Shredded Cheese: Stickier Than You Thought

Someone new and important started working at my office the other day. The only reason I know this is that our group took this person out to lunch. It wasn't a group decision. The Boss came over and told us we were all going to lunch with this person.

Um. ok.

I'm accustomed to watching our new hires tentatively go to lunch on their own for months before they hook up socially with another co-worker. We generally don't do the "hey, welcome and get to know us better" thing.

How much do I love lunches with co-workers (who don't know me) and bosses? I'd rather jump in the ocean with jeans on, and then wear wet, sand filled pants all day. Granted, it's been a good 15 years since I've experienced said wet sandy pants discomfort, but I'm telling you it would be better than these lunches.

So let me break down how not well this lunch session went:

1. There were so many people in our group, we got split up into two tables. I got stuck at the table with the boss and two other attorneys I work for. The new person we were supposed to be welcoming DIDN'T EVEN GET TO MEET THEIR NEW BOSS. Instead, that person got to sit with all the other people in our group, the very people in our group that DO know me, and I wouldn't be uncomfortable lunching with.

2. My boss involuntarily impersonated Scott Ian of Anthrax. With cheese.
Let me explain what I mean. If you don't know who Scott Ian is, try clicking this link -
http://images.google.com/images?q=scott+ian&hl=en

Do you see that beardie type thing hanging off of Mr. Ian's chin? Ok, now imagine my Boss - a distinguished business type person, dressed in a suit, more hair on his head and a Scott Ian beard of SHREDDED CHEESE. He had taken a bite out of his food, and the cheese, at least 3 shreds of it, had attached themselves to his chin and the free ends were waving around as he spoke of important business type things.

I was sitting next to him, and watched as the cheese flapped around in the direction of the other two attorneys at the table. Both of those attorneys were sitting across from him, so I kept shooting the one directly across from him the "OMG YOU SEE THAT - I know you see that - it's your duty to tell him he's RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!" look.

This particular attorney gave me the "No way in hell am I doing that. I'm not telling him, YOU tell him." look back.

Realizing I was about to lose a silent eyefight with an attorney, and in serious danger of laughing out loud at my Boss With Cheese On, I waited for the next available pause in conversation and elbowed the Boss while making the international "go like this" napkin signal.

The Boss shed his cheese and I whispered "kill me" into my diet coke. Approximately an hour later I was back at my desk wishing I had played hookie that day and been forced to wear jeans into the ocean.

Flip My Switch

So last night I got the bright idea to vacuum the house. Mr. Zoom was working late, and I had a case of the zooms.

Who knew electricity systems had limits? Apparently running the t.v., lights, a fan and the vacuum cleaner all at one time is a little much for the old girl. The house, not me.

Luckily, I only took out about 1/3 of the house. Unfortunately that 1/3 was the computer room. Mr. Zoom still had work to do and mistakenly believed that he could do it "remotely" from home. That was before I was left unattended in said home playing Enron VP.

When he drove up I met him out in the garage with the words every tired husband wants to hear: "Um...sweetie...do you remember where the fuse box is?"

We got a flashlight and made the trip around the side of the house. Only problem was, lots of spiders were now living on that side of the house and had made quite an impressive blanket of web over the switches.

Lots of now ANGRY spiders, since Mr. Zoom and I just walked through their webs and weren't about to stick around and be dinner.

I started to get the wibblies and then I spied one of the biggest spiders I've ever seen hanging out in his web. Right on the corner of the house we needed to be at.

I ran past Mr. Zoom and into the house - making squeaky noises, and then I pointed and said "SPIDER!" Mr. Zoom is prettty used to this, so he wasn't phased. Not until he saw the spider himself. I was trying to shake that "WEBS ALL OVER ME!" sensation.

Then I hear: "CHRIST that's a big spider." "Do me a favor, and go get the broom."

I found some Raid and passed that to him, along with a broom that I will probably now burn. I wouldn't come out of the house. I just gave him the stuff and practically slammed the screen door shut again.

Mr. Zoom then said "OH GREAT! It's a Black Widow! It's turned around now so I can see it's red mark."

Not that I could hear anything. I was too busy making the "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuaiaaaiiiieeeeeeeeee" noise while hiding in the house behind the screen door. You'd think I could at least hold the flashlight for him so he could have his hands free to deal with MY MESS. No, instead I busied myself with the "ew a spider" dance until it was over. Mr. Zoom calls it my "1950's housewife reaction."

He finally found and flipped the thingie that I had angered in my quest for simultaneous t.v., lights, fans and cleanliness.

You might be able to imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning and he hadn't moved me out to the curb in my jammies. Or listed me on Craiglist as "free to home, any home...it doesn't really even have to be a home."

What Do You Mean It's Leafs not Leaves?

"My" team was out of the playoffs in the...er...I think second round. I don't pay attention all that well to the way this Stanley Cup thing works.

I love hockey because I get to watch grown men windmill girl fight each other over pretty much nothing. Well, nothing until one team touches the other team's goalie. Then it's more of a righting of the unbalance in the world.

Before Mr. Zoom came along, I would occasionally go to an ice hockey game with friends. I'd watch the fighting and drink my beer - never bothering to learn teams, rules, or anything like that.

Now that Mr. Zoom is here I have started to learn a little bit about the game. Short handed goals, icing (still gets me sometimes), hat trick, power play, the fact that they are PERIODS not QUARTERS or HALVES.

Mr. Zoom's favorite team is the Colorado Avalanche. He was actually born there so I guess he goes about this favorite team thing the traditional way.

My team is the Wrenches. The tools. Ok, so the official name is New Jersey Devils. I've never been to NJ, nor do I know anything about the team. What happened was, one year Mr. Zoom and I were watching a game at home. I didn't have my glasses on. I stupidly said "so those guys, the wrenches..." Giggles from Mr. Zoom. "WHAT?! It looks like wrenches on their jerseys...." Mr. Zoom clarifies things. "OOOOOOoooh. Devils. That's supposed to be symbolic of devils. Ok, but I like mine better."

That's the way I get myself a hockey team to root for.

The Sweater Won The Fight This Morning

To all the bloggers I link to, and even some I don't link but try to read every day: I'm still reading your stuff, I just can't comment on it every time I do. Also, I don't get to respond to any comments left here as often as I'd like.

I can only update my little jibber jabber space from the office, I cannot view it or make/read comments. I can't view or make comments on any of YOUR blogs, either.

Stupid funproof work internet.

Here's what I have to work with. Approximately 5 minutes in the morning before I run out the door late to work (again). And that's only if I haven't had a clothes fight. And I'm sure you can all guess how often that isn't.

I sometimes have a while after work. Thing is, I've got season 3 of Scrubs on dvd. And while I like all of you, I love Scrubs. So between hockey play off games, and re-watching every episode of Scrubs - you are all better at math than I am so there you go.

That's my incredibly inept way of telling you all that while I don't get to make comments all the time, I'm still reading. And even if I don't get to comment back to you when you leave a comment here, I still appreciate you.

Race to Register Ends in Video

I dislike Kohls. I hate WalMart. I love Target.

I only go to Kohls when I need something I can't find at Target. Usually, that is some kind of cheap jewelry to wear at some event I need to look "coordinated" at. Weddings, etc.

Kohls has the largest selection of cheap bling I have ever seen. It's like the holy grail of crappy jewelry, surrounded on all sides by items that - even if you wanted to purchase - you could never actually pick up and take to the register. At least you wouldn't want to.

Why? Because Kohls ALWAYS looks like it hosted a field trip of difficult, unsupervised school children just hours before you enter the store. Shelves are half empty. They are only half empty because the items that ARE there don't belong there. All of the merchandise is either on the floor, or strewn about the racks/shelves in random places as if feral humans (nod to Scaggsville) have tried to construct nests - and subsequently abandoned them.

I don't fancy myself a snooty shopper, but I'd like to at least have the illusion that the item I'm buying hasn't been crumpled, folded, drop kicked or drooled on more than once. Being able to find just one of the item on the shelf/hanger (the intended shelf/hanger) will do that for me.

Last week I found myself in the "have to go to Kohls" place. I went, found the crappy jewelry I needed, and proceeded to the one register in about 20 that had a person working it. I was lucky, nobody was in line yet.

When I got to the main aisle, an older man with a cart FULL of women's clothes saw that I was headed to the same register he was. I swear to you, that man gathered up every ounce of old man gusto (yes, I said gusto) he had and sprinted to the register with his cart in order to get there before I could. In fact, I dare say he used a bit of future old man gusto just to beat me there.

And I was annoyed. I had exactly one $8.00 item in my hand. Even if he didn't see that I had only one thing, he had to have noticed I didn't have a cart full of - anything, so he could have safely let me go ahead of him and not been out more than 30 seconds.

Then the real fun began.

He had the 40 or so items of women's clothing arranged by size. He explained to the register woman that he would most likely be bringing a lot of them back, so could she please ring them up in groups of "size"? Easier for returns, you know.

The register lady had already rung up 3 of these items, and had to void them out, and start over. Per his request. This went on for a good 2 minutes.

That's when I pulled out the camera and pointed the video function at the object of my grr. That would be the highly underwhelming video linked below. At one point, you can see me stick my hand in front of the camera with my bling as an illustration: "I HAVE ONE STUPID ITEM, and he has piles of crap. He purposely raced me to the register for this."

Knowing my luck, the next time I need bling I'll be forced to stand in line behind this guy while he returns stuff. I better take a sandwich.

Check this out:

Frustration Dealer - Custom videocodes by MyWynk

Fuzzy Logic

Last night Mr. Zoom was watching the first X-Men movie on cable. During that show, they showed clips from the new X-Men movie. This caused Mr. Zoom to say:

"If you had wings, what in the world would possess you to get rid of them?!"

And forever striving to be helpful AND logical, I said:

"Maybe because you'd like to try a Red Bull once in a while?"

Which leads me to Lost. The season head exploder finale is on tonight. If you take that there example above and apply it to me trying to watch just one episode of Lost ...I'm sure you can deduce how it might make Mr. Zoom fear the experience.

The first season was great. Because while it was frustrating to have NO answers - the show was moving slow enough that even I thought I had a chance at catching some of the clues/symbolism/etc. Then comes season two - and I feel like all the clues are flying at me like lawn fertilizer pellets. Didn't everyone have siblings who chased them around with one of those contraptions screaming "It's POO!"

No?

Ok, well - I think you get the idea anyway.

Who Is That Monkey? Is That a Football?

I must say, the Zooms had themselves a myspace worthy weekend, only we didn't take pictures. I wouldn't have been able to post them, even if I had. And we aren't on myspace. But if we were...

I will say that 4 Stellas, one Lemon Drop shot and countless random filler beers gave me one hell of an evil hangover on Sunday.

We began at a function at Dave and Busters Saturday afternoon. After some liquid fun, one person suggested a game called Hyperbowl. At least I think that's the name of this game. It was suggested because it seems to be the great equalizer of a group's game skill level. It doesn't matter how good you are at video games, "It's impossible to look like anything but a monkey fucking a football when playing this game."

The game console is just a big bowling ball suspended in front of you. You spin the ball and the screen shows where your efforts are taking you. Those efforts almost never take you where you want to go. Oh, and did we mention the mad noodle arm this thing hands out? The expert course (chosen by the same foolio that suggested this game in the first place) puts a good amount of tension on the ball and made us drive it uphill.

We were sweating and exhausted by frame 3. And still had a score of 0.

By the time we got home that night, the hooch analgesic was starting to wear off, or the arm pain was eating through the buzz. It was hard to tell which. I'd have felt a lot more ashamed of letting a video game work me like that, except that Mr. Zoom plays ice hockey and even HE was uncomfortable. I forgot to ask him this morning if "it still hurt."

I was too busy wondering where my weekend went. And whether or not we were going to need an attorney.

You Mean He's Not Trying To Hide?

One of my newer co-workers is a college student. She is one of my favorite people in the world, because she has a sense of humor I can very much relate to. Let's call her Ms. Sparkle.

While she wants to be an engineer, she has developed quite an interest in law firm "stuff". Whenever she has a question, she asks someone to explain how/why/what to her.

One day my attorneys were handling a deposition here in our office, which was being videotaped. Ms. Sparkle came to me with a confused look. She wanted to know:

"There's that screen in the window of the conference room so you can't see the person they are interviewing. But how in the world do they expect him to remain anonymous if he just keeps walking around the office talking on his cell phone during breaks? He just walks around, in and out of the room without covering up his identity!!"

Oh, how it killed me to explain to her that it was not nearly THAT exciting. That screen in the window is just so that the video guys can get a well lit session, and so that the video doesn't pick up office activity in the background.

I further explained that some people think it's fun to walk past the deposition room and try and make the person from our office stuck in there laugh with a strategic stroll past the window and a wave/face/sign that only THEY can see. For example, at a previous job, plaintiff's counsel showed up in a light mint blue colored suit 3 days in a row. Someone nick named him blueberry sherbert. Some people made a little sign that said "going for sherbert?" and walked past the conference room with it during the deposition.

Not that I'd EVER participate in such activities.

Her question reminded me about the first time I saw a group of business men eating lunch. They all had their ties thrown over their shoulders. I had never seen that before, and I immediately thought to myself:

"It's not even windy out here. When and how did some gust of wind come out and blow all of their ties over their shoulders? And why don't they fix them?"

It wasn't until I actually saw some guy intentionally flip his tie that I realized what I'd seen that day.

Or the time I first saw laser printers. I had been accustomed to using an ink jet or *gasp* a daisy wheel printer for so long. And here's the key, there was only ONE in the whole office/school lab.

One day I came in and every two or three desks, there was this thing in between - shooting out paper - which caused me to ask OUT LOUD "What are all of these miniature copy machines doing in here?"

BIRD BOMBING UPDATE! - I was hit AGAIN by a bird today. This time a car full of women saw it happen. This time the bird landed on the ground behind me after the assault. I spun around and glared at the bird (ok, I lost it a little bit and actually growled at it). Then I saw the car full of women who witnessed it - and they looked terrified. As I told Mr. Zoom, it was as if they were watching either The Birds or they thought I was some evil being that caused wild animals to fling themselves at me - ala some horror movie de jour.

Mr. Zoom suggests a hat with a fake owl or hawk - as a deterrent to such attacks. (Where's the Shmoo when you need him?) And I'm close to going to Ace Hardware and seeing what I can find to make such a thing. Except I'll have to run the gauntlet o' bird bombings to get inside the Ace. Maybe a fake snake on my head? Too many jokes there. Too many.

"You Know I Love You, Right?"

Yesterday began with my usual trip to the coffee shop. I was on my way to my truck with my bagel and coffee, when a bird flew down and pecked me on the head.

Now, this happened to me last year. Same location, same time of year. The birds are currently nesting and this gives them super powers, apparently. Last year I got three pokes in the head by the bird, who actually landed on my head. This year my attacker simply flew by and gave me a flick in the back of my head without landing.

I turned around and tried to see where the bird went, but he was already gone. The guy walking behind me giggled at me. This caused me to say under my breath "stupid nesting birds." I also wondered if now I had a wisp of hair standing straight up where the bird had attacked.

"It figures." I thought. "I never thought this would happen to me two years in a row, I guess it's just one of those things I can now count on. That should take care of the random weird happening for this week. Now I can relax."

HAH!

Today, Big Gay MoMo (co-worker, openly gay and friend of mine - as much as someone I talk to in the office can be a "friend") approaches me as I'm walking to lunch and proceeds to have this exact conversation with me:

MoMo:"I need to tell you something."

Zoom: "Ok. What?"

MoMo: "You know I love you, right? You know I think highly of you and all."

Zoom: "....ooooh GOD NO. WHAT?! WHAT IS IT?? Am I walking around with toilet paper stuck on me somewhere that I missed?" As I flail and try to see the idiot flag I must be waving in order to draw MoMo to me at lunch...

MoMo: *astonished* "No, why do you say that?"

Zoom: "Because any time you say 'you know I love you', there's always a 'but', and it's usually quite embarrassing for me."

MoMo: "...BUT...yes, there's a but. I'm only telling you this because someone overheard me make this comment and I didn't want it to get back to you out of context. I didn't want people telling you that I talk about you behind your back. Because I don't. I'll tell you to your face."

...which is true to an extent. Big Gay MoMo will say the most outlandish things right to my face. Which is why we get a long so well. BUT, he just told me he was talking about me when I wasn't around...but it's neither here nor there (channeling my mom?). I don't worry too much about what other people say when I'm not around. If it entertains them, all the better. And I don't have to deal with it.

Zoom: "Ok, just ... let's get this over with. What am I wearing or not wearing that you see as a complete fashion disaster. Because I know you have these ideas about what I should wear, and I can't wear those. I know you are gay and you know these things - but I wouldn't be comfortable in what you would dress me in. So spill it, what's the fashion ticket today?"

MoMo: "Well, not exactly today. It's about your butt."

Zoom: "..."

MoMo: "I was saying how you are black in the butt. It's nice and big. Your pants today are showing it off, and I need you to know I like those pants. I love your butt. I'm not hitting on you or anything...well, you probably know I'm not hitting on you [um, yeah...that one's a given - unless suddenly I look like a boy]. Your butt is spectacular in those pants."

Zoom: "I have a big butt."

MoMo: "You are black in the butt."

Now, before Mr. Zoom reads this and tries to make Big Gay MoMo into a hockey puck, I have to say it's not like I felt like running home, taking a shower, burning my clothes and picking up a meth habit to drop a bunch of weight. This kind of statement out of Big MoMo is pretty common and I DO know it isn't meant to bring me down. That's not his style, at least that's what I believe.

But I will tell you that next year, or even next week, I'll take my bird dive bombings with a lot less grumbling. I'd like life to just take a teeny step backwards and go back to THAT as the bar for my weird encounters.

"Gloria Estefan Was Right...

...The Rhythim is Going to Get You". - Mr. Zoom

The most recent disclosure I've made to Mr. Zoom is how much I hate a clap track in a song. HATE IT. The band that comes to mind that I can point to as an example is the Cure. I love the Cure, but can't stand that song with the clapping in it.

And I say disclosure as if I sat around and thought about it, and decided to just share this information with him. When in reality, he has to endure certain repetitive acts of mine until we name them - i.e. "hating the clap track in any song." Disclosure then = giving my crazy a title - shorthand, if you will.

I'm also absolutely dismal with song titles and album names. I know all the songs, can sing a long when I hear them - but don't ask me to name them without the actual song playing, and even then it's not always possible. That's just my way. Which is why this discussion will not contain pointed examples. Wear it.

I also become overly agitated when an otherwise great song throws in a random "yeee haw" or guitar/drum solo. I say things like "Now why would they do that? Why would they put that in the song? It nearly makes it unlistenable! arrrrrrrr." And I say that every damn time I hear the song.

There is a band Mr. Zoom likes that I have taken to over orating the little *dink* the acoustic guitar makes. As we drive down the road, I sing along - not with lyrics, but *dink* *dink* *dink* in time with the song. Mr. Zoom just kindof laughs it off and waits for the next item to take my attention away. Sometimes I get a "You and your noises...."

While transferring my cds to the itunes library recently, I was reminded of how I thought the words to Prodigy's....crap...I have to google it to know the title...hold on..."Firestarter" were as follows:

"BIG sale BIG sale BIG sale"

instead of

"Exhale Exhale Exhale"

Which was further exacerbated by the logic in my head that said "Firestarter....sometimes stores call sales Fire Sales.....don't they?"

And I remember thinking back then, after I realized it was EXHALE...

"Why doesn't some company use their song for a commercial? Change the words Big Sale Big Sale Big Sale? How much more tidy could that be? And recently, it seems like every time I turn around a commercial has some hit from my college/high school years blaring from it. I think that means I'm getting old. I remember telling myself back in the 70's I'd know I was getting old when songs I knew started showing up on those K-Tel collections. But those don't exist anymore - or do they? Either way, I'm getting old."

And that's how I silently travel from being a 37 year old hearing a Prodigy song to checking myself (and Mr. Zoom) into a cute little senior citizen's community - in just under 60 seconds.

The Best Excuse In The World

So it seems I've discovered a get out of jail free card type excuse for my antics: "It's for a scavenger hunt."

Instantly shuts up all who inquire here.

In other news, I was completely enthralled with the little handicap parking space icon next to the word verification box in comments when I first noticed it. Problem was, when I clicked on it, I did not have my speakers on. So, there was a lot of "what the hell?"

Apparently I can't let things like that go, so the next time I tried it I guess my speakers were on. I was able to hear it call out the numbers. Giving me a creepy Lost sensation. Now that I've tested it, and realize it's a way to word verify with numbers, the world is right again.

If It's Too Loud, You Are Too Old. Cool, I'm Deaf!

Eating out these days costs more than money. Sometimes it means giving the establishment a small amount of one's hearing abilities. I'm not looking forward to inflation.

Ever go to a restaurant and find a band playing in it? I'm not talking about a bar or restaurant that is known for live music. Those are excluded from this hissyfit. I'm talking about a place that you've gone to for years, and then suddenly there's a person with a guitar, an amp and a tip jar screeching out a tune. He's not crazy, homeless or trespassing, he's been hired ON PURPOSE. There's a time and a place for live music, but my dinner/lunch isn't that place. Ever.

One of my favorite restaurants in the world recently hired such a person. This place is small. There's not enough room in there for "entertainment". I'm easily amused, and I can entertain myself - thanks. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but the music is so loud, I feel like I'm in a kind of musical trash compactor and it's only a matter of time before I lie down and just let myself be crushed.

Why, why why does live music have to be at the making my ears bleed volume? How can one little round man with one acoustic guitar require any kind of an amp in a 20ft by 80ft enclosure? I get it at live concert events - places with actual stages. But while trying to eat, I do not need to hear the Charlie Brown theme at amphitheater volume. No matter how stinking cool the tune is.

Do you people have any idea how hard it is to get food in my yap when my teeth are clenched together in that "make it stop" face? If I'm already at Hangry stage, you want food going in, not being deflected. Trust me on this.

And I know I'm not the only one who feels this way. This place is so small, people seat themselves. And every single person claws their way to a table as far away from "the band" as possible. There is always a row of empty tables directly in front of the music man.

So please, dining establishments, if you haven't in the past hired a band, don't start now. In fact, it should be illegal to change atmospheres on me unexpectedly - but I'll trust for now that you would rather take my money than have me spend it elsewhere. See how cooperative I can be?

And to those of you who perform, I'm not trying to take away your performance options. I'm all for loud, live music in those places I've come to expect it - Although I still need to know why it must be played so loud that I'd almost rather be locked in my car with crying babies.

I need a cookie.

Since I Already Offered a Vegetarian a Hot Dog...

I suppose I should re-cap Jeeber's last trip to Vegas.

We stopped on the way for some lunch, and Jeeber quickly made an issue out of the lack of napkin freedom. Here's Jeeber protesting the fact that napkins in restaurants are more closely regulated than over the counter cold medicine. We get it, Jeeber. We don't like it either - but you aren't going to win any extra napkins by smoting the employees. It's better to figure out what equasion they are using, ie. is it a bevarage ordered/napkin ratio or entree/napkin ratio and work from there.

When we finally reached our hotel, Jeeber spied a pack of Harleys that were on the River Run. We only let him get away with playing on them because we saw the owners of these bikes leave just moments before. We calculated the likelihood of our being beaten because of Jeeber's actions against the thrill of being immature, and decided to take a chance:

But of course, Jeeber had to take it too far. For the rest of the trip he told everyone who would listen "I laid down my harley on the Las Vegas Strip." Jeeber doesn't quite realize how stupid that sounds, nor did he realize "lay it down" doesn't mean "laid down on it."

Then he noticed the footprints on the beams within the ceiling of the parking structure.

He kept yammering about some inspirational poem. The one about carrying people and leaving his footprints in the sand....yawn. We told him he could stay and figure out who left what prints if he wanted, and why they are on cement and not sand, but we were hungry and needed to check in to the hotel.

Here's Jeeber showing off on the escalator at the monorail station. I didn't have the heart to tell him ascending was probably more impressive than descending - having just passed the Easter holiday and all.

Here's Jeeber taking a ride in Ka's pocket. Jeeber wanted to talk to Ka about Zoroastrianism. Jeeber is tired of people accusing him of using Zoroastrian doctrine as a basis for his teachings. We had to separate them when Jeeber kept yelling "We did not plagiarize your monotheistic faith idea or the final judgment!"

Probably the only time Jeeber kept his yap shut was while touring Vegas from Miss P's back pocket. If we ever need a Jeebersitter, I'm totally calling her.

Here's a bar we found off the strip. You can't tell, but the blurry words over the sign say "24 hrs Gaming and Clamming"

Jeeber was confused, since there was nowhere to fish for miles. Or so he thought.

Please Protest All Week

I am not politically educated. I'm guilty of the "that which doesn't affect me doesn't get my attention" type existence. I'm not necessarily proud of that, just cognizant of it.

Over the weekend I heard via the news that there is a huge protest going wherein people were asked not to go to work and not to spend money today. I do not know if it was only the immigrant workers that were supposed to do this, or the entire working world. (After posting, I will be looking up the details.)

What I do know is that my drive to work today was absolutely FABULOUS! So was obtaining my morning coffee. No lines. No crowding. No traffic on the freeway.

Insensitive as it might be, I find myself absolutely giddy with the lack of people trying to occupy the same space as me, today.

I do recognize that at some point, I will probably be inconvenienced by the protest. I actually hope that I am, so that I can realize what these people are fighting for. What I should probably be fighting for.

Until then, I am going to wrap myself in the glee that comes from being uninformed and able to drive 65 on the freeway.

Not Back Yet...

...but in the meantime, here's something to read.

"Phantoms in the Brain" by V.S. Ramachandran, M.D., PH.D.

I picked this book up at the bookstore, read the back and knew I had to have it. It's hard to explain exactly what it's about, but I'll try.

I thought we (meaning science, society, etc.) knew quite a bit about the human brain and how it works. Turns out, we know pretty much nothing. Back in 1998, when I had my very first panic attack - and doctors told me they couldn't tell me why - I just figured I was insane. In 1995, I was finally put on a series of pills, because "there's no test for what you have, we just have to experiment." I was lucky. My experiments led to a solution. Even through all of that, I still thought we pretty much knew what we could about the human brain.

WE KNOW NOTHING.

This book discusses neuroscience in a way that I can TOTALLY understand. It's dumbed down to the masses, rather than being taylored to the doctors and superbright people in this world. Poor Mr. Zoom has to endure my excited re-cap of every chapter.

The best part is, the Dr. who wrote it has taken real life patients (names, small details changed to preserve privacy) and led the reader through the brain damage and the resulting strange behaviors. Then there are simple experiments that further demonstrate how our brains work.

The case histories you are presented with in the beginning feel like you are reading about someone who has "gone insane". Apparently, in medicine, the strange cases were/are mostly written off as either insane or not worth the time to explore.

But that's just it, they aren't crazy. They are perfectly sane, intelligent people who have suffered a kind of brain injury that causes these things or actions. There's a quote in the book from Sherlock Holmes "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routines of everyday life." Stuff like that is as good as chocolate to me.

There is a down side to reading this book, however. There are times when I've come to realize that our brain is almost another "being" in our heads. It literally has a "mind" of it's own, and can make one do, say or see things that we KNOW are incorrect. And with most of these case studies, that's exactly the frustrating part for the patient and the doctor alike. They KNOW it's not right, but something is happening. And through these demonstrations, you come to see exactly how it can and does happen. It's very unsettling, at least to me, if I think about it too hard. And right about now you are probably thinking I've been doing more than chores with my time lately.

The other downside, if I can call it that, is a loss of the feeling of mysticism in the world. I'm not sure if mysticism is the word I'm looking for.... After reading this book (I'm almost done with it), there's sortof a scientific "explanation" as to why... say ... someone might have a religious experience, or someone migh have a "premonition". I don't get on the ghost/esp/mystic band wagon all too eagerly, but it was kindof nice to sometimes think that things like that beyond our explanation were out there.

That probably sounds as retarded as I think it does.

Now, the author comes right out and tells you that these ideas of his are pure theory. Nothing can be proven as fact. However, his examples are so compelling, I defy any of you with the huge knowledge out there to point out the reasons why it can't be true (other than those the author already acknowledges.)

Anyway, that's my book recommendation.

I won't be able to resume my usual stories of coffee spillage and Mr. Zoom smart alecness until at least Monday. Stay safe, everyone!

Of Course Life Got In The Way.

I'm going to be a bit scarce in the next couple of weeks. I've got a bunch of projects piling up and work is getting a little more demanding than normal.

One of these projects is loading the gagillion cds I brought to this marriage onto Mr. Zoom's itunes. So far I've managed to sully his collection with some Megadeath, Queensryche, a Barb Wire soundtrack (totally not kidding), Alien Sex Fiend, Chicasaw Mud Puppies, Muckypup, Metallica, Aerosmith, Sisters of Mercy, Kiss, Saves the Day, Love and Rockets, A Newfound Glory, Tones on Tail, Infectious Grooves, Mindless Self Indulgence, Erasure, Bauhaus, Crass, The Vandals, White Zombie, Rob Zombie, Weird Al Yankovik, Damn Yankees, Marilyn Manson, GWAR, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Pixies, Pennywise, Creed, Psi Com, Nick Cave, Prong, Guns and Roses, Lords of the New Church, X, Human Traffic soundtrack, Anthrax, Corrosion of Conformity, Misfits, Pig, Foetus, Frank Black, Virgin Prunes, Stone Roses, Underworld, Crystal Method and Slaughter. And I really can't wait until I find that digitized Warlock Pinchers song I downloaded about 3 years ago.

And these are just the bands that we didn't have in common, meaning he didn't already have them on his itunes library. Some of them he'd never heard of, some of them he had and was probably thinking "holy crap, I've now got Megadeath in my itunes."

I'm only about halfway through, and I'm super tired of wading through the piles to get to my computer every day (night, after work). I'm clumsy. I don't need obsticles to manuever when I'm already tired and cranky.

I've updated the links, so be sure to go visit those folks. They are all fun in their own way. At least I think so. Hopefully I'll still be able to check in on them myself in the next few weeks.

Pet Name Generator

Mr. Zoom and I have discovered that there is a white owl that lives in the palm tree about two houses down from us. As owls do, it only comes out at dusk or night, which makes it really hard for me to get a picture of it.

Why would I need a picture of it? Because we've decided he's OUR owl, even though he doesn't live in our yard. As if we are the only ones who notice him flying around screeching and clicking. He's just so darn cool!

So the other day Mr. Zoom asked me what we should name him. He asks me this because he knows I've got a few strange pet names in reserve that I want to name a pet. We can't actually have a dog or a cat, so we are left with whatever wanders our way and semi-stays - as well as our 9 goldfish in the pond.

The 9 fish are named: Felvis (that was supposed to be for my next cat), Mr. Limpet, Travis, Jeebus, Moby, Cleo, Abraham, Liam (Mr. Zoom's favorite name for a child) and Seamus (which I try to spell as Shamus every time).

Back to the owl.

So we went back and forth for a mintue when I said "What about SHMOO?" Mr. Zoom said "Ah, I knew it was only a matter of time before I activated the koo koo name generator!"

I said "So you never saw that cartoon? The Shmoo? I think it was on for a very short time as a Saturday morning cartoon." "He was like Casper, with no arms. I think. I don't know if he was even a ghost, but he was a white glob." He said "No. No I didn't." in a way that made me think he was sure I was making this up.

So I was then on a mission to prove that back in the 70s there was a cartoon with a character named Shmoo.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shmoo

THANK GOODNESS FOR THE INTERNET.

I'm not sure I could have convinced Mr. Zoom (or myself, for that matter) that I really had seen a cartoon with a Shmoo in it back in the 70s.

The owl's name is now Shmoo.

Just Now, I Googled Rumplestiltskin.

Mr. Zoom and I were in the car the other day when he let loose with a string of insults at some drivers around us. He turned to me after it was over and said "Are you ready for this for the rest of your life? How do you like being married to Old Man River?"

I said "...Old.Man.River? Did you just say that? Wait....wha....who is/was old man river?" And what my brian, if that's what we are going to call it, was chewing on was - Is that like Rumplestiltskin? or that character that slept for like 100 years or something and woke up to a whole new world?

Mr. Zoom said "No, Old Man River is what they call the Mississippi."

I said "OH." "...so........I'm married to a river?"

Mr. Zoom said "*sigh*. I knew the second I said that it was going to come back around like this. I just knew it."

YAY! Verbal eye roll!

I'm Just Sayin...

My Lost Theory:

Henry Gale = Kaiser Soze

My Office is Suddenly the New World and We are Indigenous Peoples

So the new soda machine arrived the other day. And it is now my most favorite office supply, ever.

This new machine fires cans of soda out of the chute at the bottom with such force, that you'd think it was actually powered by Conquistadors. Anyone making a soda selection is first led to believe that the machine will be keeping their .65 by wheezing a distressing wheeze. When adequately peeved, the customer is then shot in the foot with their icy cold refreshment of choice as it flies from the machine trebuchet style.

Angry soda. Now that's some good times.

I'd Rather Eat A Fish Taco Than Drink a Pepsi

Dear Wahoo's Fish Tacos:

Despite the fact that your official name contains "Fish Tacos", I have become addicted to your food. I love the #2 combo. Black beans, rice and two chicken tacos. CHICKEN, not fish. Ew! with the fish.

The only thing that would make me love you more would be for you to drop the contract you have with Pepsi. I hate Pepsi. I used to think Pepsi tasted like dirt. And I know what dirt tastes like thanks to two older brothers and two working parents. I now testify that Pepsi tastes a little like soap AND dirt combined. Yes, I also know what soap tastes like.

Please obtain a contract with Coca Cola. Coke. The beverage that tastes like and is, in fact, good times. You won't be sorry.

Thank you,
Zoom

My Doctor Says There's No Creme for Tag

Barry's Baghdad Blog

Ok, so BBB gave me the tagging. And thank goodness this isn't my first one. Because a little while ago I got tagged...and I didn't know what to do with/about it.

In fact, I think I answered all of the questions in the Tagger's comments. Then there was the time that I got tagged, and I think I literally forgot to respond. You know, in the .5 of a second it took me to see something else and run after it.

I think it's neat-o that people try and include me in stuff after I've demonstrated over and over again how wrong I can go with it.

So, here's my official, and hopefully less annoying (although I seriously doubt that) response to BBB's tag:

Four Jobs I've Had:

1. Telephone survey minion. Mystery Shopper for fast food chain. These were for the same company. This was the perfect job for me in high school, as I looked like a punk rock trainwreck.

2. Planogram team at Target. I also worked a cash register for exactly 4 minutes before they realized that I had more fun with the scanning gun than was ever intended.

3. Mail Boxes Etc. - before BROWN came around and bought them all up. I was a jack of all box duties and this register was an older one. No scanning gun. Totally off the subject, but I'm on a one girl mission to change the name of the Fed Ex Kinkos stores to FINKOS. Mr. Zoom must now, in my presence, refer to any former Kinkos as FINKOS.

4. Receptionist at a law firm. They quickly got me the hell out of that position, as more than one blinky line at a time made for "accidental" disconnections.

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over:

1. Wizards
2. Dream with the Fishes
3. Billy Madison
4. Repo Man

Four Places I Have Lived:

1. Albuquerque, NM
2. 29 Palms, CA
3. Somewhere else in CA
4. Somewhere Somewhere else in CA.

Four T.V. Shows I Love:

1. Scrubs
2. Lost
3. The Soup (on the E Channel)
4. ALL the reality crime shows on A&E channel

Four Places I Have Vacationed:

1. IRELAND!!
2. Thailand
3. Pennsylvania
4. Arizona

Four of my Favorite Dishes:

This better mean food, because the only dishes I know about are paper ones with food on them.

1. Chow Mein.
2. Gringo Burrito - Whole wheat tortilla with rice, chicken and broccoli - and a mystery sauce.
3. Beef
4. Tortellini. Did I even spell that right?

Four Sites I Visit Daily:

1. www.milkandcookies.com
2. http://www.courtinfo.ca.gov/index.htm
3. http://www.mcsweeneys.net/ - although I KNOW I don't get half the funny out of it. Freaking Big Brains with a sense of humor make me so jealous.
4. My blog links.

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now:

1. IRELAND!!
2. Seattle
3. Canada
4. Working in the same office as Mr. Zoom again.

Four People I Am Tagging:

I think I'm supposed to put in a cute little link with everybody's name...
That's about as likely as me NOT spilling my morning coffee on my chest. Mr. Zoom calls it "splitting the uprights."

Anyway. Just try to forgive my unlinkiness, k?

1. Al - Jeeber's pal.
2. Rev. Brandy
3. My Idiot (Mr. Zoom - it might just be time for his every six months update)
4. Andy T13

Take a Peek. Then Slam the Cover Down and Run.

The Zooms' dry cleaner is located in the same shopping center as my morning coffee.

Sometimes I have to park the car in such a way that I walk past the dry cleaner. And every time I do that, I think to myself:

"I wonder if they ever look outside, see me or other people walking by, and think 'hey, I cleaned and pressed that sweater/dress/jacket just last week!'"?

And this thought will annoy me. I mean really, this couldn't be more ludicrous. Who would be self absorbed enough to think that their mere passage in front of an open store would cause the people inside to even look up? And even if they did, do I really believe they could identify a piece of clothing on a person...just because they applied that plastic see through bag over perfectly folded articles that are now on me?

No. No I don't.

And I then spend the next 10 minutes trying to get the entire thought trail out of my head.

And even if I really thought someone could recognize my sweater after doing...whatever it is that dry cleaners do with clothes besides fold them...I doubt they'd recognize mine.

Just ask Mr. Zoom. Almost 98% of the time I will button a shirt/sweater up the front in such a way that the buttons aren't lined up with the holes. It's completely crooked, and I don't ever realize it until I am facing Mr. Zoom and he starts laughing. I'd be willing to bet I can disguise any piece of clothing just by attempting to wear it.**

Of course I get the amazing, never failing, compulsive thought process that is completely useless to me. OF COURSE I DO! Just because I walk past the dry cleaner on my way to my morning coffee. And you know what? If I walk past there at night and it's closed? It doesn't happen. Not even a "well, if they were open...." type thing.

Yet...I can't remember where I put my car keys [instructions I just printed/ earrings / jacket / shoe(s)/ glasses - make infinity sign here] 5 minutes ago. Hint? It's the same place I've been putting them for about 2 years now. Oh nooo. Can't pick up a compulsion for that, apparently. Or button my clothes in such a way that I don't look like I've escaped from some kind of supervised care.

**And here's the fun part for Mr. Zoom. When he gets the giggles over my crooked buttoning, I spend a good 2 minutes (clueless) grilling him "WHAT?! What's so funny? What happened? What'd I miss?". And this only makes him laugh harder. By the time he's able to get it out, I'm all indignant. As if it's HIS fault I've been walking around with crooked buttoning.

I am a joy. An absolute JOY to be with.

Time Changes Everything

Isn't it amazing how the Monday after the spring forward time change my Gym looks EXACTLY like a Target? One of my best workouts. Ever.

There are a few people I am acquainted with who recently had children. The hot e-mail topic yesterday was: "How soon after birthing critters can they be taken into public."

One doctor said 4 weeks, one said 6. I don't know if the issue is germs or the fact that babies need time for some kind of sun shield to harden? I know their skulls have soft spots that one shouldn't poke...but the rest is a mystery.

And people wonder why I'm afraid to hold one when they bring it out.

If my parents and other elders are to be believed, newly born children can pretty much be slung in one arm and run like footballs to any destination one chooses. Of course, this is also the tail end of that generation that smoked and drank during pregnancy.

In fact, someone in our little social group, someone who's sass I admire greatly said to Mr. Zoom "That's because your momma smoked when she was pregnant with you."

The Smell of Hatred

I think I made someone so mad that the pure hate he grew for me manifested itself in an awful smell. A smell that shot from his bald cranium like a laser beam of animosity.

There once was this unfortunate individual who ended up working on a project with me. I was informed by the powers holding my strings that I had to give it to him to work on. Fine by me, as it got one more thing off of my desk.

However, unbeknownst to me before hand, not so fine by him. He made it very clear that he disliked my project very much. That he knew for a fact that it was below his position in this particular company to work on such a thing.

Whatever. I can handle a little misdirected aggravation. Considering my ability to blunder human interaction, I wasn't about to judge him too quickly.

That was, until I had to answer his questions. It wasn't the questions he asked. It was the fact that he was sitting at his desk and I was standing in his cube when he asked them. He would scooch his chair incredibly close to me, which made it so his hairless, shiney laser head was pointed directly at me. Now that I think about it, he might have had a military background.

I already dislike my person to person space being cut so small, but then the smell came. I can't describe it. It wasn't a lack of cleanliness smell. It wasn't a breath smell. It wasn't a dead clown issue. It was foul, and it made my eyes water. I would literally hold my breath anytime I had to go over there. I kept wondering if there was a product that could remedy this. Some kind of antiperspirant for hairless heads? Maybe some kind of man personal hygiene thing that girls just don't get told about? And he forgot his? I just couldn't figure out how this odor got generated by someone's head? I mean, he'd been around the office for years and not one rumor about his smelliness had been uttered.

After a time, I simply concluded..."This must be what hate smells like!"

My New Hit Single - Stultified

Things can be going quite normally one moment, and the next you find yourself explaining to someone that no, you didn't mean to imply that because he's black and he is leaving town suddenly, that he might be a fugitive.

No, really.

It's 10 a.m. I'm in a particular department at the office. A co-worker that I am acquainted with lets it be known that he will be "going away for a few days very suddenly. It's a t.v. thing."

I looked at my co-worker and said "OH MY! I hope it's... it's nothing ...BAAAD. ... IS IT??"

I immediately tried to retrieve my decorum, but it's kinda hard when you've thrown it down on the floor and pretty much kicked it under the nearest filing cabinet.

I clumsily explained that my family spent a good number of years fearing television appearances by certain other members of our family - due to the rather unorthodox and quite illegal lives they were pursuing.

Oh hello, nice to meet you. Let's not bother with my actual name, you may now simply refer to me as ineptoolio, yo.

Thank goodness he is familiar enough with my sense of humor and social clumsiness that he didn't take it in a way that made him file a complaint with management. Although, I bet the next time I need his department to work on a project with me there's a good chance that it will come back with "Die Clown!" written all over it. And I wouldn't blame him.

This is the Same Target that is CLOSED ON EASTER.

Ok. My pal Skillit sent me an e-mail yesterday that made me go "wha?"

And I think you will agree. I can't even...yeah. Just - it's just going to have to speak for itself:

____________________________________________________

Okay, come on... I was just looking at target.com, at their Easter stuff, and came across this:

http://www.target.com/gp/browse.html/ref=sc_fe_l_1_16345561_21/601-0149636-4552927?%5Fencoding=UTF8&node=16434921

In the middle of all the cute egg dishes and weird ceramic bunny pitchers, an adult Jeebus costume. Really? Do people dress up like him for Easter? I need to look into this more... I mean, probably at church or something, but are church people shopping at Target for the costume? Don't they have some jeebus store of their own they go to?

If I don't get struck by lightning very shortly, I'll be very surprised...

__________________________________________________

I now need to know too.

How is dressing up as Jeebus on Easter or at anytime not blatently flying in the face of everything Jeebus is supposed to be about? HOW?

Not that I don't want people to do this, because if there really is a demand for Jeebus costumes at Easter, I'm going to HAVE to find some of the people who use them so I can see this for myself. I might even get up early that day just to see that.

Target was already my favorite place to get tasteless, fun things. I can't wait for their Halloween offerings this year!

It's Like I'm Frustrated and Angry

So last week sometime, my cell phone went missing. At first I assumed I misplaced it in the house (I lose EVERYTHING I touch). After tearing home/work/car and places I've never been to apart, we checked on the internet to see if the account showed useage - that obviously wasn't mine.

It did. Someone had the phone and was burning up the keypad sending text messages with it. I was peeved, but realized there's no way anyone but me is going to care enough to actually try and figure out who had it. The phone company can't be bothered and I'd not expect police to waste their time with that. So we canceled the phone and I got a new one.

And the worst thing about it is, there's this little place in my gut that holds on to the anger I get over stuff like this. I can't see those silly "kids texting" commercials without a Nam Flashback of the realization "SOMEONE HAS MY PHONE! and they aren't afraid to use it."

This experience went directly on top of an older stolen cell phone experience. After receiving a cell bill with the telephone calls of someone who had stolen my phone, I spent an evening calling those numbers. When someone would pick up, I would say "Someone stole my phone and used it to call you. TELL ME WHO IT WAS." Most people just hung up on me, and I spent my time re-calling them over and over.

Absolutely useless, but for some reason I felt a teeny bit better because I was able to get that much closer to whoever did it.

If the text message telephone numbers show up on our bill, I'll do the same thing again.

See how retarded I am?

So today I get an e-mail from Mr. Zoom. Turns out that someone got a hold of a bit of financial info of ours and went shopping with it.

...they bought Juno internet service with it.

Yup. $6.95 worth of damage actual damage, and incalculable actual cost in astonishment, frustration and anger. Mr. Zoom had to file a police report, and we had to get everything canceled and reissued.

Not that I want to be robbed of more than $7.00 actual dollars... but what kind of rocket scientist master criminal buys JUNO INTERNET SERVICE with stolen information?

I didn't even know Juno still existed. From the price, I'm guessing they signed up for dial-up. By the time we found the charge, they couldn't have had time to even download one e-mail using dial up. Maybe they bought more stuff, but none of it will be clearing the account now.

Whoever you are, why don't you go pull change out of water fountains? You will probably make more than $7.00 a shot and I won't be forced to sit around trying to think of ways to find you. And run you over with my truck.

WWCND? = What would Chuck Norris do?

I Suck at Cooking

Me, to Mr. Zoom - after I ordered a pizza and had it delivered: "See? I got you lunch."

Mr. Zoom: pointing "...you...got me lunch."

Me: "YES! This is actually much more kind than if I tried to cook something for you. If I ever start cooking meals for you....you might want to start sleeping with one eye open, or something."

I Brought Porn to the Police Station

Contrary to what your gut might be telling you, I wasn’t arrested. My family and I were attending an event honoring my brother.

Mr. Zoom couldn’t go. That meant that I had to get in a car with Mom and Dad. At 6:00 a.m. Carpooling was the only choice, as the destination was about 60 miles away. Even then, it took us two solid hours to get there.

I almost always have a book with me wherever I go. This was no exception. Unfortunately, the book I’m currently reading is "The Other Hollywood - The Uncensored Oral History of the Porn Industry." The quote on the front cover sums it up nicely: "Eloquent and Sleazy."

After the big police event, my family and I were waiting for my brother so that we could go get something to eat. I was putting my camera away when a dear family friend spied my book. She hadn’t seen the title of it, but she is a librarian - so she’s attracted to books just like I am. She’s probably about 75 years old.

She said "HEY! What book are you reading?" It was at that exact moment that I realized what book I had with me, and how the contents stood in such contrast to my surroundings at that moment.

I said "Oh, that? Uh...er....uh....that’s not a book. That’s a pamphlet on legal stuff....for work..." This couldn’t have been a worse punt if I tried. What I attempted to pass off as a pamphlet is indeed, a 620 page, bright orange and yellow book on the history of porn.

Our family pal wouldn’t give up. "Oh, come on" she said "let me see it." and before I knew it she had grabbed it out of my bag and had it out in the open. Damn stealthy for a 75 year old lady.

Because she was sitting there watching this unfold, I yelled to my Mom "Look away Mom, it’s naughty!" to which my Mom responded "Wha? What are you...oooooooooh, ZOOM! Geez, can’t take you anywhere....."

Our dear 75 year old family friend put the book down and began to leaf through it. She pulled out a piece of paper and took note of the title and authors. She then passed it back to me. I tucked it into my bag and thought "Of course I brought porn to a police station. Next time I should buy some drugs and then ask for a tour of the facilities."

I Call This One ...

I call this one: "Perfectionist Drug Score"

_____________________________________________________

"One of 40 Pieces of Great Grandma's Antique Lace That Was Lovingly Left To Me, But With It, I Know Not What to Do."

___________________________________________________

"Items left at Our House by Friends' Kids - December 05"

___________________________________________________

"Favorite Vegas Trinket Purchased By Me and Given to Mr. Zoom"

You might not be able to tell, but this is a lighter made to look like a girl's torso - and when the top is opened, the boobs strobe red lights and the coolie cover strobes green light.

_____________________________________________________

"Best Road Trip Gift Ever Given to Me"

This is a boxing skull pen. It even lights up red when you write with it. I LOVE THIS PEN. My pal Skillit got it for me when she went on a road trip across the country last year.

Here's a side view with boxing action:

____________________________________________________

And finally: "Something I Love, Far More Than I Should"

____________________________________________________

This is what happens when I'm left at home alone on a Saturday, and it's raining outside. Oh, and there's some random packing styrofoam in the house. That looks exactly like a frame.

I'm fully aware that while I crack myself up with random crap like this - the outside world isn't nearly as easily amused.

Cox. Remote. How can you not laugh at that?

The Devil is in the Details

California is currently getting spanked by big rain. Mr. Zoom and I love the rain.

Last night I was in bed doing that pre-sleep mind roaming thing when I felt the light in the room turn on. I thought "There's no way Mr. Zoom got up...and if he did, I wonder what's up."

I opened my eyes and in a single moment realized Mr. Zoom was still asleep next to me, and that the light in our room was on...and then blinked off. BY.ITSELF.

I'm tellling you right now, I was dangerously close to wetting the bed. I shook Mr. Zoom awake and started jibber jabber about the light turning itself on and off, and aieeeeeeeeeeeee! He tried to explain it all away like this: "Power surge honey. Ish the inert gashes in the bulb. It's prooohbly about to burn outh. Careful next thime youh turn it on, it might exhplohde....DON'T WORRY ZOOM, there's no ghost in here. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz".

Please don't think I'm trying to make him out as insensitive. I had woke him out of a deep sleep, and I honestly find it so cute that he talks to me in his half sleep when I'm doing something retarded. He knows and I know that if I need more from him at any moment, I make sure to FULLY wake him up until I get what I need. Wow. That went from explanation to sounding like porn faster than the light blinked on and off. Or maybe it's just me.

Of course, even with what sounded like a logical explanation and the comfort of my husband snoring next to me, I couldn't sleep. I would try to drift off, but I kept opening my eyes - just to see if I could catch it again. I would also see a shadow out of the corner of my eye and freak myself out. Shadows, mind you, that I see every single night of my life but at that particular moment were giving me the wibblies.

I got out of bed and turned on some other lights. Only they didn't turn on. It was a power outage and of course, now I had all the reasons to laugh at myself. Instantly, I could tell myself that the power outage had caused the sugre which had caused the light to go on and off. Even though Mr. Zoom had tried to tell me that already.

This morning Mr. Zoom and I were going over the power out scary light issue, and I said:

"Yeah, I know. I just thought Satan was in the room. I guess that's what I get for watching two documentaries from the History channel on the Anticrhist and a third one on Hell right before bed."

Are Muffins Doughnuts? And if So, What's With the Bagel Guy?

I don't make this stuff up. And maybe I'm just hyper shy, so that when complete strangers speak to me, it registers far stronger on my Richter scale than it would say, for normal people.

This morning I got my coffee at my usual place. They were out of cinnamon sugar bagels, so I jumped at the chance to buy a chocolate chip muffin for breakfast instead. My breakfast math. No cinnamon sugar bagels? Screw the other bagels, I must now chose something chocolatey for breakfast! It is out of my hands.

As I walked to my car with coffee, keys, sunglasses, and my muffin, I saw what I almost always see. Another person was walking on the same sidewalk the opposite direction as I was. The thing that drew my attention to him was that I thought he was saying "May I offer you a bagel?" I instinctively turned around, as if to see someone behind me that he was surely talking to. There was no one. And I thought "WEIRD! I almost always get a bagel, and some stranger somehow knows I couldn't get one today. WEIRD, and freaky. And knowing me, he probably didn't say anything about a bagel at all and I'm just doing that creative hearing/seeing thing I seem to do. Probably best to run away."

This man was about my age, dressed casually, but not sloppy. He didn't give off the street crazy vibe. All the same, I chose to believe I heard what he said incorrectly and keep going. When I got to my truck, he said "Coffee and a doughnut. That's a terribly unhealthy breakfast. Bagels are better. Go get a bagel." He never broke his stride as he issued his verbal ticket to me and then walked out of my line of vision.

All I could do was say in a quiet little voice - to myself: "It's a muffin, not a doughnut, and I didn't have a choice."

Mr. Zoom, The Master of Shutting Me Up

Me: "Whine, whine whine, complain, whine, complain......"

Mr. Zoom: "You know, if you squeeze off all of the rounds in your pity gun, you aren't going to have any ammo left for later."

_____________________________

Mr. Zoom: "I need to go buy a new chair for my office."

Me: "Why?"

Mr. Zoom: "Because my butt keeps falling asleep."

It Is A Memorial PARK.

I love taking pictures, and I have for as long as I can remember. I never had the patience or talent to study it and try to make a career or hobby that I could share with other people. I just impulsively grab the camera and take off for hours shooting random things.

The problem is, I am shy. I don't want to have people watching me doing this. I don't want to interract with them on any level. I prefer to find an abandoned something and play with that. But, more often than not, I draw the attention of some security being, if not some koo koo that, understandably, believes they've found a friend.

When I go to some historic districts, I'm frustrated by people constantly asking me "What are you doing? Why are you doing that? Is it digital or film?" I'm considering passing myself off as a student just to get them to leave me alone. Albeit a REALLY old one. What's worse, is that I don't really blame owners/security for wanting to know. If I saw some random person pointing a camera at me or my house (not that I've gone after any strangers' houses), I'd make Mr. Zoom go find out what the deal was too.

So, this combined with my total fascination for all things religious and symbollic causes me to seek out all of the graveyards, memorial parks, cemeteries, etc. I can find in order to indulge my almost compulsive need to photograph things. I can wander around for hours, and even though security keeps an eye on me, I don't find that many people question me. I am always mindful of people mourning or having a service, and I stay as far away from them as I can to maintain their privacy and right to be uninterrupted.

I had exhausted all of the ones fairly close to home, so I took a little hour road trip yesterday to a Forest Lawn Memorial Park I had located on the internet. This place was like the Disneyland of Memorial Parks. It was HUGE, and there were thousands (my estimate) of people either participating in services or just visiting. Even with all of them, there was still plenty of room for me to wander.

There was one section that was clearly set up for a service. In the back was an elaborate structure. I could see that nobody was "there" for the service yet, so I wandered back to check out the art...I guess we can call it.

While in there, I kept hearing an eerie noise. I finally realized it was birds. Birds in that white box you can see there. POOR BIRDS! Now, I don't like birds at all. But, I don't think they should be raised to be put in a box, and then thrown out in the world. How are they supposed to defend themselves?

And if I'm wrong, I'm wrong. Maybe they do just fine and poop on someone's clean car, probably mine. I don't know. But I find it incredibly strange to be mourning a life and then releasing more life to die in honor of that life.

As I was exiting that section I saw a large group assembled to release birds they had in another box. I was drawn to the event because of the dress of what I can only guess was the priests?

I continued along and noted an interesting marketing strategy for crypts:

It says "Purchased Before Need". I suppose it would be distasteful to put "SOLD" or "Reserved". "Taken" might imply someone actually took the contents.

Then I saw the best thing ever. And you won't know why it's the best thing ever until I explain it:

This will be my Dad's Father's Day Card. When my Dad and Uncle were little kids, a police man brought them home and told my grandparents that he caught them gathering flowers off of graves and then re-selling the flowers to visitors coming into the cemetery. This is one of those famous family stories that gets re-told every Christmas.

So, I'm going to send this as a card to my Dad with a note that he's going to have to find another way to supplement his retirement.

Some Days You Feel Like You've Finally Figured Things Out ...

And then you realize that no, you just accidentally took one too many anti-depressant capsules.

Like little science class experiments that turn out exactly the same every time, I've learned a few things recently:

1. There is one guaranteed way to make Mr. Zoom laugh. Show him a video of some chump being kicked/knocked in the man coolie. I'm not saying Mr. Zoom doesn't laugh at lots of other stuff. What I'm trying to get at here is that this particular situation, if caught on video, contrived or otherwise, will make him laugh out loud. Over and over. God, I love him.

2. I will never ever ever ever ever be able to apply sunscreen to my face without poking myself in BOTH of my eyes, with one or more fingers. And there will always be a secret reserve of sunscreen under the fingernails of those fingers. Eyeliner and mascara will betray me when my eyes start to tear from the suncreen burn. Ironic, no? Sunscreen burns. I'll bet my co-workers think I was raised by wild mimes.

Bad Hairdar

It's like the universe wants me to learn how to tell a wig, a rug, any fake hair from real hair. Or else.

Yes, I'm crazy. I've embraced it, you might as well too.

For as long as I can remember, I've been unable to be the first or even fifth person to realize that someone's hair is fake in any way. In fact, most of the time I am utterly amazed to learn that "she wears a wig" or "he's totally got a tupe/hair plugs."

I guess it actually says a lot about me and my gullibility. I take almost everyone/everything at face value. Well, aside from those things/people I've learned NOT to, like televangelists. And people in advertizing. But I mean everyday people. People I work with. People I see in the grocery store. Friends of friends, or even MY FRIENDS.

For instance, there was a co-worker at my office who literally had a different hair style every week. And every week I'd see her go by and think "Wow, she's so experimental with her hair!" There would be color changes and length changes. But here's the thing. It happened in a way that it went from long to short....so my brain just figured she was really just trying to find a style she liked.

NO, NOT QUITE. Turns out she had the biggest collection of wigs ever owned. And I FINALLY figured out it wasn't "her real hair". And I felt like a total idiot. Years later I'd hear people discuss her wigs, as if it was controversial. I never really understood that, but at the same time, I felt like a moron because I couldn't recognize fake hair right away.

That person eventually left our firm. And here's where the universe tried to test me: The woman who took her place? Yeah, she came by my side of the office on Friday and TOOK OFF HER HAIR! She was showing some of the other girls how she could just "throw this thing on her head in the morning" and how she'd never have to "do" her own hair ever again.

I thought yelled at the forces that do this kind of thing to me: "You've got to be kidding me, right? So I can't recognize fake hair. That doesn't mean I need an unwelcome demonstration of it's fakeness while I'm struggling with my excel spreadsheet!"

And here's what I don't get. Aside from the obvious wiggery of drastic color/length changes and the person who just takes it off to show you how it works....how do you people figure out what hair is fake and what hair is real? Do you dare say anything to the person? Or do you just figure it out on your own?

There was one time when I actually might have recognized fake hair before anyone told me about it. I had worked in an office for about 3 years with someone. I finally realized that her hair had been the same length, the same color, and pretty much the exact same style - for that entire 3 year period.

About that time our office changed locations and she didn't work with us anymore. BUT, I still can't think of her without my mind going "OH YEAH, she wears a wig...................I think......." And then I think in circles about why I even care if her hair was fake or not, and why I'm so frustrated that I never found out for sure.

The Post Most Likely To Get Me Hate Mail

February is already Black History Month. I don't know who makes the official designation of what month will be what - but I've decided that February should actually be Me and My Coolie (Vagina, Cookie, Buscuit, Coochie, whatever term you prefer) month.

I'm not saying Black History Month isn't important. I believe it is. But, we need to give it to one of the 11 other months.

February has 28 days! C'mon! What further evidence could you possibly need in order to make this change? For those years with 29 days, we could have like, I don't know, Coolie Olympics instead.

I'd totally take Me and My Coolie Month ("M&MCM") a step further. You know how you are sitting around watching t.v. and some obnoxious commerical comes on about tampons, or maxi pads, PMS and menopause, that kind of thing? Well, I would make it so that those products could ONLY be advertized during the month of February. That's right. ILLEGAL to poke out the eyes and ears of the general public with femine concern commericals the rest of the year.

Oh my gosh, how great would that be?

I used to look forward to the day that my uterus would shrivel up and turn to dust. My biological clock definitely runs backwards. Unfortunately, every time I turn around lately some drug company is telling me that my human form will become nothing more than a vessel for draconian hormones of life change. That I will grow claws and fangs, and say "I'm hot, I'm cold, I'm hot...no...wait....now I'm cold" while I perfunctorily slaughter anyone who innocently got too close to me when my expiration date came around.

I know I'd definitely be a lot happier if I didn't have to think about that all year.

Disturbing Trends in Medicine

What I'm about to go on about here is not eactly creative bloggery. I already understand that the Dear ________ format is tired. But I don't care. This is where I dump my observations in hissy fit format. It makes me feel better and hopefully I don't poke anyone's eye out in the process. But if I do, whoops by me. I hope you find an eye patch.

Dear Medical World,

Quit it with the baby turkey baster method of decongestant administration. Can't you people make an effective capsule or tablet? Nobody I know wants to stick something like this up their nose, spray something up there, pull the dispenser out and put a cap on it for later use! NOBODY. I don't care how effective it might be.

When I am congested, the last thing I want to do is put MORE runny stuff up in my sinuses so that I can play slow leak with my nose.

I've spent a good many years keeping things OUT of my nose. Everyone knows that kid on the block who put a peanut or green bean up their nose and had to be taken to the hospital. Not only that, but simply being alive in the 80s meant watching film after film about drugs going up one's nose and eating away part of one's face.

This product is about as appealing as tampons designed by Clive Barker.

A Mystery Solved

When I first started dating Mr. Zoom, there was this cloud. This cloud was an ex girlfriend of his - from dang, I don't know how many years before I showed up. For those of you who know Mr. Zoom well, this is the one with the blonde hair. This girl was his learning relationship.

I say cloud, because whenever her name came up - people in the room would shiver. Or say "uuuh, no, no no no, let's not ever speak that name again." Even in e-mail, the mention of her name would bring a "reply to all" that read "STOP WITH THAT, WE DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT."

I had one of those myself. It was my first serious, long term relationship and I retardedly thought I'd marry the guy. I was a 19 year-old idealist in every possible way. When the guy started to distance himself and finally broke up with me, I was absolutely devastated.

But at the same time, it was the turning point in my life where I decided to go out and see what the world was all about. And I also learned I could do it alone, with friends or possibly bump into a future boyfriend or two. When I look back on it, it actually isn't a negative memory for me. I feel it's one of those moments that I can point to, one that led me to the great life I have now.

And the thing is, none of the people associated with Mr. Zoom knew me back then. The people he has around him have pretty much been there since elementary school. Because I am from a military family, I moved every 3 years. I atttended multiple elementary, jr. high and high schools.

I always wondered why she was such a pariah.

As Mr. Zoom and I got to know each other, we discussed our past relationships. I learned about the cloud. I'm not going to detail anything about their relationship because, it's not my place. But the more he talked about her, the more I stated to suspect there was a really big chance that I had actually gone to high school with her.

Which brings us to this Sunday afternoon. Mr. Zoom was working out in the garage. I took this opportunity to drag out my high school yearbooks. I brought them inside.

I only have three of them. My freshman year was spent at a high school in the middle of nowhere. That yearbook is lost. My sophmore, junior and senior years were at the same school.

I started with 1985, and looked for Ms. Cloud's name in the index. Nothing.
1986 - nothing.
1987 - DING!

She was a junior when I was a senior! Even seeing her picture in the yearbook, she didn't look familiar in any way. The high school was pretty big. And I wasn't exactly someone who mingled well.

Back then, we actually had a section on campus that was chain linked off. It was the smoking section. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? We actually had a school sanctioned place to smoke. That's where I spent every lunch and break. The skinheads, deathrockers/punkers and metal heads were all there too. There was even a sub-section of popular kids who dared smoke cigarettes. I hung out with the metal heads, skin heads, and deathrock/punkers.

I had a bleached white spikey haircut that I made into a mohawk - to the distress of my parents. I wore black and my Doc Martens every day. I had black finger nails. I wasn't allowed piercings or "anyting permanent" - so that was about as far as I went. Despite my looks, I was actually afraid of my parents and getting in trouble. I was also able to carry a decent gpa - except for math classes.

I took the yearbook out to Mr. Zoom and confirmed that yes, his ex and I did go to high school together. But that I don't remember her at all. And I doubt if she remembers me, either.

Mr. Zoom said "Aieeee, this actually gives me a very weird Lost vibe."

Freaking show has invaded every possible pore of my life.

Ah. Could've Been a Better Week.

With the enourmous production I make almost daily about going to work [to Mr. Zoom], you'd think I've still got a fever when I tell you...

I can NOT wait to get back to work.

It wasn't until Wednesday of this week that I believe I turned the corner from feeling crappier every day to feeling like at some point I'd be "normal" again. Advil had been my best friend in the world until Thursday. I can't tell you how happy I am not to have to drag the bottle around the house with me anymore.

I've seen too many talk shows. Maury and Montel. I've seen far too many Jerry Springer episodes. I've rented a bunch of films from the on demand - and they were all awful. But they were better than my choices on cable.

Very stinky daytime t.v. indeed.

I called my formerly amish mom a bunch this week too. Turns out, she's officially retired now. I can only imagine that the combination of both mom and dad retired is going to provide many a story for me to share with you.

For instance: Mom had noticed last October that the guest bathroom sink leaked. She asked Dad to fix it. She came home from work and it was fixed.

About December, Mom noticed that only hot water would come out of the sink in the guest bathroom. Concerned that her Christmas guests would, perhaps, flee her home while selling the story to the Enquirer, she asked Dad to fix it.

He didn't. And I used that bathroom at Christmas time and never even noticed there was no cold water.

So recently Mom called a plumber while Dad was at cooking class. The plumber took one look at the sink and said "Mam, someone has turned OFF the cold water under this sink. It's not broken. But it does leak when the water is turned ON.

She had him fix it.

Poor Dad. His fix was discovered. Although he put up quite a fight with the "I have no idea how that got turned off".

It's like watching my brothers and I 30 years ago, how we would try and pull one or more over on the parents or each other. And how we'd bold face lie about any knowledge of the crime. This will probably be fun.

Lie Down Before You Hurt Yourself

I've been sick. It started last Friday and just today I sorta feel better. Although not a lot better.

On Sunday morning, at 1:00 a.m., I awoke to the worst throat pain I've ever had. Oh, and I couldn't breathe at all. Mr. Zoom had let me sleep in our room and he was asleep in the spare room. I went in and woke him up.

We decided I should probably go to the er. Which we did. I got some breathing treatment that opened up my airway and a few x-rays. They told me I have tracheal bronchitis. They gave me liquid vicodin for the pain and a Z pack of antibiotics for the infection.

Now, I've had vicodin before. And I've been fine with it. However, it was not to be this time around.

I think we got home around 3 a.m. I had my drugs and was off to sleep in no time.

Abut 7:30 a.m., I awoke and couldn't breathe again. And I was burning up. Not just "oh, I'm uncomfortable" hot, but tearing off my clothes and swimming in sweat hot. I got up, actually stumbled up out of bed and headed for Mr. Zoom.

I kept shaking him awake. Understandably, he was a bit out of it. I could feel myself starting to faint. I could see stars, I was completely numb and dripping sweat the whole way over to him. I could only say "I'm sick, help me. I'm sick, help me." And then "I'm going to faint, I'm just going to lie down on the floor here."

And I did. It kept me conscious. Who knew that Lie Down Before You Hurt Yourself was not just a snappy reply, but actual advice?

About this time Mr. Zoom came completely awake. He's looking at his wife half nekkid, sweating, and mumbling - lying on the concrete floor. He jumped up and said "wait here."

But I didn't. I got up, and went back to our bed. Without even saying "What the hell is wrong with you?" he took my temperature. Asked if I wanted to go back to the hospital. (At this point, the temperature was back down to like 100, I think - which is where I'd been at before the first er trip.)

I said "no." And then almost immediately went right back to sleep.

Even for a Zoom, that's just plain weird.

I won't be taking Vicodin again anytime soon. I already have enough trouble with erratic behavior without freaking out the husband at 4 hour intervals in the middle of the night. And I did try the stuff again a night or two later (a half dose this time) and I woke up feeling like someone had hammered on my arms and legs all night.

So that's where I've been lately. I hope the rest of you are well.

Whoop Ass Cake

Mornings are not my favorite part of the day. Ever. Not even if I were waking up to chocolate french toast that could guarantee that not only would I not grow out of my latest round of pants, but that I'd be able to get back into the pants I wore 5 years ago.

Mr. Zoom isn't a morning person either, but he certainly hides it a lot better than I do. He even makes sure we are both up and out the door for work. Or I'd never ever go. Ever. Well, ok - I'd go, but my hours would be Noon to 8.

Now, Mr. Zoom has a thing with symmetry. In the bathroom, he has to hang the towels perfectly. Or it makes him crazy. CRAZY. I, for one, love this. I am usually so busy protesting being awake that I generally just leave bath towels where they fall until I get home at night. This way, Mr. Zoom hangs them up and I suppose, we all win.

This morning we were participating in our usual sass match when I decided it was time to pull out the secret weapon. While looking him in the eye, I shimmied over to the perfectly hung towles and tugged on the corner of one of them. THAT'S RIGHT, it was now CROOKED!! I was so proud of myself I could hardly keep still.

Mr. Zoom looked at me with sudden clarity and said "DID YOU JUST DO WHAT I THINKYOU DID?" I spent the next 10 minutes or so taunting him. "Does your universe feel funny now?" "How long do you think you can keep from rehanging that ?"

His response was swift: "The whoop ass cake is already in the oven. What is wrong with you?"

I'm just hoping a squeak and some eye batting will get me out of the revenge he finally dishes out - although he's pretty good at calling me out on my bullshit.

The Cinnamon Rolls, They Smell So Good

Remind me to have some dinner before I shop the next time I get the brilliant idea to go running off to Ikea to meet Mr. Zoom after work on a Friday.

There's this thing about me. When I'm hungry, I "put on the cranky pants", as Mr. Zoom would say. That's actually a rather kind way of describing what we've come to recognize as "danger hungry".

If I'm forced to interract with anyone while in this particular mood, I'll shoot a hole in their soul with my conniption fit bazooka before anyone has a chance to throw a cracker at me. One might get away with a only flesh wound if the cracker actually makes it into my yapper.

Friday night I was in an ok hungry place when I got to Ikea. We spent a while there getting all of the things we've needed for the house that have been sold out for the last couple of months. I was standing with our cart, when a lady walked up to me and said: "Excuse me, but where can I find those carts?"

I verbally stumbled to tell her that they were located "over there" - pointing off to my left - "near the pet section, on the right...there's a dispenser over there that pops out the carts."

She looks at me and says "Aren't they over there?" as she points to my RIGHT, towards the cash registers. I think this was the exact, unfortunate moment that my blood sugar left my body and ran for the clearance section of Ikea without me.

I wanted to scream at her "IF YOU KNOW WHERE THEY ARE, WHY DID YOU ASK ME WHERE THEY ARE? Are you a mystery shopper? Because if you are, you suck. Because I DON'T WORK HERE. I'm simply a shy girl who finds it difficult to talk to strangers as it is, and I happen to have just lapsed into Danger Hungry. You asked me a question, and I did my best to answer it."

But I didn't. I just kindof squeaked in Mr. Zoom's direction and he took over for me. He politely told her that there might be carts by the registers, but we got ours from over by the pet section. She walked away, towards the pet section.

And then I started with the petulance. I said to Mr. Zoom, loud enough for many people to hear: "HOW can it be that she asked me a question, I answered it, and she ARGUED with me? Who does that? Who?"

Mr. Zoom, being on the receiving end of my hissyfit friendly fire got me out of the Ikea as fast as he could and drove us straight to some food. I'm still convinced my Mom paid him to marry me. I better tell her to start doubling those payments.

She Called the Van Helsing Van HESSLING!

I think I've mentioned before that my parents adore going to the movies. They see pretty much every film that gets played in wide release. It doesn't seem to matter what it is. And the most reliable thing about them is that they love every movie they see. Or, at least like it. The only film my Mom openly hated was "Reservoir Dogs."

Drivel films with latest teen stars in them? They love em. Especially the remakes. "Herbie Makes Someone's Mortgage Payment" even got a glowing review.

My Mom said to me after seeing "Pirates of the Caribbean": "That Jack Sparrow is such a loveable scoundrel!" This made/makes Mr. Zoom nearly wet himself with glee. My mom said "scoundrel", and she meant it.

It's not that I don't recognize that if those movies make them happy, then why the heck shouldn't they see them? That's not it. The thing that kills me is that when they love all the movies - they spend our visits trying to convince me and Mr. Zoom that we must must must see all the movies too. And we can't very well take their opinions to heart since it doesn't seem to matter WHAT the movie is, they love it. My parents offer the movie world unconditional love - and attempting to logically discuss film with them is like trying to stop an avalanche with a spoon.

Oh, and once you are covered in snow with your spoon? You'll want to poke yourself in the eyes with it. Why? Because even if you wanted to hear Mom's opinion on the movie, you will spend at least 10 minutes sorting out the title of it. "The Lion King" becomes "The Boy King", and other such mangalations that I can't remember at the moment.

Can you all hear the frustration oozing out of my pores? Ok, just checking.

All of this, so you will understand why I nearly fainted when my Mom called today and said: "We saw 'The Matador', and it is simply awful."

I had to ask her to repeat that. Twice. it was as if she had suddenly learned fluent Spanish and I could freakishly understand her without learning it myself.

I immediately shot Mr. Zoom an e-mail, informing him that not only had my parents finally seen a movie in wide release that they hated, but Mom actually got the title right the first time she spoke it. His response was "I'm totally buying us a lottery ticket tonight."

Knowing our luck, we'll win the DVD anniversary edition of "Pirates of the Caribbean", in the first ever non-monetary lottery prize.