saturday and I've just finished up my working Saturday stint at the office. My trip to the Jake was fun and a huge success, despite the weather. If you happen to follow the weather in northeast Ohio, you would have known that it was raining buckets here early yesterday. I'm about an hour south of Cleveland so when we left to go to the Jake at 1 p.m., it was sunny and warm, around 65. Hopes were high that those sunny skies would meet us in Cleveland.

Ehhhrgh. Wrong.

As we got closer, the skies got cloudier, grayer and we were welcomed with a fine rainy mist. Despite the colder temperatures and the fog, the game couldn't have been more perfect. We were able to park in Eastgate and with our shmancy parking and Terrace Club passes, we were treated like royalty as we had to walk all of 100 feet to the entrance. No lines, no hoards of people, easy parking and easy entry. Our seats were spectacular. Field box seats, 20 rows up right off of first base. The rain held off and it was interesting to watch the fog roll in off of Lake Erie. Terminal Tower was right on the other side of the Jake and you couldn't even see it, the fog was so thick. At one point, I could barely see the left fielder through the fog. But no rain. It was chilly and the wind picked up mid-way through the game, but it was tolerable.

Part of the reason I love going to Tribe games is because I enjoy listening to the conversations around me. Our seats were in an area that you could tell were season ticket holders - corporate season ticket holders. There were tons of corporate type men around me. Lots of beer drinking. Lots of funny conversations. Here are some of my favorite quotes of the day.

Background: Grady Sizemore, young, handsome, talented, single. Youngest player on the team and playing extremely well. Women love him. Men envy him, but like and respect him. Grady catches a fly ball off the wall in center field. Comments:

"Oh, he's going to be popular with the ladies tonight."
"Man, he'd be popular if he tripped over his shoe, crashed into the wall, and missed it completely."

Background: Casey Blake, the bottom of the order batter, goes up to bat with bases loaded. Comments:

"I guarantee you he's going to choke and not get a hit."
Literally 3 seconds later, CRACK! First pitch grand slam.

I had to say something. I turned around and said, "So, which one of you said he'd choke?"

It was a great day and a great game. The Tribe spanked the Twins and put the wheels in motion for a great season in Cleveland.

Opening Day at the Jake

2006-04-07T10:54:00.000-05:00

I feel like I've won the lottery, the Mega Million multi-state lottery, like $385 million!

Actually, I scored tickets to the Indian's Home Opener.

Not just tickets.

REALLY, REALLY GOOD KICK-ASS TICKETS.

And a free parking pass in the adjacent deck.

And tickets to the Terrace Club, the swanky bar/restaurant overlooking left field.

All of this thanks to my best friend who works for a major corporation who has season tickets who was giving them away for NOTHING.

I'm the luckiest girl in the world. So I'm leaving work now to head up to Cleveland to be with others of my kind. And I'm taking my son out of school for half a day to go. Mom of the Year, I am.

I'm so excited.

Office Fashions

2006-03-29T10:47:00.000-05:00

I'm really busy today at work so this post will be short.

I'm sporting the latest in office fashions today. I got my hair cut not too long ago and took off several inches. I decided to straighten my hair today with a flat iron and as a result, my hair keeps falling in my face. Since it's too short to tuck behind my ear, I'm wearing a binder clip.

Yes, a binder clip.

It took me a while to figure out why the short bus was stopped in front of my house this morning.

Women Over 30

2006-03-27T16:30:00.000-05:00

I received this from a coworker who was kind enough to forward it on to all of us "over 30" gals. She's not 30 yet. She took a real risk sending it.

However, it's worth a read. I can't say for sure if I'm an Andy Rooney fan. I mean, I like the old windbag and I typically chuckle at his observations, but something about him rubs me the wrong way. I bet it's because I'm an agist. I fear old people, I think. I don't know. I get the hibbly jibblies when I'm around a lot of old people.

Anyway, enjoy this commentary. It has merit!

Andy Rooney says:

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 30 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 30 will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 30 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it's usually something more interesting. A woman over 30 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 30 give a hoot what you might think about her or what she's doing.

Women over 30 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it. A woman over 30 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. Women over 30 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 30. They always know.

A woman over 30 looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 30 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk if you are acting like one! You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 30 for a multitude of reasons.

Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of 30+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress.

Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free," here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig, just to get a little sausage.

Muffin Tops

2006-03-23T15:23:00.001-05:00

In other news, I'm able to post pictures again. That fills my creative voids with a great sense of joy. It's a sickness.

Props to Stray Dog who propped the Daily News on a fashion faux paux known as the "muffin top." My coworkers and I got a huge laugh over the muffin top. Working on a college campus, we are privy DAILY to muffin top sightings. Before we knew of the term, ABomb had enlightened us by calling a similar visual "Front Butt." Muffin Top is perfect.

Ladies, know thy figure, flatter thy figure. Muffin tops are not attractive. Cover it up.

And damnit! I can't upload my pics!

2006-03-22T17:30:00.000-05:00

I can't seem to upload any pictures to my posts today. You know how frustrating that is for me, the anal-retentive, borderline OCD creative person I am. I've got pics to go with my posts and Blogger is having a burp in it's system.

I'll try again tomorrow.

Crushing Blow

2006-03-22T16:11:00.001-05:00

I had a few spare moments today and I was able to catch up on some of my favorite blogs. NoDak Mark had a couple of entries about his place of employment known as "The Company" and his company's product, "The Widget." Reading Mark's entries was like looking back on my week last week. It was hell, people, hell.

Mark - I feel your pain and completely know where you are coming from. Going beyond the call of duty for the greater good, because you believe in what you do, just doesn't pay off. And you end up getting beat down like a red-headed stepchild the first time you screw up, and all the hard work you've done before that mistake, is forgotten. I know exactly what you're talking about. My sympathies, my man, my sympathies.

Like Mark's second post, where he claims he'll never bring home the drudgeries of his work day again, I, too, plan to leave the stresses of the day behind, packed tightly inside the four gray walls that surround me daily for about 9-10 hours. It's just not worth it.

No one ever said on their deathbed, "I wish I had spent more time at the office."

Last week my spirit was broken. As much as I had said to myself, "No, no, I don't have any expectations of a promotion," secretly, I was hoping. It's been done before for other people, why not me? I certainly performed well, I exceeded expectations, I put my heart and soul into that project, yet, once again, ONCE AGAIN, I was overlooked. For someone who had no expectations, I sure was disappointed.

So I ended up in the middle of a firestorm that drained every ounce of functionality out of me. I basically put an end to my role in "said project" because, one, I fulfilled my obligation, in fact, I did more than fulfill it, I saw it through from beginning to end without compensation, without praise and with TONS of headaches and unpaid overtime. And two, if I continue to do all the work behind the scenes, why will they bother finding someone else to run the project? Enter JMR, enter cheap labor. Sigh.

So blogging has become light as I try to reevaluate my role here at "The Company" and force myself into realization that things won't change for me. Surprisingly, it's not been too hard. Perhaps all that nonwishful thinking paid off. Resolution is a comforting thing at times. But it's also damaging to the psyche.

My mantra lately has been "Manage Your Emotions and Thrive Under Pressure." Well, I'm doing my best to alleviate the pressure by simply stepping back and saying, "No." And as for managing my emotions, hey, I've got that under control too. I've managed to be a bitch. I've managed to be a whining baby. I've managed to be disappointed. Yep, I'm managing all of that pretty darn well.

I want my spirit back. I want to believe again.

I realize that I put too much time and effort into my job, far more than I'm compensated for. But just how much can, or should, one person take? To be as cliche'esque as possible, I've painted myself into a corner and it's time to either piss or get off the pot. Either I stay and be resolved to my fate here, or, I update my resume and start looking for greener pastures. It's something I'll struggle with for the next several months. And you, my faithful blog readers (yes, all two of you) will have to deal with me.

Google Search Mystery

2006-03-22T09:28:00.000-05:00

I want to know how the words "Aleve, Excrement, Color" can lead someone to my blog from a google search.

My conclusion is this.

My blog is a colorful piece of shit that causes headaches.

Weekend Wrap-Up

2006-03-07T16:02:00.001-05:00

Alright, so it's been a busy last several days for me, and not just at work. Friday evening, after a long day, my husband calls just as I'm leaving the office and wants to know if I want to go to my nephew's sectional basketball tournament game. Sure, why not.

I haven't stopped since.

The Hayseeds vs. the #1 Seed
My nephew goes to a Division I school in the western suburbs of Cleveland. How his school is Division I is beyond me - not your typical Division I school. Apparently it's based on enrollment and Midview must make the enrollment cut-off by one. Unfortunately for them, they were paired up against Cleveland St. Edwards, a private school in the heart of Cleveland, and independent. I would have to say that St. Ed's had at least 6-12 inches on every player of Midview. It's not a surprise that they lost despite their best attempts to make a run. It was a fun night but disappointing for the Middies.

And that brings me to "Yeahhhhhhhhhhhh Baybeeeeeee!" It's March Madness time again. Bring on the brackets. I'm ready.

Into the Bowels of the Jake
Saturday morning, Jacob's Field had an open house for the public. Joonya is really starting to dig the Tribe so we decided to go, and I'm glad we did. It was a chance to see everything that goes on behind the scenes at a ML baseball game. Joonya got to hit 3 balls in the batting cages under the field. We got to tour the clubhouse and the visiting team clubhouse. We were able to sit at the press interview table. We were able to view all of the fancy club seats and loge/party rooms. Rock on, I totally want to splurge and spend $1200 on a loge! We got to sit in the press box which is HUGE. I was pretty geeked about sitting up there looking down on homeplate. On warm days, the windows open so the press can be even closer to the action. Towards the end of the day, we were able to walk out onto the field's warning track. It was fun to see all the kids, and even some grown men, run and pretend to be catching a fly ball while smashing themselves into the wall. I was laughing at all the diehards who were taking pictures of themselves receiving "the call" in the bullpen. It was a great community event and I'm glad the Jake put it on. I'm such a fan.

When we were finished, we walked across the street to Alice's Cooperstown for lunch. I just don't do novelty restaurants well. One, they are always overpriced. And two, the food usually sucks. Hard Rock, Planet Hollywood, pleck. Cooperstown is no exception. Pisspoor service and the food was hardly edible. The only good thing was that I got to hear both sides of Motley Crue's Shout at the Devil and Girls, Girls, Girls.

Brought back some fond, fond memories of my high school and college days. I just hope the Too Young to Fall in Love video we made at Mike's house with my posse from high school never shows up on the Internet.

It's 2 a.m. - Time to vomit!
So Joonya has come down with some nasty stomach virus. For the last few nights, he's been having a really tough time of it. He'll fall asleep for about 5 hours and then will wake up, usually around 2 a.m., and puke. After the initial purge, it's several more hours of tossing and turning and trips to the bathroom. I'm cranky today because I'm going on limited sleep. Not only does he have some sort of virus, he's broken out with a nasty rash on his right arm, and only his right arm. He suffers from eczema from time to time, and I assumed when this badboy showed, it was just that. But by Sunday afternoon it had worked it's way up his arm, over his shoulder and down his back. He looked like a leper. I called off work and took him to the doctor yesterday. Apparently he's got some sort of skin allergy and it's a mystery as to what is causing it. The medication the doctor gave him is doing the trick though. Perhaps it was all the fungus growing on the pads of the homerun fence at the Jake!

Please note that I spared you all pictures of vomit and leprocy.

What the eff is up with Diet Pepsi?
I'm talking about those 24 ounce plastic bottles of Diet Pepsi that come in a six pack. My husband ALWAYS buys them at the store. Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Diet Pepsi, Sprite. This only happens with the 6-pack 24 ouncers. I don't know what kind of carbonation Pepsi is packing in those bottles, but EVERY FREAKING TIME I open a bottle, it's like Old Faithful is going off in my hand. If it hasn't burst and spilled all over my hand, clothes, counter, floor, carpet...it's a GD miracle. Even after a successful opening, I just sit and stare at all the bubbles roaring up from the bottom of the bottle, like some sort of chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong. And it makes it's own noise! It's the damndest thing. No wonder they put warning labels on the bottles. "Contents under pressure. Use extreme caution when opening. Safeguard valuable clothing, carpet, etc." Cripes!

I got on this rant because Joonya spilled at least 12 ounces this morning on the table which managed to puddle on the carpet, splash the wall (behind him, mind you) and pool up on the windowsill - as we were just about to walk out the door for school. No time for a thorough cleaning either, it was a Resolve quick spray and we were on our way. I'm sure the sticky residue will be fun to come home to tonight.

Manage Your Emotions and Thrive Under Pressure
This is my new motto. After a very, very trying day, I received a seminar booklet in the mail today on "Managing your Emotions and Thriving Under Pressure." No, I'm not going to go, but I thought, damn, that's what I need to learn how to do. Realizing that I'm emotional by nature and that I can't change it - I sure as hell can try to manage it better. And I definitely could learn to thrive a bit better under pressure. I mean, the pressure is going to be there, no matter what, so I might as well thrive! I typed out my little motto and taped it to my monitor as a reminder. We'll see what happens.

I wonder how long it'll take before my coworkers leave cyanide tablets on my desk with a note, "Do us all a favor."

Ford Super Chief

2006-02-28T12:08:00.001-05:00

Ok, obviously I'm going to get all my blogging done for the week in this one hour. (laugh)

This past weekend, we went to the Cleveland Auto Show. We've become frequent guests of the I-X Center in Cleveland. We've been to several RV shows, the boat show and now the auto show. I wasn't all that jazzed about going but I'm glad I did. I had a lot more fun than I thought I would.

My dad is a car guy. He retired from GM after 36 years of employment as an engineer. I grew up in car country. Everyone in my neighborhood worked for GM. It was my way of life. I've never owned a car other than a Chevy. Every year, I take my mom and dad to the Glenmoor Gathering of Significant Automobiles. It's this swanky car show that is by invitation only for the exhibitors. It's an outstanding car show. One-of-a-kinds, everywhere. My dad looks forward to it every year. This past year was even more fun because there was a 1967 GTO on display, the very first brand-new car my parents owned as a married couple. It was fun to watch them get misty and reminiscent of times long ago. I guess now, I'm a car person too, because I knew a lot about the cars showcased at the Auto Show.

One thing is for certain, I'm clearly a European sedan person. I love the sleakness and design of a fine crafted European automobile. The BMW 760Li is sex on four wheels. I was moved looking at that car. And sitting in it, well, let's just say I hope I didn't leave a stain. (laugh)

But back to the title of my post. The Ford Super Chief. Something about that truck has stuck with me. Granted, it's a concept truck and I'm sure some serious modifications will take place before it ever hits the market. I was in awe viewing this truck. I can't even say for certain that I liked it all that much. All I can say is that it was sick, man, sick. That truck was sick. You have to see it in person to know what I'm talking about. The Range Rover didn't have that effect on me. Dodge's Mega Cab, albeit impressive roominess, didn't thrill me like the Super Chief. The H2, please! When we entered the show, the Super Chief was right there, luring you in. I thought to myself, "Cripes, someone has penis-envy."

But when I spent some time viewing it, I found myself being impressed. And embarrassed that I was impressed. I mean, this truck is sick! But something about it spoke American. Lavish American simplicity. A contradiction of so many autoemotions. Judge for yourself. Go to a 2006 Auto Show near you. You won't regret it.

Notice the bar. And glass roof. Sick, man, sick.

It's a DMB kind of day

2006-02-28T10:19:00.001-05:00

Dave, take me away.

I woke up with that infamous feeling of dread. You know that feeling. The feeling of dread. That ominous feeling that overcomes you and you have no idea why.

During the winter months, I expect to have several days of dread. Ohio winters suck. However, this year, it's been extremely mild and nothing to complain about. Mild or not, I'm ready for spring. And green. And driving with my windows down.

Today's dreadfest is not comforting in the least. So before clamoring out of my SUV to head into the office, I grabbed my CD case. I knew the Dave Matthews Band would soothe my soul and send me to places outside of the four gray walls of my office.

I have to admit, I didn't discover DMB until about four years ago. A few of my online buds sang Dave's praises so I decided to give DMB a whirl. I mean, sure, I was conscious of the effect Dave had on college campuses and I knew he had the kind of following that pseudomimicked the family of followers of the Grateful Dead. I was into those kind of crowds. Before Jerry passed away, I was fortunate enough to have been to a few Dead shows. Those were some of the happiest days of my life. I'll never define myself as much of a free spirit, but when I was in the presence of the deadheads, I was one of the them. I was alive. I was in touch with my inner existence. I was free of the burdens of life. Peace, love and tranquility, man.

I always liked DMB's music. I was a victim of mainstream radio, however. Dave emerged when I was exiting my college days and setting up shop as a productive citizen of society - i.e. first job that paid the bills (and student loans), first apartment, engagement, wedding planning, being a grown-up, etc. I knew of his top 40 hits but wasn't familiar with the darker, more intricate tracks. Thanks to my friends, I discovered these hidden gems and have been a DMB fan since. I see the irony in that I receive my spiritual guidance from Dave. I don't care. It needs to come from somewhere.

My sister is six years my junior so she was much more in tune with Dave and the merriment he brings. Her friends were all big DMB fans. Last summer, she went to Seattle to see one of her friends. My sister's daughter had to pee so they walked into this little off-the-beaten-path coffee shop so she could do her business. As they were standing there waiting, Dave came in. Donning a skull cap and blending in like everyone else, Dave was standing before her. She instantly recognized his familiarity, but wasn't sure. She looked at the coffee clerk and as if she read her mind, she said, "Yes, that's Dave Matthews. He's a regular." My sister freaked. She smiled and said hello, and he did the same. I'm sure Dave knew that he was recognized but my sister played it cool. She didn't do the star struck thing, she went about her business, although the smile on her face was about 10 miles wide. After their encounter, she called me. Of course I was screaming on the phone, "It's not fair, it's not fair! That should have been me!" In any case, I was happy she got some facetime with Dave. Like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon, I was two degrees away from Dave Matthews.

DMB went on tour this past summer and I went with my friend, my sister, her fiance and many of her friends. I was a DMB concert virgin. It was glorious. I had so much fun. It reminded me of the days of being at Dead shows. There was a comaraderie among the concert goers. I let it all go and soaked in every fabulous moment. I felt like I was 21 again. If I could capture that feeling in a bottle, I would, but I wouldn't market it, I'd keep it all to myself. I'm greedy like that. After that concert, I was glistening from the silver lining on Cloud 9 for several days.

So today, Dave is comforting me. And it's working. I'm feeling the funk dissipate. I'm getting perkier. Despite the snow that fell overnight, the sun is shining. Sure sign that spring is on it's way. DMB season awaits.

I'm only this far.
And only tomorrow leads my way.

Valentine's Day Wrap-Up

2006-02-14T20:01:00.001-05:00

Argh. The hype this day brings. My husband and I have been married for nearly 13 years and we've never been a couple who focuses on "romance" in our relationship. For us, romance is setting up the programmable coffeemaker the night before for the other person, or taking out the garbage when it's not your turn. It's a much more realistic and attainable form of romance. It works for us.

Occasionally, he surprises me. A few years ago he brought home chocolate covered strawberries the size of Kansas. This, of course, was after several years of purchasing me music boxes that I never collected, or liked. I finally told him so thus putting an end to an era of "what the hell am I going to do with this?" gifts. Please don't misunderstand, I truly appreciated the effort, but I often wondered what cues I gave off for him to think that this was something I actually wanted, or enjoyed. We joke about it now because he can be so predictable with his gift giving. The last few Christmases I've been given CDs that only he likes. I open them and look at him and say, "this is really for you, isn't it?" Of course it is. It's how we operate. I purchase my own gifts and get exactly what I want. He purchases his own gifts, gives them to me, I give them back to him, and he ends up getting exactly what he wants. We don't pressure each other into finding the perfect gifts. We're realists. Or lackluster boring old married folk.

His card purchasing lacks a bit, as well. For our last anniversary, he bought me a card that was clearly designed with a African-American couple in mind. Seriously. I read it, looked at him, and said, "You've got to be kidding me." He said, "What?" I asked, "Did you EVEN READ THIS BEFORE YOU BOUGHT IT?" The expression on his face changed to a bit more serious. "What, did I get you a sympathy card or something?" Oy. Busted. He fessed up that he hadn't read it. And we all got a huge laugh over my African-American themed anniversary card.

This Valentine's Day, however, he came through. I don't expect great things on these so-called Hallmark holidays. The last few years of our marriage has had it's ups and downs, and sadly, the downs are becoming a bit more frequent. Marriage is hard. It takes work. We're committed to each other and our family so throwing in the towel simply isn't an option. Besides, I'm a lifer. My parents are lifers, and their parents were lifers. Through thick and thin, you find a way to make it work. Compromise, compromise, compromise. Period.

He read today's card purchase. For someone as stubborn as him, I sensed a great deal of remorse in the words of this card. And it made me cry.

For My Wife

I know I sometimes let you down,

and that I don't always do the things the way you would do them.

I know I'm not able to give you all the things you deserve...

but when it comes to loving you,

I can't believe that any man has ever loved his wife

more than I love you.

It pleased me to no end. And when I burst into tears and snuggled up to him on the couch, crying into his sweatshirt, he didn't laugh or make fun of me. He just hugged me. No jokes about me being a sap. No smart-ass remarks about the silliness of the day. Just him finding the right card with the right words to say the things he's too stubborn to say.

That, my friends, was the perfect Valentine's Day gift.

Oleyme! and the RHS

2006-02-08T14:20:00.001-05:00

When commenting on my blog, or a number of other blogs, you'll encounter the word verification box before you're able to post your message. I'm becoming quite fond of the secret decoder words. Today, while posting back and forth with Stray Dog, one of my verification words was oleyme.

Oleyme.

I love it. It's my word of the day. I've rattled it off about 100 times already. Sure, sure, you can take it to the next step and assume my subliminal psyche is itching for a little sumthin', sumthin'...but really, quite innocently, I think it's simply funny.

In other news, marginal work has been accomplished today as we prepare for a tour group that's coming in around 3:30. Occasionally, we are asked by civic groups if they can come on campus and take a tour. Today, we have the 50+ lovelies from the Red Hat Society coming in. A-Bomb will be welcoming these ladies in red and of course, we've been picking on him all day. A-Bomb is a mid-twenties cutie and the Red Hat ladies are going to LOVE him.

I slapped this picture together while A-Bomb was at lunch. It's hanging on his door.

P.S. Note that A-bomb is wearing a prison jump suit, donning handcuffs and a knife. No, he's not a convict, he wore that for Halloween one year. He's the Red Hat Society's Prisoner of Luuuv.

I think I OD'd on my birth control

2006-02-08T09:10:00.000-05:00

So this morning I woke up with a nasty headache, the kind of headache that requires immediate medication yet if you move 3 inches, the vice tightens even more around your head. So you lay there hoping to either fall back asleep or die. Death didn't become me so I had to get up and get ready for work. In my search for pain meds, I realized that I had forgotten to take my birth control pill not once, but twice! Well hell, I needed to rectify that situation so I took 2 Aleve and 2 bc pills.

Now I'm paying for it. My head feels like it weighs 200 lbs. and aches with every inch of movement, and my stomach is on the verge of purge. Taking two pills at the same time probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. Too many Ortho Novum 7/7/7's coursing through my veins. And my mainline of coffee probably isn't helping the situation much either.

Sometimes I do the dumbest shit. I am Pilltard.

Oh, speaking of tards. I know, I know, it's completely UNCOOL of me to make reference to tards and so very unpolitically correct, but tard is such a universal word, and it gets directly to the point.

You must check out Techtard's blog today. "Everything BY the Kitchen Sink." People, I work for this woman!

I can't stop laughing.

Magical movie moment and I was the star - for 30 seconds

2006-02-07T14:16:00.001-05:00

Techtard is yelling at me to eat something so I don't end up getting sick. Funny how we blame food and weather for our everyday illnesses such as colds. Put on your coat or you'll catch a cold. See what happens when you don't eat? You end up sick. I suppose there is some merit there, at least in regards to the intake of sustenance. So I took Techtard's advice and warmed myself a cup of soup.

During this lunch stint, I've decided to blog instead of work. Lately, I've been working through my lunches. Not so much today. I'm down. About an hour ago, I read NoDak Mark's blog and discovered that Mark's brother-in-law committed suicide. He was only 22. That's painful. So here I sit mourning for Mark and Liz, their kids, Liz's family and friends, and everyone else who has been affected by the loss. I have nothing to say other than I'm sorry. I can't imagine the pain you must feel. Hang in there.

Gear Switch: This morning I had one of those magical movie moments. Discussing this in light of Mark's news may be characterized as cold, but I know Mark and he'll understand. He knows I'm a heartless wench. *grin* At times I'm mesmerized by cinematography. I like things that make me think. Poignant things. Things that make me see more than what is really there.

Techtard and I were discussing the other day in the car about how we, as teenagers, lived much of our fantasy life in music videos and/or movies. We inserted ourselves into those roles that we found so touching and fascinating. Examples: I wanted to be the girl in the diner in the Ah-Ha video "Take On Me." Or, I wanted to be Diane, the smart and pretty object of Lloyd Dobler's affection in "Say Anything."

This morning, I had one of those moments. Not that it was anything special, but all the pieces were there for great cinematography. I was driving Joonya to school. He was chattering on about how he hurt his finger playing basketball the night before. I was holding his gloved hand as he spoke. Jack Johnson was playing on the radio seguing into David Gray's Babylon. It was snowing those big fat flakes that stick to your windshield. After kissing him goodbye and wishing him a great day, Joonya got out of the car to make his trek into school, then stopped and turned around. He smiled and waved at me. For a split second everything seemed perfect in the world. My life had a soundtrack. I watched the snowflake that landed on Joonya's seat melt because his warmth - his life - had been there. I was awash with contentment. That doesn't happen too often with me and when it does, I've learned to take notice. It felt as though I was watching those 30 seconds of my life on the big screen, the music and special effects enhancing the moment. I hope I don't forget this morning. I'm sure I will, but today, it lives with me. I suppose I can't ask for anything more.

By the way, this soup blows. Bah. Pleck. Normally I'm a fan of the "Cup-a-Soup", but this broccoli cheese flavor is digusting. I'm equating this to a packet of powdered cheese from the Kraft mac-n-cheese box with flakes of freeze-dried broccoli specks. El yucko supremo. Even the Diet Squirt I'm nursing can't mask the wretched flavor in my mouth. Lipton bombed with this flavor.

Well I suppose my time is up and I need to get back to working on a presentation. My head was pretty clouded earlier, I hope that it's managed to shake itself clear of the cobwebs and distractions so that I can work.

I am hopeful, full of doubt. And a finger in forbidden places.

2006-02-02T22:26:00.001-05:00

That's one of my favorite lyrics from a Better Than Ezra tune. I am hopeful, full of doubt. It's so perfect. I have a lot of things cooking at work, one being a major shift in job responsibilities, thus adding to my hopefulness that something good this way comes while increasing my doubt that it's ever going to happen.

Hopeful.
Doubt.

This is the world I live in. If there is news, I'll keep you posted. For now, it'll remain a mystery. I know you are all on the edge of your seats. Hope you don't get a butt cramp.

On a lighter note, here's a funny Techtard story. Remember Techtard? She's my boss. And technologically challenged, hence the nickname Techtard. If you really feel like being politically incorrect, say Techtard like Corky. And put on a helmet. And prepare for dirty looks. (but I'll laugh!)

Back to my story. Techtard has been having some gastrointestinal troubles and went to see a gastrointestinal doctor today. Gastrointestinal is a fun word to say. Kind of like when Jimmy goes to get his annual colonoscopy. He calls it his rectalectalectamy. Another fun one. Just before Techtard leaves for her doctor's appointment, she and I decide we're going to split a pizza. Probably not the smartest move when you're having a gastro troubles. But let me tell you, Gionino's makes a damn good pie.

She returns from her doctor's visit 45 minutes later and immediately IMs me. "God, I thought I was going to blast pizza all over the wall."

Ok, a couple of words pass through my overactive brain. "Blast, pizza, gastro, doctor..."

She then appears in my doorway. She says..."You wouldn't believe how HOT my doctor was."

And I responded..."And you let him shove his finger up your ass?"

Okay, miscommunicay. She bursts out laughing, then her expression changes, and wonders to herself, "Oh my God, did I just send an email out to the entire office that I was getting a finger shoved up my ass?"

And I'm wondering, "Why did I assume she had a finger shoved up her ass? What's going on in my subliminal psyche?"

We laughed hard. She proceeded to explain the pizza blasting scenario. Because she was laying down and he was pressing hard on her abdomen, it felt as though the pizza was going to expel from her body and blast the wall. I assumed she got a finger shoved up her ass. Someone figure out the correlation.

In any case, it was a true Techtard/JMR moment. We have many, many of those each day. Now, for the next few days I'm going to marvel at the blog/search engine hits I'll get with the words finger, ass, shoved, hard and hot in this post. And I thought Sex and the City brought in some doozies.

Oh yeah, in case you're wondering, Techtard is fine. Dr. Dirty Sanchez thinks it's a reaction to a medication she's presently taking and not drinking enough water.

New Parentdom

2006-02-02T10:46:00.000-05:00

No explanation needed.

Closing the gap and whitening my teef

2006-01-30T22:05:00.001-05:00

I've got my teef whitening moufguard in so speaking properly has it's challenges. Check it out, I've got 30 minutes to burn while my teef bathe in their hydrogen peroxide gelidescent glory! I'm putting those 30 minutes to good use. I'm closing the gap between posts. Not bad, JMR, not bad...20 days between posts this time. Oh, I'm so proud. *weep*

So yeah, this work thing truly has been kicking my ass. I tool into work around 8:45 and don't stop until 5:30 or 6:00, barely taking the time to pee, let alone eat lunch. I spent the last 2 solid months migrating our old Web page to our new one. Not a small feat, considering much of the content on the old site was nearly 10 years old and needed some serious updating. I am the Web Nazi, coo coo ka choo. If anyone gets that reference, you need help. In all, the site went live with little or no disruption, and I finally got a decent night's sleep.

My work load hasn't really lightened any since the GO LIVE date came and went. I decided to take on another monumental project that was larger than I expected. Ever dream about work? Cripes, I do it every night. Apparently the other night, my husband woke me to tell me to move over. I was on top of the covers and had him pinned in. When he asked me to move over, I replied, "I can't! I can't! I'm working on the schedule book!"

Oy.

So my friends, I've become a work junkie. And here I sit whitening my teef because I drink a lot of coffee to get me through my days. Lovely, vision, eh? You should see my hair all pulled up on top of my head like Pebbles. With my blue moufguard in. Back off guys, I'm spoken for.

Ha.

Sex and the City

2006-01-10T21:38:00.001-05:00

I can't think of a good name for this post so I made reference to the TV show I'm presently watching. It's even the boring TBS Tuesday night version. I ought to get some interesting search phrases with that title. Those are always entertaining.

So a word about my absence. Work.

Work has bitten off my head, chewed through my skull, spat out any usable brain matter and swallowed what dignity I had left. I'm a shell of a human. I feel like if the wind blew hard enough, I'd crumble to ground in a cloud of dust.

I don't dare try to explain all the gory details, it would bore you. Let's just say the world of higher education is kicking my sorry, sorry ass. Light at the end of the tunnel? Maybe. More likely it'll be that infamous light dead people are always drawn to. Hear thy angels sing.

So, to those of you who faithfully check my blog on a daily or weekly basis, and yes, I know who you are, thank you. I will try to do better. I miss this. I miss letting the creative juices flow about the trivial, mundane antics that happen to me. I miss your hilarious comments. I miss writing. I miss you. I just miss.

Note to self: JMR, next post, write about your day on December 22nd. It won't fail to entertain.

Back to the grind. I will try not to be a stranger.

Confessions of a Blogger

2005-12-13T17:26:00.000-05:00

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been almost a month since I've last blogged.

Go on, my child.

I have not demonstrated proper blogger's etiquette. I have let my friends down. I have neglected all that I hold sacred and true. I have been too busy with work and the holidays to find time to share my silly little stories. I am ashamed.

Say five Hail Mary's and you will be forgiven.

Yes, Father.

Day of Thanks Humor

2005-11-23T12:30:00.000-05:00

I love this one.

Enjoy the holiday, everyone.

Cook.
Drink.
Feast.
Sleep.
Cheer.
Shop.
Sleep.
Feast.
Decorate.
Shop.
Sleep.
Drink.
Drink.
Drink.

Flying Squirrel

2005-11-23T10:59:00.000-05:00

So I promised NoDak Mark I would blog about my adventures from last Friday, November 18th. This was the day of our annual office retreat in which we did all sorts of team building activities. We travelled off campus to another college campus who had a department which focused on corporate team building programs.

The morning was spent with flow charts and sniffable markers - I favored the black licorice smelling one. Mmmmmm, Ouzo. Then we broke up into teams and built bridges from newspaper and masking tape, strong enough to hold a gallon of water. We also made a historical chart of the progresses our office has made in the last ten years. We bonded. We bickered. We laughed.

After lunch, we moved to the Fieldhouse and participated in a low ropes course. Again, more team building but this time, we had to physically challenge ourselves, safely of course. I had a blast. We had to climb stairs that were wide enough for only one foot - blindfolded, relying on our teammates to catch us should we fall. We had to move the "cup of life" across a volcanic pit by way of swinging on a rope and landing on a platform, while the entire group had to remain on the platform at all times. And then we participated in the Flying Squirrel. You put on your harness, strapped yourself to a pully, placed a red helmet on your head and allowed your teammates to hoist you 75 feet up into the rafters. You were suspended there by a few trusting souls. It was fun. And scary, especially if you are like me and afraid of heights. But regardless, I trusted my coworkers, allowing them to pull me up in the air as a screamed like a fool and held onto my head. I don't know why I did that other than I felt the need to hang on to something and the only thing I could hold onto was my red helmet! (yeah, picture that, it's exactly what you are thinking.)

It was a great time and I'd do it again. That evening, when I arrived home, I stepped once again out of my element and went to our local YMCA and played basketball with my husband and son. Sure, I played ball back in the day, but I've aged since then, and I'm not exactly my limber 16 year old self anymore - and I did this in front of a lot of people. My experiences earlier in the day gave me the gumption to do this, and I had fun, and I didn't care if I looked stupid.

Then I took it even further and took my 7 year old ROLLER SKATING on Sunday afternoon. I laced up my skates and hit the floor with wild abandon, laughing hard at my wobbly legs and unsure footing. After an hour I was out there boogying to Gwen Stefani, The Pussycat Dolls and Gorillaz' Feel Good Inc.

And I didn't fall down. Until....

...the last 15 minutes of "open skate", I was cut off by a little peanut, this kid no taller than 3 feet, who was weaving in and out of the "oval flow of skaters" and in my attempt to avoid crushing him, I spun around backwards (a feat I dared not attempt earlier) and almost had it, until I lost my balance and went down, hard. My knees took the brunt of the fall, but then I got a face full of floor too. It wasn't pretty, but it sure was funny. See my previous posts about falling. I love seeing people fall. I was the star, baby, the star. I entertained quite a few adults with that move, not to mention a few snot-nosed kids who disrespected their elders by laughing. It was a good time, and I'm going to do it again. Who knew roller skating was such good exercise?

And as a result, I saw into the future. There were sure a lot of future mobile home owners of northeast Ohio there. It was a vision.

Good times, people, good times.

Tantric

2005-11-17T11:05:00.000-05:00

Tantra: Any of a comparatively recent class of Hindu or Buddhist religious literature written in Sanskrit and concerned with powerful ritual acts of body, speech, and mind.

Sanskrit: An ancient Indic language that is the language of Hinduism and the Vedas and is the classical literary language of India.

Ok folks, I'm talking about the post-grunge rock band, Tantric, who got their name from a secretary or girlfriend of a member of the unnamed band at the time, who was spewing on and on, naked, about the glories of tantric sex.

Yesterday, while travelling home from work, I heard "Astounded" on the radio and I was awash with fond memories of the band's first and self-named album. I remember the day I bought it. It had to be summer 2001 and it forever remains the CD which gets tons of play during the summer months. Along with a few others, it's my summer CD.

The history of this band is very confusing. Three members of the band, Days of the New, formerly known as Carbon-14 and then Dead Reckoning, formed Tantric with a new lead singer, replacing Travis Meeks with Hugo Ferreira. Different versions abound - Meeks fired his former bandmates, the three bandmates set on their own - in any case, Tantric was formed by three long-time friends from KY and a new lead singer from Detroit. Today, apparently, you can see Travis Meeks on A&E's hit show, Intervention, as he battles his addiction to crystal meth - thus, shooting Tantric back into the spotlight - in a very round about way.

Looks as if I'm having some sort of musical memory lane thing going this week with my blog. Jefferson Starship, Carly Simon and now Tantric. At least I've progressed to music from the new millenium. I can't tell you how much I love this CD. It's definitely one of my favorites. I will admit that I never purchased any of Tantric's later releases, probably because my musical tastes shifted to DMB and other folk-like jam bands and individuals. So, with that being said, I'm going to proclaim Tantric as one of my "If I Had My Own Theme Music" choices - Astounded.

All you stupid fuckers walk around astounded and drowning.

What more needs to be said?

(and as a sidenote, how many of you are scratching your head wondering, "What the hell is she talking about?")

My work here is done.

That 70's Girl

2005-11-14T14:06:00.001-05:00

I was a young child during the 1970s and I feel what was offered during those days went unspoiled on me. Not until I reached my "mature" years did I realize what I missed. My childhood memories are good ones. I was a happy child. I loved life, I loved my bike, I loved basketball, I loved chasing my older brother's friends hoping that I would indeed catch up to them, because my childhood loins believed I was in love with each and every one of them. Those were happy, happy times. I think when I reached the age of 6 or 7, I somehow became painfully shy and turned into a wallflower. I was afraid of my own shadow. I eventually outgrew that but I sometimes wonder what event in my young life shifted me from a happy outgoing child to one who was afraid of everyone and everything.

Maybe it was the black snakes that used to burrow into the foundation of our 100 year old farmhouse during thunderstorms. Oh yeah, there's a story there.

Anyway, a while back, I picked up a CD collection of tunes from the 70's. I can remember hearing all of these songs on the AM/FM radio in the Chevy station wagon we always seemed to own, model after model, year after year - or in the driveway while my dad washed the car and I shot hoops, rambling on and on about things so unimportant. My dad was always good for listening to JMR and her silly 8 year old girl stories.

One song that takes me home is Miracles by Jefferson Star ship. I had no idea what the song was about back then, probably because it was edited for airplay, but also because I was a naive little kid. Today when I hear it, I ache and smile all at the same time. I love the fluidity of this song, the amorous lyrics and the call-and-response style of Marty Balin and Grace Slick. Unfortunately, we don't get to hear these classic songs unless we are downloading them to our iPods or doing some late night grocery shopping.

I can remember my grandfather giving me my first clock-radio. He had sold his beloved Isaly's diner in town and went to work at Montgomery Wards, most likely to earn some additional social security. My clock-radio was damaged so he was able to purchase it for 50 cents. That radio is still being used to this day by my dad in his workshop. It doesn't keep time, and some of the knobs are missing their covers, but it still works and the reception still comes in crystal clear. I heard many o'good 70's tunes on that radio. Fond memories.

When my husband and I would go on mini-road trips with our then 3 year old son, who was only good for about 3-4 hours in the car, we'd always play the 70's collection. Joonya became quite fond of Carly Simon's You're So Vain. I used to brag that I had the only 3 year old who could recite You're So Vain verbatim. We'd get such a charge when that little voice would bellow from his carseat..."I want to hear Clouds in the Coffee." And then he'd sing along with so much enthusiam. He didn't care if the lyrics were right, he just wanted to sing. While Carly was singing:

Well, you're where you should be all the time
And when you're not, you're with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend
Wife of a close friend

Joonya was singing: Wife of the postman, wife of the postman

I would damn near die laughing. The music of the 70s has served me well, and now I see that it's serving my son well. I can only hope he'll treasure these memories like I have.

What I did on Veteran's Day

2005-11-14T10:07:00.001-05:00

So I had Friday, November 11th off from work in honor of our veterans. Yee haw. I had grandiose plans for the day. I was going to clean my house. I'm not talking surface cleaning, I was going to get out the Hoover Steam Cleaner and shampoo the carpets. I was going to tackle the junk closet, the one closet where everything ends up in a heap. I was going to reorganize the tupperware cabinet. I was going to disect the pantry and put it back together in an organized fashion. I was going to divide and conquer.

Yeah.

Instead, I plopped my ass down on the couch for several hours and renewed my love for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I forgot how damn funny that show is. I also forgot how infatuated with Jon Stewart I am. And I forgot how I absolutely adore funny men. Swoon.

I also was introduced to Butch Bradley on Comedy Central. I imagine Butch is widely known on the comedy circuit, but this was the first time I saw him. I hadn't laughed like that in such a long time. Here I was, in my sweats, glasses, hair all a'touseled, snuggled up on the couch under a blankey, watching Butch and laughing so hard I was crying - all by myself. Do you know how therapeutic that is? That was the best damned Veteran's Day gift anyone could have ever given me.

Around 3 p.m., I managed to "pick up" the downstairs of the house so that I didn't look like a total sloth for when the fam got home around 4:30. It did me a world of good to sit there and laugh like a loon alone in the house, soaking up any and all moments of silence and peace. I busted ass on Saturday to make up for my comedy vacation I had on Friday, only to have the house destroyed on Sunday by family, friends and dogs. I didn't care. It was fun. My 3-day weekend was immensely enjoyable.

And seriously needed.

So my warmest thanks to all the veteran's of this great country who have served us proudly. I truly mean that, despite how I spent my day. I told MacFucker last week that Veteran's Day actually means something to me now. As it should.

No, no, I'm not dead. I just feel that way.

2005-11-01T15:50:00.001-05:00

So I'm on Plan B. I figured I'd be able to catch up on my blogging this week but that hasn't happened, as you can clearly see.

I just have too much going on in my so-called life right now. Work, home, kidling, spousal unit, you know...the typical. So once again, blogging must take a back seat, as many things have.

I shall return, hopefully, with some stupendous material. All work and no play makes JMR a very dull girl.

Dull is right.

The high school visit

2005-10-19T17:41:00.000-05:00

Reason 941 for my absence:

One of my job responsibilities is to visit high schools in our surrounding area. I go out and talk up higher education and promote our campus as a first-choice for college. I give students the 411 on how to apply, the majors we offer and why my university is da bomb diggity.

I'm the rural chick. For some reason, because I went to a "smaller" high school, I've been tagged in our high school territory distribution as "she who goes to all podunk schools." I actually don't mind it because during autumn recruitment season, I enjoy driving to all these rural schools, soaking in the autumnal splendor.

But let me tell you, sometimes I feel that instead of walking into a high school, I'm walking into some sort of sanitarium for pimple-faced freaks. I had three visits the other day, and while two of them were rather good and engaging, the one - the larger one - was a freak show. Why?

Where do I start?

First of all, it was a very rural school, and not a whole hell of a lot goes on in that small town, so the idea that two college reps were visiting that day must have been like flies being drawn to shit. We were the shit. Next, instead of a classroom or guidance office conference room, we were thrown into the cafeteria, while a study hall was going on, with no adult supervision whatsoever. Can I hear a strike two? Finally, the kids who showed up didn't give a rip about what we were saying, they just wanted to be out of class - in the cafeteria - with no adult supervision - and with us, the shit. That's exactly how we were treated.

So that visit stirred up some memories of my last visit to that school. I did a spring visit to hopefully capture any kids who were sitting on the fence about choosing a college. Instead of a structured visit, I merely set up camp outside of the cafeteria at a table and chatted with interested students as they meandered by. During the down time, which was pretty much the entire time I was there, I was privvy to watching a serial killer in the making. An odd sort of student was sitting alone at a table minding his own business and eating his lunch. Sure enough, a host of cocky, jock-strap sporting individuals showed up and started harrassing him. They surrounded this boy, who was of the Goth persuasion, and proceeded to get in his face continually for about 15 minutes until the poor kid finally broke and escaped - without incident, thank God. I was trying to avoid the entire situation and was having a micro panic attack as the incident escalated and I, knowingly, was doing nothing.

My take was that this happens pretty much every day to this kid. He did a stellar job of ignoring these asswipes, however, it was very disheartening to watch. I felt for that kid. I often wonder how many high school idiots he has chopped up and buried in the corn field next to his house.

So that's the reason for my absence from my blog. I've been out travelling. Earlier in the week, Techtard and I took our "vaginas to Celina", (Sa-line-ah) a phrase we rattled off about a 1,000 times on our 4 hour drive to western Ohio in the pissy, cold rain. Yeah, we're that weird, but it seemed to get funnier and funnier the more we said it, and the more we drank.

But that's a story for another post. And no, we're not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Next week, hopefully the posts will return. I know, I know, the excitement is unbearable.

SOMEBODY SEDATE ME!

2005-10-17T12:34:00.000-05:00

Last night's Grey's Anatomy was yet another good episode. ABC has me hooked on this show and the more I watch it, the more I love it. Sadly, it's already becoming predictable, but I don't care. The show captures my interest and keeps me tuned in week after week. Hopefully it'll be a few more seasons before it completely jumps the shark. Why do I dig the show? Let me count the ways.

1. Patrick Dempsey has grown up and is unbelievably hot. I dig his character. Dr. McDreamy can come cut on me anytime.

2. George O'Malley cracks me up. If I was a resident surgeon, I'd be most like O'Malley. Unsure of myself, awkward, innocently coy...oh yeah, indeed I'm Georgia O'Malley for sure.

3. I know guys like Alex Karev - impossible to be around but truly a good person deep down. The persona he showcases is transparent, much like someone else I know.

4. I can't help but wish I was more like Cristina Yang. Precise, cut-throat, never wrong, aggressive, strong. I'm the antithesis of Cristina. But last night's breakdown was a pleasure to watch, from a therapeutic standpoint. It was nice to see her "human." And as she was sobbing uncontrollably and yelling for her friends to sedate her, I thought, my God, that's what I'm like!

Somebody sedate me please! If only it was that simple.

Wait, it is that simple if you're a heroin junkie.

Halloween is coming!

2005-10-12T15:49:00.001-05:00

Halloween is by far my favorite time of year. Favorite season, favorite candy-free-for-all, favorite scary movies. Rock on Halloween.

NoDak Mark got me thinking about what I'll be for Halloween this year. Ideally if my husband and I had a costume party to go to, we'd go as Heat and Snow Miser from the claymation classic, "The Year Without a Santa Claus". We'd fit those roles perfectly, minus the penis on my part. (I'd be Heat because I'm so damn hot and DaHubs would be Snow because he's so frigid. LOL)

But I'd settle for this costume too. She's a real beauty. Thanks Techtard for the big laugh.

Garden Orb Web Weaver

2005-10-12T08:48:00.001-05:00

I have an unhealthy fear of spiders. Big or small, spiders freak me out. They paralyze me. I suppose that would make me an arachnophobe. In any case, I don't like spiders and they scare the britches off of me.

Which is odd, because I'm an outdoor kind of gal. I love gardening, camping, trapsing through the woods, running through corn fields...but I stop cold when I see a spider. It's like I have some arachnoradar. I know exactly where spiders are.

Meet this beauty. She decided to take up residence on my front porch. She spun her web between my front porch railing and my hanging geranium basket. She was a lovely autumn shade of orange and she was bigger than a quarter. Instant nausea. When I first laid eyes on her, I thought I was going to pass out. I literally froze up and yelled for my husband in a panicky and hurried voice. He knows the spider voice. It mimics the enraged lunatic who has broken into our house and is inches away from chopping my head off voice.

I asked him to remove her which means, "kill the bitch", but DaHubs, who is a lover off all creatures great and small, usually finds a paper cup or a paper plate and collects the live specimen and removes it to the great outdoors. This time, however, I think the garden orb web weaver scared him because there was no way in hell he was going to touch her. It was time to call in a professional.

I begged Cody, my neighbor, to come over and take care of her. He came trotting over with his gallon of Death Spray and after several minutes of teasing me, he gave her a good spray. I know, I know, it's completely uncool to kill harmless critters. She wasn't doing anyone harm - except to me by way of nightmares and panic attacks. When confronted by a scary spider, I tend to have nightmares for about a week which involve me waking up in the middle of night and screaming that there are spiders all over the ceiling and walls. This drives my husband insane. He's been a good sport for putting up with this type of behavior for well, nearly 15 years now.

She didn't go down without a fight, either. This Death Spray is supposed to be instantaneous and once she was doused, she traveled quickly from her spot in the center of her orbtastic web right up into my hanging basket. Cody assured me she was going to die but I was convinced she would live forever in my plant. I started the nervous panic pace.

The nervous panic pace involves me becoming fixated on the situation. For instance, it'll appear that I'm relaxing on the couch watching TV, but really I'm obsessing over the idea that the spider is still alive and in my geranium. My eyes are on the TV but all I'm seeing is the spider. It's fear at it's purist form. So after Cody sprayed the spider, I spent the next hour hovering at the window looking for her to reappear. It's almost obnoxious, really, this fixation that overcomes me. After some time, she did, in fact, reappear. She started this long dangling decent to her death. Of course I mistakened this act as her seeking revenge on me and all things I love. I watched her in sheer fear as she slowly decended from my hanging basket from her lonely web strand.

I picked up the phone and called Cody. "Cody, you have to come over here and finish the job. I'm not kidding, get over here now, she's still alive, please hurry, OH MY GOD, she's still alive! Oh, oh, hurry, hurry, before she lands on the porch!" Ok, see? That's the panicky voice. Within minutes, he was there and I was waiting at the front door with a broom. I handed it to him and in a stearn voice instructed him to "get rid of her."

Once again, this allowed for more ridicule on my part. I didn't care. By this time I had worked myself up into such a tizzy that all the ribbing and jokes were ineffective. The focus, for me, was the expedient removal of said spider. After poking at her and observing her lifeless carcass, it was decided she was dead. Cody intercepted her web strand with the broom handle and removed her body to the street. Dead spider walking.

I'm still not over this ordeal. I have two hanging baskets on my front porch who have passed on to the giant hanging basket in the sky, but I'm terrified to remove them to the garbage because...what if she had babies in there? Oh the horrors of which I wish not to think! You should have seen me earlier as I scoured the web for a picture of this spider. See, I had no idea what kind of spider she was, so I googled orange spider and after inspecting several photos, I found the exact arachnid. By the time I found the correct photo, I was twitchy and jumpy and had inspected every corner of my office for anything that had more than two legs.

It's a sickness, people, it's a sickness.

If you're ugly and you know it, clap your hands!

2005-10-10T08:48:00.000-05:00

I haven't written in a week. Yeah, you're crushed, I know. It's devastating to realize that your favorite blog has been neglected, isn't it? Should I send you some cash to help pay for your therapy?

Ahhh, sarcasm. It's a beautiful thing. I'm full of it today. Sharp. Biting. Nasty. Borderline evil and hurtful. Why? It may have something to do with PMS or the nasty-ass weather we're having. Autumn in Ohio is my absolute favorite time of the year. I love crispness of the air, the crunch of the fallen leaves and the mist that covers the ground on a cool, dewey morning. But with all that beauty comes her ugly stepsister. Gray overcast days, wet and damp, not a glimmer of sunshine to be seen. Today is one of those days. In fact, the entire weekend was like that. She knows how to mess with your psyche and she's doing a good job.

So I'll spare you all. I'll stop writing and dive into the mound of work on my desk. The next post will be better, I promise.

Like you care.

Blog Light

2005-10-03T21:24:00.001-05:00

As opposed to regular Blog.

Blogging this week will be sparce. Monster of an event tomorrow on campus and I'll be schlepping hard until 9 pm easy. I have no idea what the rest of my week entails because I haven't looked at my Palm since Thursday of last week. I think the batteries are dead.

Speaking of batteries, our TV remote batteries bit it tonight. Crikey, it was like medieval times in my living room. I actually had to get my sorry ass off the couch to change the channel. It was torture! And along those same lines, lightbulbs in my house, and my office, are going out left and right - as if they're having some sort of mindfuck with JMR. Yo lightbulbs, it's working. Why is that they all seem to go out at the same time?

I'm tired now. I need to get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to kick my sorry ass. Like the remote did, and the lightbulbs. I'm pathetic.

Would you like some parking lot with your queso?

2005-09-30T08:38:00.001-05:00

I thought crockpots were supposed to be one of this century's finest inventions. Sure they are easy to use - you throw in all of your ingredients, turn the dial to either high or low, put the lid on and let it do it's magic. That's precisely what I did.

But the inventor of this kitchen masterpiece never thought about the ease in which to LUG THIS THING AROUND!

I told you before, and I'll tell you again, funny stuff finds me, no matter where I am or what I'm doing.

So today we are having a food day at work to honor a long-time employee who is leaving us for the sunnier skies of Florida. My contribution to today's feast is chili con queso. A simple concoction really, cheese, ground beef, ground sausage, salsa, etc. - all thrown in the crockpot to warm into a melted heart attack. I decided to pack my crockpot and chips into a two-handled wicker-like basket to aid with hauling it into the office. I decided to pull around to the back door of our building, drop it off in the hallway, and retrieve it after parking my car down in the lower lot. Well, when I pulled the basket out of my car, the handle gave way, and conqueso spilled all over the place, especially on the blacktop.

By the back door.
Where many people, including students, walk by.
Conqueso on blacktop.
A rather large mound of it.
Picture that.

It was all over my hands and splashed on my pants on shoes. I didn't know what to do except use foul verbage. Which I did. A lot. I put the basket mess inside the back door in the hallway and proceeded to park my car, one handed, as my right hand was covered in what appeared to be cheesy vomit. After parking my car, I retrieved one of Joonya's dirty baseball shirts from the back of the trailblazer and used it to wipe off my hands. I then went up to the building, passing the mound of conqueso now oozing all over the parking lot, and started to laugh. Like a crazy person.

I carried the basket o'mess into my office and was greeted by Techtard, who saw what I was bringing in and started with..."Oh no, oh no..." followed by full blown laughter. I told her what happened and the first thing out of her mouth was..."Can you see it from the window?"

More laughter.

We ran to the window just above where the incident took place. We're on the second floor so we had a birds-eye view of the mess. You could see it, clear as day. More laughter, and now an audience gathered because everyone in our office wanted to see what we were howling over.

Then one of the maintenance guys appeared. He was strolling into work with his coffee mug in tow, looking down at this hazmat site, shaking his head in disgust. We all lost it. It couldn't have been funnier. I was laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face. We watched him come back with a cardboard box and a flat piece of cardboard, using it to scrape the mess off the pavement and into the box. I sincerely owe him an apology. I'm sure he had no idea what he just scooped up. He had to help me one other time during an ACT testing day when one of our examinees decided to shit themselves in the hallway while leaving the test. I'm not kidding. It was, by far, the worst smelling excrement I've ever been privy to. I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Who, in their right mind, shits themselves while walking down the hall, in a sea of 200 high school kids? I was dumbfounded. I still am. That was one of the most bizarre days I've ever experienced.

But back to the queso incident. It took me a half-hour to clean up the crockpot and myself. It smells like a Mexican fiesta in my office. I bagged the basket up in a trashbag and threw it out. There was no way it was salvagable. The remaining queso is now warming on the counter in the back of our office. The other half is stinking up the trash room in a cardboard box.

My Evening at the Jake

2005-09-28T08:02:00.001-05:00

Yesterday morning, my husband and I decided we were going to go to the Indians game that evening. It was a good choice, despite the Tribe losing 5-4. Cleveland is, by far, a sports town. Through thick and thin, (mostly thin) we hang tight in support of our local heros.

I'm not a Browns fan. I'm sure I gave that up after Modell sent the team to Baltimore. I remember the days of the Cardiac Kids, and even though I was young and didn't know all that much, I did know that my heart was broken one too many times. Besides, I don't really like football anyway.

But baseball is a different story. Maybe it's the atmosphere. Maybe it's the fans. Maybe I don't have a clue what I'm talking about. I'm sure it's the latter.

My husband, who is an Oakland Raiders fan, dragged my sorry ass to Buffalo in January for a playoff game back in 93 or 94, when the Raiders were the L.A. Raiders. Buffalo in January is brutal. Sitting up there in an open stadium right off of Lake Erie with a wind chill of -30 and a temperature of -3. I thought I was going to die. And even though we were in the end zone with a bunch of other Raiders fans, I feared once again for my life because the Bills fans were scary. And we were clearly outnumbered. I couldn't have run to save my life. When the game ended, with the Raiders losing, we finally made it back to our car where I started to defrost. When I took my boots off, I literally had to pry my toes apart because they were frozen together. I'm not kidding. Ice crystals on my little piggies. I was horrified.

I ventured to one other football game after that, the Raiders were playing in Cincinnati. It simply sucked from the minute we arrived to the minute we left. I swore off football for good. I've been to Browns games before, way back in the old Cleveland Stadium. There usually was a giganton of a pole right in front of my seat so I saw very little other than rust and grit. (fitting for Cleveland) I'm sure things are much different in the new stadium but I haven't yet wanted to go to a game. I'm sure my husband is cooking up ways in which he can get me to the Browns-Raiders game in Cleveland. Joy.

But back to baseball. The fans are fun, not raucous and raw. Last night's game was rather dull until the last two innings when the Boys of Summer really kicked it up a notch. We took our 7-year old son. We were in the lower box on the third base line, closer to left field. Joonya had his mit poised and ready for every foul ball that didn't come our way. During warm-ups, the boys went down to the field and were able to watch their heros - up close and personal. Although, they did have to fight their way through a gaggle of young women all wearing pink t-shirts sporting "Mrs. Sizemore" across their chests. Grady sure does have a following. And rightfully so.

All in all, it was a great night. I'm looking forward to the playoffs. I'm glad everyone else lost last night too. Especially the Yankees. Boot losers!

Uninspired

2005-09-26T17:22:00.000-05:00

This week, my blog entries may be few and far between. I'm uninspired to write. Maybe it's because I'm feeling a little overwhelmed at work, or maybe I'm just in a slump. In any case, I'm about as exciting as rubber cement.

I will say that I'm geeked about Sunday night's TV lineup. I'm glad that the West Wing moved to Sunday nights at 8 p.m. EST. Nothing like a little brain food before my guilty pleasure, Desperate Housewives. The West Wing vindicates my need for Desperate Housewives. It's like a dose of NPR before a dose of Howard Stern. As long as I have one, I can have the other.

In case you care, which I'm sure you don't, these are my favorite TV shows.

The West Wing
Law and Order - the original and SVU. Criminal Intent is fair but not one of my favorites.
Rescue Me - love Denis Leary but man, this show can be such a downer. It's pretty raw.
Boston Legal
Grey's Anatomy
Desperate Housewives
CSI: the Vegas original
That 70s Show
Good Eats - Alton Brown on the Food Network. I dig his quirkiness and his beef map.
City Confidential, Cold Case Files, American Justice - A&E - I'm a total junkie.
E True Hollywood Story - You can do a THS on a piece of lint and I'd watch it.

Perhaps later this week I'll find some inspiration to write about something of substance. Right now the most exciting thing I'm doing is flipping through Pantone's Formula Guide for Solid Uncoated color builds. Anyone want to play "Spin the Color Wheel?"

I'm "Font"astic now

2005-09-22T12:36:00.000-05:00

Just thought y'all like to know I conquered my font problem. It's amazing what the Internet and the campus credit card can do.

Shocking.

What the FONT?!?!!!

2005-09-21T09:29:00.000-05:00

I need a font.

I can't get a font.

I'm going to font someone up, and soon.

I hate roadblocks in my work flow.

Birthday Shout Outs

2005-09-21T07:53:00.001-05:00

My little sis turns 31 today. Happy Birthday, Sis. This is us a few years ago at a family gathering at the "compound" just before she polished off a bottle of wine and threw up outside of her tent.

Other birthday well wishes go to Willy Brand who turns a ripe ole 25. You're a pup, my man.

Gobbily Gook in the Brain Pan

2005-09-20T12:42:00.000-05:00

I've got a lot of things going on in my head.

1. The tortilla.
This is a fabulous invention. You can put anything on a tortilla and it's going to taste good. Today's lunch involves a tortilla, cream cheese, sandwich pepperoni, American cheese and lettuce. Wasn't sure about the concoction when I put it together today but it's earning my vote. Yum.

2. Rob Zombie - Never Gonna Stop
This song needs more air play. Sure it had it's day, but it's time for this song to be standard issue on mainstream radio. Why? Because I think so. Period. I even like the dance remix. So there.

3. Noshavepits
Willy Brand of Beverly Hills had his SUV keyed yesterday. Not only was it keyed, it was keyed to make a statement. Apparently some noshavepit in CA doesn't like Willy driving an SUV so they keyed his gas tank cover, and only his gas tank cover. Man, that's just wrong. Destruction of personal property does not get your point across. Destruction of personal property puts a bounty on your head. I'm sure if we were to examine the said culprit under a microscope, we'd find all sorts of hypocricies such as nonorganic milk in his fridge or an armoire made of teak. I mirror Willy's sentiments. The criminal keyer is, by far, an effin asshole.

4. Cliche
As I was leaving work to come home for lunch, I noticed something in our parking lot. A moderately-handsome 40-something professor was getting out of his black Mazda Miata convertable. His license plate read "Cliche." That's beautiful. It pleases me that he sees the humor in his consumer behavior.

5. MacFucker returns home
A good friend of mine who is in the army from Virginia recently returned home from a two week stint in Louisiana. He's a helicopter pilot and spent some of his time in LA repairing the faulty levees in New Orleans. He has a different take on the disaster that struck this region. He doesn't blame big government or even FEMA for dropping the ball. He says the fault lies within local goverments. He quoted local officials saying, "Sorry guys, you aren't bringing those refugees through my Parish," and so forth. He couldn't believe the brazen attitudes many local officials had. He felt that it was local governments who brought the recovery efforts to a grinding hault. It's another perspective to ponder, I suppose. He also told me about Drop Dead Fred. Fred was a floating body that was near one of the levees he was repairing. The guys in his unit were not permitted to pull Fred out of the water. It was the responsibility of some other aid and rescue unit. Fred bobbed, well, what was left of him, for five days until the President came, then, and only then, did someone bag him up.

6. While I'm on the topic of Katrina
Not many good things have come out of the aftermath of Katrina, except one: face time with Harry Connick, Jr. The man is hot. Scrumptious. Deeee-lish. The only thing that could make Harry Jr. hotter is if he was delivered to me on a silver platter wrapped in a tortilla.

Attack of the Unwanted Lunchtime Magazine Salesdude

2005-09-19T10:45:00.000-05:00

I left work early today to head home for lunch because I was feeling a bit off and felt like resting. I have this nagging ache running across my shoulder blade so I assumed a couple of Aleve and a Diet Coke chaser, followed by a short nap, might do the trick. The verdict is still out on that.

As I pulled on to my street, I noticed this cute boy, perhaps in his late teens, early twenties, walking down someone's driveway. He waved to me like he knew me and I waved back, being the cordial neighbor that I am. It didn't hurt that he was a cute young man smiling and waving at me either.

I popped my Aleve and took a 20 minute coma nap and realized that, because I left work so darn early, I had better eat something quick before I headed back to work. The last thing I need is a bout of hunger around 2 pm. I opened the fridge and opted for some leftover fajita meat from last night's Mexican extravaganza hosted by none other than, me, myself and I.

I plopped down in front of the TV and watched a quick blurb on E recapping last night's Emmys. Yawn. Just then the doorbell rang followed by a loud knock. Sigh, I hate being interrupted at home. I peeked through the window and sure enough, it was cute young boy from down the street. Now that he was in front of me, he wasn't all that cute. Whatever could he want?

This kid started spewing on about points and all this garbage that I could hardly understand. He handed me a poorly laminated card with his credentials that looked like a six year old had written it. He was yammering on about Cancun, Cozumel and St. Thomas. Finally I stopped him and said, "Dude, what are you selling me?"

More song and dance. Literally. He asked me to touch my nose twice and then hop on one foot and repeat some ludicrous saying that ended with "cutie." My patience had run out. I'm all for people making a living. I'm all for the creative way in which he presented himself. But he went a little too overboard. He talked too fast and never point-blank said what he was there for. He started to give me the creeps. After handing me yet another poorly laminated card with about 100 magazines listed, I finally figured out what he was doing.

Sorry, dude, not interested. He tried again, this time coming at me from a different angle. He tried to play the "cute mom" card but fumbled on the 2 yard line by calling me ma'am. He wasn't getting anywhere. Finally, I patted him on the upper arm and said, "Sorry, guy, just not interested. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

I turned and shut the door on him, abruptly locking the door. I kept mumbling explicatives under my breath as I was preparing to return to work. Touch my nose twice and hop on one foot. You've got to be kidding me. I'm getting a "NO SOLICITORS" sign for my front door. Crikey.

Helter Skelter, the Sequel

2005-09-15T21:33:00.001-05:00

If you haven't noticed, the last couple of posts have been blood themed. This post won't deviate from that, so if you are squimish, you may want to refrain from reading. Dave, that means you, you big wuss.

The title of this post is Helter Skelter, the Sequel. First, I must fill you in on the original Helter Skelter so that you are adequately educated to understand the second Helter Skelter scenario.

Ready? O-K.

On Sundays, I cook. I don't just cook for my family, I cook for our neighbors and friends, so on any given Sunday, I'm feeding between 8-10 people. Sometime after last Thanksgiving, my neighbor went to our local grocer's one-day-only meat sale and came home with a trunk full of meat. Hamburger, pork, steaks, prime rib...and a whole lot of it. He had at least five prime rib roasts. Well, the guys got the brilliant idea that we were not only going to have a prime rib roast for Sunday dinner, we were going to deep fry that prime rib roast. Enter the turkey fryer.

So it's early December and out here in Ohio, it gets cold. The guys were working feverishly outside to get the $60 worth of peanut oil up to the proper cooking temperature. It took a long time, but it got there - or so they thought. That bad boy went in the oil and was only supposed to fry for about 30-35 minutes. All proud and happy, they brought the blazing, crackling slab of meat into my kitchen.

I asked: "Hey, did you guys check the internal temperature before pulling it out?"
Manbeasts: "Nah, we cooked it long enough. Look at it, it looks great."
Me: "Um, ok, but don't you think..."
Manbeasts: "It's fine, it's fine...let it sit for a sec and then we'll cut it."

So the meat rested. I got out my heavy duty knife and waited.

When the time came to carve this masterpiece, the manbeasts puffed up, waiting for the women to praise their hunting and killing skills. There was no hunting, nor killing, but all the testosterone in the room was clouding their better judgement. As I began to slice through the crusted outer layer, horror overcame the room.

Blood raw. The outside was done to perfection, but the inside, well, it hadn't even cooked. After grilling the manbeasts over oil temperature, they finally confessed that the oil was about 25 degrees less than it should have been. So they get the bright idea to "throw it back in."

To everyone out there who ever wants to deep fry a prime rib: Do not throw it back into the oil, especially after it's been sliced open. Why? Read on.

After another 20 minutes of frying, they brought it back in. The outside was now burnt to a blackened crisp, and when we cut back into it, it was still completely raw. Now what do we do? We decided to slice it and put it under the broiler in my oven. This prime rib was huge, each slice took up an entire plate. As I was cutting this thing, bloody meat juice was all over my kitchen as we were scrambling to find enough plates to fit all this meat on. It was like Helter Skelter had just taken place in my kitchen. At one point, I stopped, washed my hands, turned to my friends and said, "Ok guys, you're on your own. I'm going to pass out from all this blood." I was lightheaded and woozy.

I went upstairs, showered the Rick Baker nightmare off my person and laid down. I came downstairs a short while later and everyone was attempting to gnaw on their meat. The broiler had done the trick, but because the manbeasts decided to "throw it back in", the oil seaped into the meat. You could have taken a match to your cut of prime rib and it would have burned for three hours. I refused to even try it. My female friends were green. The manbeasts were doing their best to choke it down, God forbid they had to admit that they goofed up. And my kitchen was still bloody. All in all, it was an experience - an expensive experience - and one we still joke about today.

Here is where the Sequel comes in. So Wednesday evening, after giving blood at work and throwing up in Pav's trashcan, I picked up Joonya from his after school care and we went home. My husband had Open House that night so I was in single mother mode. I had removed that tourniquet that was my bandage on my right arm because it was cutting off my circulation. As I was preparing a gourmet dinner of grilled cheese and Pringles, I felt something warm against my arm. I looked down and not only was I bleeding, I was gushing. Blood was covering my arm and dripping all over the floor. I sprung a leak.

I called for Joonya, my 7-year old, and requested that he go find Mom some cotton balls. I grabbed a kitchen towel and used it to stop the bleeding. Just then, Cody, the neighbor from next door walks in with Ryan, his one year old, in his arms. He couldn't have come at a better time. Cody was calm while I was swaying back and forth and hanging on to the kitchen counter, trying not to pass out. He instructed Joonya, again, to find some cotton balls while he went to the bathroom and retrieved some bandaids. I rinsed off my arm and Cody proceeded to bandage me back up. Joonya, in the meantime, had located the cotton balls and proceeded to place them all over the kitchen, covering up each droplet of blood. I just love the innocence of kids. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with those cotton balls but he was going to make sure I couldn't see the blood. It looked like it had hailed in my kitchen.

I laid down for a few minutes and collected myself while Joonya tended to me, making sure I was still coherent. I laughed at the cotton balls that were now stuck to the kitchen floor. It was an eventful night. When I finally reached a level of normalcy, which was no small feat, mind you, Joonya and I read books on sharks and watched the Sandlot.

It was a good day, despite all the blood. Like I said before, funny stuff finds me.

JMR battles the Bloodmobile - and loses (cookies!)

2005-09-14T15:34:00.001-05:00

The hell with surviving Hurricane Katrina, I survived GIVING BLOOD! Ok, that was tasteless, but I needed to make a point. I'm extremely lightheaded now so anything I say, can, and will be used against me at a later date, I'm sure.

I aced the usual medical history paperwork, blood pressure, iron and weight checks. Funny, weight, like me pushing 110 lbs. was going to be an issue. Ha! The one thing that always trips me up is temperature. Apparently, to give blood, you must have a body temperature of 99.5 or under. Today, I temped at 99.4. I've tried to give blood three times now and each time, my temperature has been 100 or better. I must just naturally be one hot mama. (stop laughing) The one nurse gave me a grape juice box while I was doing my paperwork to help bring my body temperature down in case I was close. He was right, I was close. Or the temperature nurse lied and let me slide in under the radar at 99.4. In any case, I was a mosquito's wet dream. I was ready.

The initial drain was easy and quick. I've got a good flow. I filled my unit in less than 5 minutes. I squeezed the little world stress ball and was feeling pretty damn proud of myself. I was helping mankind. I was a giver. Yay me!

When all was said and done, I left the blood bus and sat at the table, resting for the instructed 5 minutes, picking through the bowl of Oreos, Nutter Butters and Lorna Doones. I grabbed a bottle of water and was on my way. As I was making my way up the slight incline to the campus center, I was getting short of breath and a little lightheaded. No problem, JMR, this is normal. As I entered the building, I was experiencing tunnel vision and was for sure going down if I didn't find a place to sit, and quick! Enter Pav's office.

I b-lined to his office because it was the closest, and for me, the most comfortable place on campus for me to do what I was about to do next.

Pav: Hey, you ok?
Me: Give me your trashcan, NOW!
Pav: Uh oh. (pulls can out from under desk)
Me: Braaaaarrraallllffffffffffffff, ack, ack, rrrrraallllffffff
Pav: Uhhhhhh, oh, oh.
Me: Ack, you might want to leave.
Pav: I think I will. (shuts door behind him)

Three minutes later he comes back in while I was clutching his trashcan like I had just found a long lost beloved pet. I was soaking wet, white as a sheet and shaking like a heroin addict in rehab. So much for my grape juice box. It now covered any and all papers that were in Pav's trash. Thank God for Pav. I couldn't have done what I did in just anyone's office. Only Pav's office would suffice. He's such a good sport and gave me the added humorous anecdotes to make the whole experience worthwhile. He even drove me across campus back to my office so I wouldn't have to walk.

So there you have it. I was able to give blood, somewhat successfully. Pav, on the other hand, got the short end of the stick. Fortunately for him, he was leaving work early, thus giving ample time for the regurgitated grape juice smell to dissipate from his office. At least I tied up his trashbag for the maintenance crew.

Stella! Stella!

2005-09-14T12:26:00.000-05:00

So here I sit, ripe for the picking, or drawing, as the case may be. We're having a blood drive today on campus and I scheduled my "draw" for 12:30 but the busses are chock full o'donors so I'm going back later this afternoon. I'm anxious about donating too, which is causing my blood pressure to rise as I wait. I'm not wiggy over needles or anything like that, but I am nervous about passing out or being woozy afterwards. As I get older, I notice that medical procedures have an ill effect on my psyche.

Case in point. After Christmas this past year, I had Stella removed. Stella was this rather large ganglion cyst that took up residence on my left wrist. Large is an understatement. Stella used to come and go but within the last year of her life, she grew to enormous proportions. Look down at your wrist. Yes, right now. Imagine a golf ball under the skin on the top of your wrist. That's just about as big as Stella got. She got so big we had to name her. And what a conversation piece she was! I used to freak my boss out with her all the time. I'd simply bend my wrist, exploiting Stella as best I could, and just stick her in Techtard's doorway, no body, no face, just my hand and Stella. Techtard would scream in horror. Stella was my conjoined twin. My wrist cyst. My friend.

I finally decided it was time for her to go when I caught some students staring at her from across my desk. The look on their faces was hilarious. Shock, horror, disgust, humor, it was all there. I realized my conversation piece was becoming a spectacle so I visited my orthopaedic surgeon. Even he was in awe of Stella's proportions. Apparently she had rooted deep down and it was going to take a healthy amount of digging to remove her.

So on December 29, 2004, Stella was removed. I woke up in the middle of the procedure and remember asking the doctor if he would save Stella in a jar for Techtard. I was quickly given more medication to knock me out. I can't imagine why.

Three weeks later I returned to have my cast and stitches removed. What an ordeal that became. The physical therapist began by cutting off my cast, then unwrapping some bandages, and as she was doing so, I was cracking jokes and making light banter, until the final bandage was removed and there was this black and blue scar from where Stella once resided.

I passed out. And when I came to, I started sobbing.

I was deformed! Scarred! UGLY! It was one of the strangest feelings ever to overcome me. I felt so violated and disfigured. And all it was was a one inch incision! How pathetic was I?

So with good reason I sit here stewing over what is going to happen to me once I'm finished giving blood. I don't know when I became such a lightweight. Giving birth was easy. I never felt a labor pain. Labor was induced and because I have some freaky spinal curvature, I was poked a dozen times in the lower back before receiving my epidural. Once the line was in, I was juiced up for about 12 hours. I never felt a thing, until, of course, the damn thing wore off and not only did it feel like my innards were now outtards, I had this wicked back pain that felt like, well, being poked a dozen times with a 6 inch needle. Birth seemed like a picnic compared to my Stella ordeal.

I'll keep you posted, my three faithful readers, on how I weather the blood storm. As with many aspects of my life, I'm sure there will be something of epic comedic proportions to report on. Funny stuff finds me, no matter where I am. Usually it lands in the form of a ketchup stain on my shirt, showcased nicely by my shelf (aka big bazoongas).

It never fails.

Whining, Will Robinson. Whining!

2005-09-12T14:37:00.000-05:00

Imagine this.

You've been running uphill for about 45 minutes. A steady climb, nothing too steep, just consistent uphill running, and your body is tiring, quickly. You're handed a cup of water every 100 yards or so, which you graciously accept. But your body is revolting against you. You feel the cramping start to begin in your abdomen. You double over in pain. Feel it? You can't stand upright. The pain moves to your lower back. You're crippled.

Guys, this is what the first few days of our periods have in store for us. At this moment, I can hardly sit upright. It feels like a small demon has set up shop in my abdomen and he's having a midget-throwing party against my lower abdomen walls. When I stand, there is an audible groan that erupts. No amount of medication (legally) subsides the pain. It sucks. Tenfolds Five.

I know my blogging has been sparce due to time restrictions and I actually feel a bit guilty for blogging about something perceived as so trivial. But damn it, I'm in pain and the world should know about it. Menstrual cramps are no joking matter. They turn normally jovial women into seething monsters.

Unless you've got a heating pad and a shot of Chivas, stay the hell away.

Shimmy and a shake, uh huh

2005-09-12T13:28:00.000-05:00

We bring the bump to the grind, uh huh...

These are just a few lines from my own personal anthem, "On Top," from the Killers. This is the track I listen to when I need to psych myself up, usually while driving to work. It gives me a sliver of gumption for the day. Unfortunately, I'm killing any good vibe I'm having by listening to X&Y from Coldplay.

One word: Melancholy.

It's such an outstanding CD though, despite it's tendency to bring me down - and surprisingly, that's a good thing. I'm a pretty high strung person (not to be confused with bipolar) and when I get wound up, X&Y is just the ticket to soothe me back into reality. I started out my morning pretty hyped up about some projects, so I popped in X&Y and it lulled me down to a mood that's much more productive and clear thinking.

But wow, it can be heavy. And I'm kind of bumming because a good friend is hurting and there is not a whole lot that can be done from my end, so I feel like I'm wallowing in some bad sea of garb and guck. I should probably yank X&Y out and replace it with a shimmy and a shake.

Bring the bump to the grind, uh huh.

Bungee Bull Wrangler

2005-09-07T11:43:00.000-05:00

Some days I can't believe I get paid to do some of the things I do. Other days, I believe I don't get paid enough. Today is the former. Ride'em cowboy!

As part of our "welcome back to school" extravaganza, we're hosting a wellness event today. I just finished pulling the bungee cord on the Bungee Bull Ride and let me tell you, it's a miracle that I can even type. Looking at my right hand, I'm counting six, no wait, seven blisters that are forming as I write this. My hands are swollen and sore, blistered and battered, but it was a good time yanking on that cord and watching the students ride - and fall.

I'm one of those people who laugh when other people fall. I am especially fond of America's Funniest Home Videos when they showcase that segment called 30 Falls in 30 Seconds or something like that. Seeing people fall is just hilarious. Yeah, yeah, say what you will, but I also laugh like crazy when I fall. I can't help it, it's just funny.

So today I worked the bungee bull while watching students climb the rock wall, jump on the 30 foot bungee trampoline and fall off the rotating ladder climb. Yesterday I wore a straw hat, sold burgers and dogs and pimped carnival games. Tomorrow I'll be a dealer in a Texas Hold'em Tournament. And Friday, well, we're hosting an all day concert on the campus grounds. These are the good days. Next week, it's back to reality. And deadlines. And stress. But blister-free!

Photoshop Phlunky

2005-09-02T15:20:00.000-05:00

I went to Cincy yesterday for an all-day conference for Photoshop users. I was a bit disappointed that it wasn't a hands-on conference and that we were forced to watch demonstrations on a very poor lit screen in a sometimes noisy conference center ballroom - and that there was no food for grazing, not even stale danishes. Other than that, it wasn't bad and I witnessed some very cool bling, and the coffee was damn good.

But today, I'm frustrated and sad that I can't put all of this really cool stuff to use. If you've never used Photoshop, count your uncreative blessings because holy mother of God, it's a difficult program to master. But if you got skeeeeelz in Photoshop, I bow before your greatness. I'll never look at a magazine cover the same way again.

I wish I had the time to mess around and perfect my abilities in Photoshop. I could be putting out some really stellar work, but it takes time to learn this program, and it takes a lot of practice to get it right, neither of which I am able to do right now. I'm equating this scenario to buying a really fabulous pair of boots in the spring. You find this smashing pair of Italian leather boots that will look choice with your favorite fall skirt, but it's spring and you can't wear them yet. So you have to wait.

Looks like I'm going to have to wait on Photoshop. Grrrrrrrrr. But hey, fall is coming!

I'm down on humanity today

2005-08-31T09:15:00.000-05:00

No fluff. A bare bones approach to this post. I'm down on humanity today.

As a nation, we have no survival skills. We are creatures of comfort. And in a time when a great number of our countrymen are suffering, I'm finding myself pissed off at how we deal and cope.

Granted, I'm sitting in a comfortable chair, with coffee, good music playing, electricity and toilet paper readily available, so when those affected by Katrina stumble across this post a year from now, they can say, "You stupid bitch, you have no idea what we went through." They are right, I can't fathom what they are dealing with. My heart is heavy today, and I am sad.

And angry. Maybe I'm angry because I feel helpless, so in turn, I'll open my wallet and give because I can afford to do so. However, I think I'd be a better person if I left my home for a few weeks and went down there to help because I need that kind of reality check. Or maybe I'm angry because I see looting on the news.

I stepped back and assessed the situation. Never having lived in a major city, I don't truly comprehend what it's like to not own transportation. So for those individuals who didn't heed the warnings and decided to stay in the city because they couldn't afford transportation out, or for whatever reason, I feel for you. Now you're stuck in a city that is under water and you have nothing. So you go into the local Wal-Mart and take whatever you can. I guess if I was in your situation, I would too, because basic survival skills have kicked in.

But if you're a wearing a shirt that says, "Bad Girls Suck, Good Girls Swallow" and you have your cart full of electronics and other nonessential items, I hope you rot in hell. When you passed by the medications and water for the $39.74 boom box, and you find yourself with nothing to eat and dehydrated, good luck trying to hock that boom box for something that could possibly sustain your life.

I'm done writing now. Like I said, I'm down on humanity today.

DMB Shizzle

2005-08-25T16:14:00.001-05:00

Check out this article from the Onion. Too good for words.

Dave Matthews Not That Into Himself Anymore

The World is not your Ashtray

2005-08-25T14:57:00.000-05:00

I don't get on a soapbox very often, because frankly, I try to mind my own business. Occasionally I succumb to the temptation of gossip because, well, it's fun, and I'm a mean girl.

Today I'm stepping out of my element. I get annoyed with people who preach their opinions as if what they say is the "end all, be all." Hooray, I'm happy you have an opinion! Yes, I'm polite and I listen! But secretly I'm saying STFU in my head and finding ways in which to leave your sorry ass in mid-sentence. That being said, you have my permission to stop reading this gripe-post at your convenience, no skirtation necessary. (I think I just made up a new word.)

Smokers, the world is not your ashtray. Yes, you are driving a new 2005 model of Car and Driver's latest "Best Of" series, and yes, an ashtray coming standard in a vehicle is a thing of the past, but that does not give you the right to clog our thoroughfares and sidewalks with cigarette butts. Butts = Asses. Get it? Please do us all a favor. Go to the local KMart or the White-Trash-24-Hour-Open-For-Billy-Business-Megaconglomerate and purchase yourself a $4.99 car ashtray that will fit nicely in one of the 18 cup holders you now possess.

Hey, I'm all for smoker's rights. Smoke away. Suck hard on that little white stick, it's your right. Just put your butts where they belong, and NOT FLICKED OUT YOUR CAR WINDOW. That just pisses me off. It's rude, not to mention nasty. It wasn't long ago that some joker in his POS sports car flicked his butt out his window and it hit my passenger's side window. Amazing, sure, there were some g-forces at work there, but my point is, what if that window was open? What if someone was sitting there? You effin asshole.

Warning, warning, something disgusting this way comes. You may want to stop reading NOW.

I started to think long and hard about this cigarette dilemma, and contemplated what might be considered as foul and nasty as butts being tossed haphazzardly across our nation. I decided that the next time some nutsack tosses his butt out the window, I'm going to follow him until he parks, and then casually toss my used tampon out my window, just to see his reaction. And I hope it lands on his car, coagulating nicely on his paint job. I bet a riot will ensue. Seriously, what's the difference? I surely don't want to clog up my cupholder/ashtray/changeholder with used tampons, so I'll just toss them out the window. I swear people, I'm this close. This close!

There's a simple solution. Don't litter. I'll keep my used tampons where they belong as long as you properly dispose of your butts. We'll all be one big happy family living in harmony, safeguarding one more avenue for the government to steal our DNA.

Rant finished.

Booger Eaters

2005-08-24T16:05:00.000-05:00

My next door neighbors moved in almost a year ago. They are Kansas homegrowns. Having been born and raised in Ohio, I was thrilled to have some "midwestern/southern culture" in the neighborhood. Boy did I get it. Enter Cody and Lori.

I'm writing a book about my experiences living next door to Cody. I have a whole list of codyisms that I've collected over the last several months. Don't get me wrong, this isn't a Cody bashfest, this is written with nothing but admiration and respect. Cody and Lori are great friends. Good, honest, cornfed people.

Cody and Lori came here from Texas, having spent a year in Dallas. Lori, although born in Kansas, grew up in Oklahoma, and Cody, bless his heart, didn't venture much out of Podunktown, Kansas. His hometown has one intersection and about 50 people. And - he has a vocabulary all his own.

Cody claims to be a "real cowboy," not one of them thar booger eaters. Yes, I said booger eaters. According to Cody, booger eaters are guys who claim to be cowboys but don't really fit the true cowboy definition. As defined by dictionary.com, a cowboy is "a hired man, especially in the western United States, who tends cattle and performs many of his duties on horseback. Also called cowman, cowpoke, cowpuncher, also called regionally buckaroo, vaquero or waddy." Apparently wearing a hat and some Wrangler jeans won't get you into the Cowboy Hall of Fame.

In Ohio, we don't get many cowboys, and if we do, they are, for sure, booger eaters.

Today, I saw the ultimate booger eater truck. It was this gargantuan Ford truck. How did I know it was a Ford truck, you ask? Well, by God, it must have had 20 stickers in the windows pimping the fact that this truck was a Ford truck. I wasn't able to get a good look at the driver because the sun was glaring off his windshield. However, I'm picturing a Toby Keith wannabe because I caught a glance of his white rolled-brimmed cowboy hat. I also thought I faintly heard the words "I'm a Ford truck man," but I could be mistaken. But what really gave away the fact that this was, indeed, a booger eater, was the, not one, but TWO (thatsalatta commas) longhorn steer skulls gracing the front of his Ford truck grill, much like this one:

Shock and awe, people, shock and awe. You just don't see sights like this in suburban Ohio. Yeah, we're hickish and all with our soybean and dairy farms, but wowza, this was a beaut. The first thing out of my mouth was, "Holy shit, look at that booger eater." The second thing out of my mouth was, "Holy shit, now I sound like Cody." I'm not sure which was worse.

This individual did the booger eating world justice. He was an excellent specimen. For a split second I wished the light I was approaching would have turned red so that I would have been forced to stop and gaze at the fine craftmanship of this booger eater and his trusty Ford steed.

And once more, I'm reminded that I simply must replenish the batteries in my digital camera and to carry it with me at all times.

Bus Stop Follies

2005-08-24T08:18:00.001-05:00

First, I need coffee. Clandestine pixies, vivify me!

Ok I'm back, sufficiently caffeinated.

So today is the first day of school. Believe me, it couldn't have come at a better time. Summertime, with my husband who is a teacher and summers off, and my 7 year old son, who is as stubborn as his father, is, how should I put this? It's a bit much. By August, we're all ready to kill one another. Suffice it to say, there's a little too much quality family time going on. We all need a break from each other. Thankfully, school started for my husband yesterday, and started for my son today. Hallelujah!

The bus is due at the corner of our street around 8:25. Joonya was geeked and wanted to get there early so we arrived around 8:15. Since we were early, we were able to enjoy a few minutes of fun chit-chat and warm mom/son kind of stuff.

Then the MILFs arrived. In full Edie Britt attire.

One was dressed as though her Harley Davidson riding boyfriend was about to take her to work in the red light district. The other, while very sweet and cute, was dressed like an 18 year old with her low rise hip hugger jeans and midriff tshirt, and could actually pull it off.

Then there was me. Since tonight we have an orientation event, I was dressed in what we call our "uniform". Khakis, logo polo and sneakers. I looked pretty darn dumpy, and mom-like. It was a humbling experience. And I was pissed because the bus was 20 minutes late, thus, dragging out this ordeal.

The best part of the morning was watching the man pigs drive by. Hey, I can't fault the male gender for wanting to ogle over the hunnies on the corner. However, have some tact when doing so. I mean, a couple of times, they were gawking with such wild abandon that they easily could have lost control of their cars and plowed into the three 2nd graders who were innocently waiting for the bus. And to the two guys who drove the garbage truck by four times, don't think it went unnoticed. I hope you have neck pain for the next three days.

Yeah, say what's on your mind. Indeed I was experiencing pangs of jealousy over these women. I sure as hell don't look like that. Clearly, it was a desperate housewives moment. But, I took the high road and marveled at my son who was chattering away like nobody's business, goofing off and making fart noises in his armpit. Now that's what I'm talking about. I couldn't have been more proud.

Blogger's Block leads to Name JMR's Car!

2005-08-22T15:32:00.001-05:00

Crikey, I have a good case of blogger's block. I have nothing to write about. Well, I do, but it involves work and having been taught proper blogging etiquette by none other than Bimmergeek, I'm sitting here with nothing to write about.

Nothing interesting, that is.

My weekend was drab. I spent a good majority of it battling a migraine, and sadly, the migraine won. Although, before the migraine squatted, I did manage to get my Trailblazer all spankin' clean. That's such a good feeling. I love having a clean car. It even smells clean, which is no small feat. At any given moment there is the faint aroma of melted crayons, smushed Bugles, stale spilled coffee and moldy baseball cleats. Put that all together and you've got yourself one foppish smelling automobile. I am proud to say, however, that is no longer the case. It smells jim-dandy right now. Just the right concoction of Armor All and carpet cleaner, with the emphasis on the carpet cleaner. Armor All doesn't smell all that great, but my leather seats are loving it. Techtard was in my truck today when we went to lunch. She was sliding all over the place. That made for interesting conversation, none of which is proper for this family friendly blog. (chortle)

Are there others who covet thy automobile as their sanctuary? I sure as hell do. It's my cocoon, my happy place, my chariot. Yeah, I spent $47.00 filling her up this morning, but do I care? Not one bit. She treats me like the queen that I am. She's my armor and she doesn't criticize my smashing singing voice.

And I just realized she needs a name. I had one car I named Sporty Boy, but I've never named my Trailblazer. Ok, I'll need some assitance, folks. Let's play "Name JMR's Car." Here's what you need to know to form an educated opinion:

2003 Chevy Trailblazer LTZ, red with silver trim, pimped out with all the amenities including heated leather seats, which, I must say, my winter ass loves. Not so much in the summer when my chucklehead husband turns them on unbeknownst to me. Not cool, especially when I'm leaving a thin layer of burnt skin behind on the seat. But I've gotten off track.

Name my car. One name I know for sure is off limits, so please, please, Techtard and Co., don't go there. I beg all of you. Other than that, anything is fair game, subject to my approval, of course.

Songs for Shitbags

2005-08-18T15:44:00.000-05:00

This post will cover several subjects, so I apologize up front. I first want to make a submission to my blog feature - If I Had My Own Theme Music. Today's selection is "Smile Like You Mean It" by the Killers. This little diddy goes out to all the people on this planet who don't exercise proper shitbag etiquette. If you're going to be a shitbag, at least LOOK like a pleasant person while doing so, hence, Smile Like You Mean It. Is my point lost? I'm sure it is. And mostly on the shitbags. Oy.

Subject 2: How funny is this? If you haven't noticed, I take an unusual sense of pride when posting to my blog. I'll waste precious time scouring the Net looking for images that mimic my topics of discussion. If I can't find a suitable image, I make one myself. Call me crazy, but I totally dig doing this. I'm a creative creature by nature. It adds to the visual appeal of my blog and breaks up the text. So with today's post theme being shitbags, I googled shitbag. I love getting the results. Typically, the first images are of some sort of porn because porn has cornered the market on every conceivable searchable key word out there. Need an image of a cracker? Here, have some porn. Looking for a picture of a garden in full bloom? Have a little more porn. You get my point. This shitbag image was a total delight. I didn't expect it and I haven't done anything to doctor it up. What you see is what you get. And I love it.

Subject 3: I completely forgot what else I wanted to talk about. Looks like I need to go drink a little Shitbag wine.

Today's Lunch: Two sugar cookies and a granola bar

2005-08-16T12:08:00.000-05:00

Where it's at!
I got two sugar cookies and a granola bar
Where it's at!
I got two sugar cookies and a granola bar
Where it's at!
I got two sugar cookies and a granola bar
Where it's at!
[robot vocal effect] I got two sugar cookies and a granola bar
Take me home in my elevator bones!

What I'm listening to these days

2005-08-16T08:50:00.000-05:00

I decided to use the $50 Best Buy gift card I got for Christmas and went old school, I actually bought three CDs. Shocking, I know, but I'm not yet wired for ripping stuff off online. Here's where Techtard and I see eye to eye. Or tard to tard. I'm not savvy. I still have a drawer full of cassette tapes, and nothing to play them with. Yes, I'm ashamed, as I should be.

I'm totally crushing over these CDs.

The Killers remind me of when I was toying with the whole punk scene back in the early 80s. Even then, I was old school, not getting into the scene until long after it reached it's peak. Let just say I like to mull things over before making a decision. Sometimes it takes years. At least this time I figured it out before I turned 40, so I'm still cool. (snicker)

An old bud of mine was Better Than Ezra's biggest fan, and now I see why. Good tunes for good people. And museum curators. I'm listening to them now as I blog.

Is Gwyneth Paltrow the Yoko Ono of Coldplay? I don't know, but I finally got over my problem with her hooking up with Chris Martin. I actually held it against the band. It's really stupid, I know. I get all miffed when something I hold in high regard goes Hollywood. I made the assumption that Coldplay went Hollywood, and even if they did, so what? Their music is still fabulous. And I really have nothing against Paltrow. I just put myself in a snit over it. Funny how that happens. I denied myself months of good music over something as silly as that.

Now I better go. I'm behind on reading People and Us Weekly.

Too much of a good thing

2005-08-15T13:03:00.000-05:00

Holy coffee bean, Batman! Looks like I went a little overboard on the caffeine intake this morning and now I'm jittery and edgy. I thought I was being proactive with my morning mainline, but apparently I let it flow too vigorously. Now I'm twitchy. And bitchy. And I'm a poet and I didn't even know it.

Bah ha ha ha ha, I am my own best audience.

Out of Blogmission

2005-08-11T17:40:00.000-05:00

I won't be around for a few days. Ahmina eat my weight in chocolate at the Sweetest Place on Earth. See you on the other side of the Reeses Cup.

Mahoning Valley Darling and 50 Wack Hairstyles

2005-08-11T16:42:00.000-05:00

I picked this article up from Exclamation Mark and I was ever so pleased to see that Jimmy T made the list. And at slot 13. How appropriate. I'll never fully understand the voters in Mahoning County. What in tarnation were you people thinking??? But that's not what I'm here to promote.

Regardless if you love or hate James Traficant, this Phatphree site is fun for the masses. A while back, Techtard bought me these magnets for my desk. Let me just say this. To all you Mudflaps, Squirrel Pelts, Kentucky Waterfalls, Shorty Longbacks and Tennessee Top Hats, the "business in the front, party in the back" era has ended. For the love of God and Country, please cut your hair.

Enjoy folks.

The 50 Worst Hairstyles of All Time

Attitude

2005-08-11T14:55:00.000-05:00

Enough said.

Ahmina and SONSO!

2005-08-11T10:43:00.001-05:00

Having just visited Techtard's site again, I realized that the Techtard uses many of our silly interpretations of words and I feel I must do justice to our region by explaining them.

Today's first word lesson is "ahmina".

No, you won't find it in the dictionary but it does exist, at least in Ohio where it's spoken nearly every second.

Ahmina is how we say "I'm going to." You pronounce it like this = ah-meh-na. For example:

Ahmina pick up Joonya from school and then ahmina stop at the store.

The second word lesson is "SONSO." It can be capped or uncapped, depending on your passion for using the word at the time.

Sonso is simply short for "sons of bitches"
pronounced like sunz-a-bitches
and eventually shortened to Sonso
pronounced like sun-zoh

More word explanations forthcoming.

Hell Reason #136

2005-08-11T08:35:00.000-05:00

Driftwood

Shitmouth

Pilgrim

These are nicknames we've given a few people we know.

Am I proud of this? No.

Is it wrong? You bet it is.

Do I care? Not really.

This is one of the many, many reasons why I'm going to hell.

JMR's Own Theme Music

2005-08-10T16:05:00.001-05:00

Yeah, I stole this idea from the ING commercials...

Woman: "What's that?"
Man: "That's ING."
Woman: "I know what ING is, but what is that?"
Man: "Oh, that's a guy with his own theme music."

If I Had My Own Theme Music is a new feature on my blog. As I hear music that relates to my mood, personality, disposition, insanity, what have you, I'll update the title under this category.

Today's Theme Music choice is Better Than Ezra's It's Only Natural. I just picked up Before The Robots, Ezra's newest CD, and while listening, I was immediately drawn to this song. It's so damn funky and fun. It's a nice distraction from the other songs, which are really good, don't get me wrong, but this one stands out because of it's trippy style. Reminds me of some of the early 70s songs you'd hear on the static ridden AM/FM radio while riding in Dad's Chevy Caprice Classic station wagon in the rear seat facing the other direction.

Good times, people, good times.

Light and Fluffy

2005-08-09T12:00:00.000-05:00

Props to Yoplait for it's Key Lime Pie Whips! yogurt. Those little 4 oz. buggers are good eatin'! My suggestion to the company is to package it in half gallon containers, much like you'd find in ice cream. Why? Because I would get the same satisfaction consuming a half gallon of Whips! as I would ice cream. Ladies, we've all been there, especially when Aunt Flo visits each month. We'd be much better off consuming a half gallon of Whips! over a half gallon of ice cream, right? Or would I want to consume a half gallon of Whips! and a half gallon of ice cream and an industrial sized Hershey's with Almonds and...

Yoplait, hear my cries!